UP THE SEINE
A great river always exercises an attraction upon a certain class
of people, and when that river is lined by historic towns and flows
through beautiful country, it cannot fail to be attractive to everyone.
As we have said, the Seine belongs to France rather than Normandy; very
French are the views of its olive green flood, with the blue-green
fringe of poplars, and the cliff-like scarred banks to be seen so
continually in its course; but yet in some of the towns we shall pass,
especially the smaller ones, there still lingers the breath of things
Norman.
[Illustration: QUAI ST CATHERINE, HONFLEUR]
The mouth between the two similarly named towns of Harfleur and
Honfleur is very wide, but not good for navigation, for it is filled
with perpetually shifting sandbanks, which try the mariners’ patience
to the utmost. For this reason there was made that canal from Havre
to Tancarville which ensures at all events a certain passage. The
wide funnel-like mouth narrowing suddenly near at the corner by
Quillebœuf, and again below, is the cause of the great mascaret, or
wave of the high tide which sweeps up occasionally as far as Caudebec;
this is a great wall of water, higher or lower according to the force
of the wind and the strength of the tide, which together combine to
produce it. The bar or line which sweeps up first is the advance-guard
of an unusually high tide, which will carry destruction to all small
or badly managed boats. The mascaret is regularly reckoned among the
sights of Caudebec.
It is magnificent in its impetuous flow, coming on in irresistible
force, the water turning, writhing, and twisting under the impetus,
with a fringe of foam outlined on the indigo slopes--a strenuous thing,
living, growling, hungry for its prey.
As the wide mouth of the river contracts a little, the ruined castle of
Tancarville is seen standing on its precipitous cliff. This belonged
to the Sires de Tancarville, one of the proud Norman families who
held the hereditary chamberlainship of the dukedom of Normandy. The
last of the line was killed on the field of Agincourt, and the name,
disguised as Tankerville, is held by an English peer. The chateau as it
is now, consists partly of the ruins of the ancient chateau, to which
is attached the new chateau, so called. The older parts date from the
twelfth century, the newer from the eighteenth. The gateway is still
imposing, with its two flanking towers; and the small dungeon-like
rooms with iron-barred windows, in which the unhappy prisoners were
kept, can be seen. Most of the building is, however, of the later
date. The towers, by their name, suggest the wild, stirring days of
old; we have la Tour de l’Aigle, la Tour du Diable or du Lion, and
la Tour Coquesart. In the keep is a well three hundred feet deep.
Quillebœuf, from its position on a rock stretching out into the flood,
was at one time a place of no small strategic importance.
Opposite is Lillebonne, charmingly situated amid woods, and owning
one event of historical importance which gives it dignity. It was in
the castle of Lillebonne that William held the celebrated council,
in which it was finally decided he should attempt the subjugation of
England. That Lillebonne has been of importance from very ancient
times, is shown by its splendidly preserved Roman theatre, which is
celebrated throughout all the world of antiquaries. The ruins are now
overgrown, but that the place could easily accommodate 3000 spectators
is apparent. Near the theatre are the remains of William’s castle;
but ruins of this sort are so common in Normandy, that they hardly
provoke comment. After this the river takes its first great bend before
Caudebec; nothing is more curious than the amazing sinuosity of the
Seine, which forms loops and horseshoes of extraordinary length.
Caudebec is one of the most charming of the small Norman towns, and is
beloved of artists; unfortunately, as it advances in fame it loses that
unsophisticated innocence which was one of its delights. The church
is so magnificent that it merits the designation cathedral, and the
quaintness of the ancient timber houses leaning over the narrow street,
down which, as in all mediæval cities, a stream runs to carry off the
refuse and drainage, is part of the delight of this little place.
The forests that line the Seine, sometimes on one side and sometimes
on another, from this point onward, merit a special word. Wonderful
are they, rising high on wooded slopes or stretching over acres of
flat country. Some, as those opposite Jumièges, are of beech almost
entirely, with a sprinkling of dark evergreens; others are varied.
There are forests of firs penetrated by “rides cut as straight as
rulers” through a chunk of solid tree-growth; there are others so mixed
up with intertwining creeper that to penetrate them would be impossible.
Jumièges is in exactly the place where you would expect to find an
abbey. They loved a broad encircling river those old monks, they loved
to be surrounded by wide forests, to build on low ground: their idea
was defence, not aggression; the peace of those who are passed by, not
of those whose strength defies invaders.
We must cross the Seine somewhere, and we cross it at Jumièges, in an
open boat, for there is no bridge. And not long before the crossing we
have caught our first glimpse of those twin towers, so unlike anything
we have seen before. And when we reach the abbey and walk in that grand
ruined nave, the feeling is rather one of increased exaltation than of
the disappointment nearer vision so often brings. If we had to choose
one word to express the quality here wrought into stone, it would be
stateliness. The abbey stands roofless and serene, a mighty nave with
two western towers, which, beginning squarely, end by being octagonal,
with the walls in four stages, and with a chancel arch which, for
height and grace, has hardly ever been surpassed.
Long before the days of the mighty William whose name overshadows the
land, before the time when his ancestors had taken root in the country,
a monk named Philibert settled in this place with his small following,
to lead a life of peace and order, amid the wildness and ignorance of
the ninth century.
But even this well-chosen spot was not secluded enough to save him from
the marauding northmen; the very river, which had seemed a safeguard,
was its undoing, for the pirates came up the river and found the spot,
and utterly destroyed all Philibert’s labour. But as the years passed,
and the northmen settled down, no longer as pirates but landholders;
as Christianity claimed their king, William Longsword, the abbey
was rebuilt on a much grander scale. Edward the Confessor spent his
exiled boyhood at Jumièges, and when he came to the throne he made the
learned abbot Robert, Bishop of London, and subsequently Archbishop of
Canterbury, an appointment that did not prove a success.
[Illustration: CAUDEBEC-EN-CAUX]
In the fourteenth century the library at Jumièges was one of the
most notable in the land. Till 1790 this abbey continued whole, and
sheltered a household of five hundred persons, including monks. It is
now the property of a French lady, who permits visitors to see over the
ruins with a caretaker. Not far off is Duclair, and the greater part of
Duclair lies along the front of the river. It certainly lacks beauty,
and after Caudebec the contrast is striking; but Duclair has interest.
Its high chalk cliffs are imposing in their sheer precipitousness,
and the deep, dark caverns, used as dwellings which are made in their
sides, are weird and uncanny. One of these cliffs, from its size and
shape, is called the Chair of Gargantua. With another immense dip
southward, and corresponding rise, we come to Rouen, with its islands,
and its bridges, and its busy life.
The end of the next horseshoe brings us within a few kilometres of the
preceding one, and once more we double back on our tracks to reach
Pont de l’Arche, an attractive place, much patronised by artists,
above which the Eure joins the Seine. On the former river, only about
nine miles away, is Louviers, with a magnificent church, celebrated
for its decorated porch, which rivals those at Rouen. Continuing in
the main stream of the Seine, we come soon to the range of chalk
cliffs which leads up to Chateau-Gaillard. Many of these might be
castles themselves, so curious is the effect of the rough, grey
rock, outcropping suddenly from the green turf. The even strata look
remarkably like lines of stonework laid by hand, and the general
ruggedness and hoariness are just that which ruins gain by time and
exposure, and at first it is difficult to distinguish the castle
itself, so closely does it resemble the rock on which it stands.
Chateau-Gaillard was built by Richard I., as an outpost or defence on
the Seine below Rouen, and it was instantly recognised by the King of
France as being the key to Normandy; while the castle stood untaken, no
one could hope to approach Rouen with any chance of success. Standing
as it did on the borders of Normandy and France, it was many times
a meeting-place for the two kings, when fair words were spoken and
promises made, only to be broken and renewed. It was not until after
the death of Richard, when John’s dastardly act had alienated from him
all who were not dependent on him, that Philip advanced against it.
It was held by Roger de Lacy, a man of known courage, and it was well
prepared for a siege. Among the defences were a stockade across the
river and a fort upon the island in midstream. But by encamping on the
further shore of the river, Philip managed to break down the stockade,
and replace it by a pontoon or bridge, thus he could surround the
island fort; but even John the Shifty could not see one of the noblest
castles in his dominions so attacked without an effort at succour. He
planned well. A part of his force was to fall by night upon the French
camp on the left bank of the Seine, and at the same time a flotilla
of boats was to attack the pontoon. Unfortunately the ebbing tide,
combined with the strong current, prevented the flotilla’s arrival in
time. The land troops did their part, and so fiercely were the French
attacked that they fled across their bridge, but they rallied and
returned, and, overcoming their foes, were ready to meet the English
boats when they appeared. It is a gallant fight to picture, under the
clear sky of an August night. The first alarm, the scurried retreat,
the stumbling, and slipping, and scrambling of the terrified fugitives.
The straining into the darkness of the men on the island-fort, who
could not conjecture what was going on. The clash of steel, the splash
of water, the cry as one went down, the breathless expectation in the
air. Then the pulling together of the demoralised Frenchmen by one or
two strong officers, the reforming and recrossing the now swaying and
half-broken bridge, the stringing up of those half-beaten troops to
face the foe, the struggle, the sense of victory, the final rout; but
that was not the end; after having reformed and repulsed the boats, the
Frenchmen, drunk with the wine of victory, set fire to the island-fort,
and seized it also, while the defenders fled in terror, and joined
by the whole population of the little village, now left defenceless,
demanded admittance and refuge at the castle gates. A desperate picture
truly. And above, overhanging the flood on its rock, the saucy castle
was watching, crouching, eager, expectant. Had friend or foe won the
fight? Was relief at hand? There would be no eye closed within the
walls that night, and then would come the hurried knocking, the parley,
the admittance of the fugitives with their disastrous tidings, and with
the first grey light would come the confirmation of despair, when the
French bridge was seen repaired and intact; and alas, not the bridge
only, but the island in the hands of the enemy!
After this one attempt--in which, however, he seems to have played
no personal part--John made no effort to relieve his gallant castle;
though he was at Rouen in November, and sent a letter to the commander
in ambiguous language, a letter to chill the hearts of those who bore
arms for him. Nevertheless, the garrison held out until March 6th in
the next year, 1204, and with its fall the fate of Normandy was sealed.
Chateau-Gaillard is the jewel that makes the fame of both Les Andelys,
but there are other things to be seen here also, a fine church in each
place, and at Le Grand Andely a splendid old sixteenth-century house,
now used as an hotel. Poussin the painter was a native; he was born in
1594, and he must have had plenty of opportunity for the exercise of
his talent in the scenery around his home.
It is impossible to mention Les Andelys without at the same time
referring to Gisors, which lies some fifteen miles eastward, on a
feeder of the Seine, called the Epte. Gisors is not in itself an
interesting town; its main street is dull, its river is of the
sluggish, canal-like variety, its streets lack pretty peeps; but all
is atoned for by the beautiful ruin of its castle, which is well and
worthily made use of. It stands high behind the main street, and is not
readily seen. But the grounds enclosed by the still strong and perfect
wall are open as a public park, and on the soft green grass, beneath
many shady trees, countless hosts of children daily play. There is
no attempt to keep the place too stringently; the grass grows long,
and may be trodden underfoot. The grey hoary keep rises high, to give
character and dignity to the scene; and behind, outside the walls, is
a magnificent wood. The castle was built by Rufus, added to by his
successor, and repaired by Henry II. It, with Chateau-Gaillard, was one
of the castles on the outer line of defence of the duchy lying in that
much-disputed ground, with the appropriate name of Le Vexin, and it
stood many a siege. There were two surrounding walls to be taken before
the stronghold; the keep could even be assailed, and Gisors must have
been a tough nut to crack. The whole district is full of the ruins of
castles showing the perpetual state of warfare and uncertainty which
must have prevailed.
Returning to our river, we soon come to Vernon, the very last town in
Normandy, chiefly known on account of its forest and its seven-arched
bridge. With this we take leave of Normandy, over which we have
wandered in so desultory a way, gathering impressions, examining some
things in detail, leaving others aside, but all the while intent on
gaining an insight into that character and individuality which marks
the country. We have found it in the west still preserving traces of
its rulers, who made its fame; to the east, almost wholly French. We
have found it full of variety and delight, full of historical interest,
and that mostly of a far past generation.
Transcribers’ Notes
Simple typographical errors were corrected.
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not
changed, except as noted below.
Page 3: “probably be surprise at” was printed that way.
Page 10: “par un bras” was misquoted as “pas un bras”, and “Son voisin”
was misquoted as “Se voisin”; both changed here.
Page 167: “Si Dieu plaît” was misprinted as “plâit”; changed here.
Page 174: “Pierre Lôti’s” perhaps should be “Pierre Loti’s”.
Page 177: “lowering mass” was printed that way.