here, to use the rather obscure phrasing of the man of the party, for it
speedily transpired that Miss Cassandra had brought us here with
deliberate intent to lead us from the straight and narrow path of
sightseeing into the devious and beguiling ways of the _modiste_. She
has for some reason set her heart upon having two Paris gowns, one for
the house and one for the street, and Lydia and I, being too humane to
leave her unprotected in the hands of a dressmaker who speaks no
English, spent one whole afternoon amid the intricacies of broadcloth,
messaline, and chiffon. Of course we ordered some gowns for ourselves
as a time-saving measure, although I really do not think it is usually
worth while to waste one's precious hours over clothes when there is so
much to be done that is better worth while. However, the shades of
mauve, and all the variants of purple, which are set forth so alluringly
in the windows are enough to tempt an anchorite, and no more decided
color attracts us, as blues and greens seem crude and startling beside
these soft shades, which came in with the half-mourning for King Edward
and are still affected by Parisians of good taste.
Our Quaker lady has become so gay and worldly-minded, since her signal
triumph with the American countesses in her merry widow, that we are
continually reminded of the "Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary," and Lydia and I
have to be on the alert to draw her away from the attractions of windows
where millinery is displayed, lest she insist on investing in a
grenadier, or in that later and even more grotesque device of the
_modiste_, the "Chantecler."
To compensate for the time lost at the dressmakers, we had two long
beautiful mornings at the Louvre and a Sunday afternoon at the
Luxembourg, followed by a cup of tea and a pleasant, sociable half-hour
at the Students' Hostel, on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, a delightful,
homelike inn where many young women who are studying in Paris find a
home amid congenial surroundings. A little oasis in the desert of a
lonesome student life, this friendly hostel seemed to us. Several women
whom we knew at home were pouring tea, and we met some nice English and
American girls who are studying art and music, and the tea and buns
brought to us by friendly hands made the simple afternoon tea take upon
it something of the nature of a lovefeast, so warm and kindly was the
welcome accorded us.
PENSION B----, TOURS, August 30th.
We left Paris yesterday from the Station Quai d'Orsay for our journey of
three and a half hours to Tours. So near to Paris is this chateau land
of Touraine that we wonder why we have not all been journeying this way
full many a year, instead of waiting to be caught up and borne hither by
the tide of fashion, especially as our route lay through a land filled
with historic and romantic associations. It is impossible to pass
through this flat but picturesque country, with its winding rivers and
white roads shaded by tall poplars, and by such old gray towns as
Etampes, Orleans, Blois, and Amboise, without recalling the delight with
which we have wandered here in such goodly company as that of Brantome,
Balzac, Dumas, and Madame de Sevigne.
It was upon this same Loire, which winds around many a chateau before it
throws itself into the sea, that Madame de Sevigne described herself as
setting forth from Tours at 5 o'clock on a May morning, in a boat, and
in the most beautiful weather in the world.
These boats on the Loire, as described by Madame de Sevigne, were
evidently somewhat like gondolas. "I have the body of my _grande
carosse_ so arranged," she wrote, "that the sun could not trouble us; we
lowered the glasses; the opening in front made a marvellous picture, all
the points of view that you can imagine. Only the Abbe and I were in
this little compartment on good cushions and in fine air, much at our
ease, altogether like _cochons sur la paille_. We had _potage et du
boulli_, quite warm, as there is a little furnace here; one eats on a
ship's plank like the king and queen; from which you see how everything
is _raffine_ upon our Loire!"
Down this same river M. Fouquet, the great financier, fled from the
wrath of his royal master and the bitter hatred of his rival Colbert. On
the swift current the lighter sped, carried along by it and the eight
rowers toward Nantes and Fouquet's own fortress of Belle Isle, only to
be overtaken by Colbert's boat with its twelve sturdy oarsmen. Whatever
may have been the sins of Fouquet, he had so many charming traits and
was so beloved by the great writers of France--Moliere, La Fontaine,
Madame de Sevigne, Pelisson, and all the rest whom he gathered around
him at his chateau--that our sympathies are with him rather than with
the cold and calculating Colbert. Putting their hands into the public
coffers was so much the habit of the financiers and royal almoners of
that period that we quite resent Fouquet's being singled out for the
horrible punishment inflicted upon him, and after all he may not have
been guilty, as justice often went far astray in those days, as in later
times.
Whether or not M. Fouquet was the "Man with the Iron Mask," as some
authorities relate, we shall probably never know. Walter, who is not a
fanciful person, as you are aware, is inclined to believe that he was,
although his beloved Dumas has invented a highly dramatic tale which
makes a twin brother of Louis XIV, the mysterious "Man with the Iron
Mask."
In the goodly company of Madame de Sevigne, her _fablier_, as she dubbed
La Fontaine, M. Fouquet, and our old friends the three Guardsmen, you
may believe that the journey from Paris to Tours did not seem long to
us. I must tell you of one contretemps, however, in case you, like us,
take the express train from the Quai d'Orsay. Instead of being carried
to our destination, which is a railroad courtesy that one naturally
expects, we were dumped out at a place about twenty miles from Tours. We
had our books and papers all around us, and were enjoying sole
possession of the compartment, when we were suddenly told to put away
our playthings and change cars. We asked "Why?" as we had understood
that this was a through train, but the only response that we could get
from the guard was, "St. Pierre le Corps, change cars for Tours!" So bag
and baggage, with not a porter in sight to help us, and Walter loaded
like a dromedary with dress-suit cases and parcels, we were hurried
across a dozen railroad tracks to a train which was apparently waiting
for us.
"What does it all mean?" exclaimed Miss Cassandra. "What have we to do
with St. Peter and his body? St. Martin and his cloak are what we
naturally expect here."
"To be sure," we all exclaimed in a breath, but we had actually
forgotten that St. Martin was the patron saint of Tours.
Miss Cassandra is worth a dozen guidebooks, as she always gives us her
information when we want it, and we want it at every step in this old
Touraine, which is filled with history and romance. She also reminds us
that between Tours and Poitiers was fought the great battle between the
Saracen invaders and the French, under Charles Martel, which turned back
the tide of Mohammedism and secured for France and Europe the blessings
of Christianity, and that in the Chateau of Plessis-les-Tours the famous
treaty was made between Henry III and his kinsman, Henry of Navarre,
which brought together under one flag the League, the Reformers, and the
Royalists of France.
As we drove from the station to the hotel, the coachman pointed out to
us the new church of St. Martin, which occupies a portion of the site of
the vast basilica of which two picturesque towers alone remain. We hope
for a nearer view of it to-morrow, and of St. Gatien, whose double
towers we can see from our windows at the Pension B----.
We had expected to stop at the Hotel de l'Univers, which Mr. Henry James
and all the other great folk honor with their regard; but finding no
accommodations there we are temporarily lodged at this excellent
pension. Although called a hotel by courtesy, this house possesses all
the characteristics of a pension in good standing. There is no office,
nothing to suggest the passing of the coin of the realm between
ourselves and the proprietors. We are treated like honored guests by the
ancient porter and the other domestics; but of Madame, our hostess, we
have only fleeting visions in the hall and on the stairway, usually in a
pink _matinee_. Monsieur materializes on occasions when we need postage
stamps and change, and is most accommodating in looking up train times
for us. Above all, and most characteristic of all, there is in the
_salle a manger_ a long table surrounded by a dozen or more of our
countrywomen, _en voyage_ like ourselves.
Walter was at first somewhat disconcerted by this formidable array of
womankind without a man in sight, and at the dinner table confided to me
his sentiments regarding pensions in rather strong language, insisting
that it was like being in a convent, or a young ladies' seminary, except
that he had noticed that most of the ladies were not painfully young,
all this in an undertone, of course, when lo! as if in answer to his
lament, a man appeared and seated himself modestly, as befitted his
minority sex, at a side table by his wife. Walter now having some one to
keep him in countenance, we shall probably remain where we are and
indeed a harder heart than his, even a heart of stone, could not fail to
be touched by Miss Cassandra's delight at being surrounded by her
compatriots, and able to speak her own language once more with freedom.
The joyous manner in which she expands socially, and scintillates
conversationally, proves how keen her sufferings must have been in the
uncomprehending and unrequiting circles in which we have been living. It
goes without saying that she soon became the centre of attraction at
table, and so thrilled her audience by a spirited recital of her
adventures at the Villa Carlotta that the other man cried, "Bravo!" from
his side table, without waiting for the formality of an introduction.
"Quite different," as Walter says, "from the punctilious gentlemen in
the 'Bab Ballads' who couldn't eat the oysters on the desert island
without being duly presented."
Our new acquaintances are already planning tours for us to the different
chateaux of the Loire, while Walter and his companion, who proves to be
a United States Army man and quite a delightful person, are smoking in
the garden. This garden upon which our long windows open, with its many
flowers and shrubs and the largest gingko tree I have ever seen, would
hold us fast by its charms were the Pension B---- less comfortable than
it is.
V
IN AND AROUND TOURS
PENSION B----, TOURS, August 31st.
WE SET forth this morning on a voyage of discovery, and on foot, which
is the only satisfactory way to explore this old town, with its winding
streets and quaint byways and corners.
Our first visit was to the church of St. Martin of Tours, in the Rue des
Halles, which brought with it some disappointment, as instead of a
building so old that no one can give its date, we found a fine new
church, in whose crypt are the remains of St. Martin. The most ancient
basilica of St. Martin was erected soon after the death of the
benevolent saint, whose remains were carried by faithful members of his
diocese from Candes, where he died in the beginning of the fifth
century. This basilica was burned down in the tenth century, and another
erected on its site some years later. This last basilica, built in the
twelfth or thirteenth century, of vast size and beauty, was certainly
old enough to have been treated with respect, and its destruction a few
years ago to make way for a new street was, as Walter says, an act of
vandalism worthy of the councilmen of an American city. Of the old
church only two towers remain, the Tour de Charlemagne and the Tour de
l'Horloge, and the gallery of one of the cloisters. Over this imperfect
arcade, with its exquisite carvings of arabesques, flowers, fruits,
cherubs, and griffins, Mr. Henry James waxed eloquent, and Mrs. Mark
Pattison said of it: "Of these beautiful galleries the eastern side
alone has survived, and being little known it has fortunately not been
restored, and left to go quietly to ruin. Yet even in its present
condition the sculptures with which it is enriched, the bas reliefs,
arabesques, and medallions which fill the delicate lines of the
pilasters and arcades testify to the brilliant and decided character
which the Renaissance early assumed in Touraine."
If the present church of St. Martin was disappointingly new, we found
the Cathedral of St. Gatien sufficiently ancient, with its choir dating
back to the thirteenth century and its transept to the fourteenth, while
the newels of the two towers belong to a very much earlier church
dedicated to the first Bishop of Tours, and partly destroyed by fire in
1166.
[Illustration: Neurdein Freres, Photo.
STAIRCASE AND CLOITRE DE LA PSALLETTE, ST. GATIEN]
Who St. Gatien was, and why he had a cathedral built in his honor, even
Miss Cassandra and Lydia do not know, and we have no good histories or
Lives of the Saints to refer to; verily one would need a traveller's
library of many volumes in order to answer the many questions that occur
to us in this city, which is so full of old French history, and English
history, too. Indeed it is quite impossible to separate them at this
period, when England owned so much of France and, as Miss Cassandra
says, her kings were always looking out of the windows of their French
castles upon some Naboth's vineyard that they were planning to seize
from their neighbors.
"Jolly old robbers they were," says Walter, "and always on top when
there was any fighting to be done. I must say, quite aside from the
question of right or wrong, that I have much more sympathy with them
than with the Johnny Crapauds. Here, in this foreign land of France, the
Plantagenet kings seem quite our own, and only a few removes in
consanguinity from our early Presidents."
We were glad to lay claim to the Cathedral of St. Gatien, which in a way
belongs to us, as the choir was begun by Henry II of England, although
it is to be regretted that a quarrel between this Plantagenet king and
Louis VII resulted in a fire which destroyed much of the good work. We
lingered long in the cloisters, and climbed up the royal staircase, with
its beautiful openwork vaulting to the north tower, from whose top we
may see as far as Azay-le-Rideau on a clear day.
This was, of course, not a clear day, as we are having hazy August
weather, so we did not see Azay, but from the tower we gained quite a
good idea of the general plan of Tours, and stopped long enough in the
cloisters to learn that the picturesque little gallery, called the
Cloitre de la Psallette, was the place where the choir boys were once
trained. The facade of this cathedral seemed to us a beautiful example
of Renaissance style, although said to offend many of the canons of
architecture. We are thankful that we do not know enough about the
principles of architecture to be offended by so beautiful a creation,
and inside the church we were so charmed by the exquisite old glass,
staining the marble pillars with red, blue and violet, that we failed
to notice that the aisles are too narrow for perfect harmony. The
jewel-like glass of the Lady Chapel was brought here from the old church
of St. Julian in the Rue Nationale, once the Rue Royale, and is
especially lovely.
In a chapel in the right-hand transept we saw the tomb of the little
children of Charles VIII and Anne of Brittany, by whose early death the
throne of France passed to the Valois branch of the Orleans family.
Looking at the faces of these two children sleeping here side by side,
the little one with his hands under the ermine marble, the elder with
his small hands folded piously together, a wave of sympathy passed over
us for the unhappy mother who was in a few months deprived of both her
precious babies. As we stood by the tomb with its two quaint little
figures, guarded by kneeling angels at their heads and feet, beautiful,
appropriate, reverent, we wondered why modern sculptors fall so far
behind the ancient in work of this sort. The moderns may know their
anatomy better, but in sweetness and tender poetic expression the work
of the old artists is infinitely superior. This charming little group
was probably made by Michael Colombe, although it has been attributed to
several other sculptors of the time.
After a visit to the archbishop's palace, and a short stop at the
museum, which attracted us less than the outdoor world on this pleasant
day, we stopped at the Quai du Pont Neuf to look at the statues of
Descartes and Rabelais, so picturesquely placed on each side of the Pont
de Pierre. Retracing our steps by the Rue Nationale we strolled into the
interesting old church of St. Julian, where we admired the vast nave of
noble proportions and the beautiful stained glass. After wandering at
will through several streets with no especial object in view, we found
ourselves in a charming little park where we were interested in a
monument to three good physicians of Tours, a recognition of valiant
service to humanity that might well be followed by our American cities.
Just here my inveterate American reminded me of the monument in Boston
to the discoverer of ether, and that to Dr. Hahnemann in Washington.
"Both of them monstrosities of bad taste!" exclaimed Miss Cassandra, as
we turned into the Rue Emile Zola, and along the Rue Nationale to the
Palais de Justice, in one of whose gardens is a fine statue of the great
novelist who was born in the Maison de Balzac, near by on the Rue
Nationale. Through the streets George Sand and Victor Hugo, we found our
way to the theatre and then back to the Boulevard Beranger, upon which
our pension is situated.
"It is," as Miss Cassandra says, "a liberal education to walk through
the streets of these old French towns, and whatever may be the
shortcomings of the French, as a nation, they cannot be accused of
forgetting their great people."
As we stroll through these thoroughfares and parks we are constantly
reminded by a name on a street corner or a statue that this Touraine is
the land of Balzac, Rabelais, Descartes, and in a way of Ronsard and
George Sand, as the chateaux of La Poissonniere and Nohant are not far
away. Here they, and many another French writer, walked and dreamed,
creating characters so lifelike that they also walk with us through
these quaint streets and byways or look out from picturesque doorways.
We can fancy the Cure de Tours emerging from the lovely Cloitre de la
Psallette of St. Gatien or the still lovelier cloister of old St.
Martin's; or we can see poor Felex de Vandenesse making his way across
the park, Emile Zola, with his meagre lunch basket on his arm. We have
not yet tasted the _rillons_ and _rillettes_ so prized by the school
children of Tours, and so longed for by Felex when he beheld them in the
baskets of his more fortunate companions. Lydia reminds us that Balzac
was at some pains to explain that this savory preparation of pork is
seldom seen upon the aristocratic tables of Tours, and as our pension is
strictly aristocratic and exclusive, it is doubtful if we ever see
_rillons_ and _rillettes_ upon Madame B----'s table.
September 1st.
We crossed over the bridge this afternoon in a tram to Saint Symphorien,
on whose hillside the original city of Tours was built. Here we saw an
interesting Renaissance church, and passing through the streets of Vieux
Calvaire l'Ermitage, Jeanne d'Arc and St. Gatien, gained the entrance to
the Abbey of Marmoutier, where Saint Gatien dug out his cave in the
rocky hillside. We also saw the ruins of a fine thirteenth century
basilica once the glory of Touraine, and by a spiral staircase ascended
to the _Chapelle des Sept Dormants_, really a cavern cut in the side of
the hill in the shape of a cross, where rest the seven disciples of St.
Martin, who all died on the same day as he had predicted. Their bodies
remained intact for days and many miracles were worked, which you may
believe, or not, just as you choose. When the name of the chapel was
revealed to Miss Cassandra she exclaimed: "I have heard of the Seven
Sleepers all my life and have been likened unto them in my youth; but
never did I expect to lay eyes upon their resting place, and very
uncomfortable beds they must have been!"
"So it was St. Gatien who first brought Christianity to France. Some one
of us should surely have known that," said Lydia, looking up from the
pages of a small local guidebook, with a face so dejected over her own
ignorance, and that of her companions, that Miss Cassandra said in her
most soothing tones:
"Never mind, dear, you will probably find when we reach the next
cathedral town that some other worthy and adored saint did this good
work for France."
And sure enough, this very night we have been learning, from a short
history that we picked up on a book stall, that, although St. Gatien
came here on a mission from Rome in the third century, to St. Martin is
due the spread of Christianity not only through Touraine but all over
France.
Having done our duty in the line of sightseeing and historic
associations, we rested from our labors for a brief season and stopped
to call on the Grants from New York, who are staying in a pleasant
pension at St. Symphorien. Here we had an hour with them in the garden
where many flowers are abloom, and exchanged travel experiences and home
gossip over _brioches_, the famous white wine of Vouvray and glasses of
orange-flower water. Orange-flower water is the proper thing to drink
here as it is made in large quantities in the neighborhood of Tours. As
a refreshing and unintoxicating beverage it was highly recommended to
our Quaker lady, who does not take kindly to the wine of the country,
which is really guiltless of alcohol to any extent; but over this rather
insipid drink she was not particularly enthusiastic. Like the English
woman when she made her first acquaintance with terrapin, the most that
Miss Cassandra could be induced to say was that the _eau des fleurs
d'oranges sucree_ was not so very bad. The English dame, of course, said
"it is not so very nasty"; but we have not become sufficiently
Anglicized to say "nasty" in company. There is no knowing what we may
come to when Angela joins us, as she has been visiting and motoring with
Dr. McIvor's English and Scotch relations for the last six weeks and
will have become quite a Britisher by the time we see her again. She is
to meet us in Paris later in September, when her M.D. will join us for
his vacation.
We returned home by the suspension bridge, built upon the site of an
early bridge of boats. A later stone bridge was erected by Odo, Count of
Blois and Touraine, "in order," as he recorded, "to make himself
agreeable to God, useful to posterity and upon the solicitations of his
wife." These were very good reasons, it must be admitted, for building a
bridge. The substructure of this old stone bridge, the first of its kind
in France, may be seen below the surface of the water a little farther
up the stream.
Royalty seems to have had the good taste to spend much time in Touraine
during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, and small
wonder we thought, for this fertile well-watered plain combines the
advantages of north and south, and is hospitable to the fruits and
flowers of many climates. Louis XI, in his declining years, sought
refuge here from the chill winds of Paris, which are tempered in
Touraine by the softer breezes of the Midi, and this ancient city of the
Turones he wished to make the capital of the France that he had
strengthened and unified. However we may abhor the despicable
characteristics of this wily old politician and despot, we cannot afford
to underestimate his constructive ability and his zeal for the glory of
France.
September 2nd.