A SEVERE CRITIC--UZÈS AND BARBENTANE
"La cigalo di piboulo,
La bouscarlo do bouissoun,
Lou grihet di farigoulo
Tout canto sa cansoun."
The tree locust in the poplar, the thrush in the wayside bush,
The grasshopper in the wild thyme, each sings its own song.
MISTRAL.
At the _table d'hôte_ of our hotel, a little group of travellers was
clustered at the far end of the long, old-fashioned room--silent, French
though they were. My neighbour was a pale, faintly-outlined young man,
with short, colourless hair. Curious that so artistic a nation should
crop its hair so very close, I idly mused. That pallor? Presumably the
lack of outdoor exercise, not to enter upon dark possibilities of absinthe
and other Parisian roads to ruin.
At about the stage of the _entrée_ the subject of these conjectures,
bracing himself to the task, turned and said--
"Est ce que vous êtes depuis longtemps à Avignon, madame?" (Accent a
little provincial, I thought, perhaps Provençal, which was interesting!)
"Non, monsieur, je ne suis ici que depuis hier," I responded, not only
in my best French, but with as much sociability as I could throw into
the somewhat arid reply, for I desired to prolong a conversation that
might throw light upon the fascinating country.
"Ah!" said the close-cropped one, with a gesture that I thought Gallic,
"je suis un peu--de--dis--disappointed, as we say in English," he suddenly
broke up, with an exasperated abandonment of the foreign lingo. The man
was an Englishman, for all he was worth! Barbara laughed aloud, getting
wind of the situation. So much for the distinctions of national types.
My neighbour had made precisely the same mistake on his side that I had
made on mine.
With Avignon he was indeed "a little disappointed." He thought the Palace
bare and ugly, and the town dirty and unattractive. The view from the
Rocher du Dom? Yes, that was rather fine. Give the devil his due, he
evidently felt. What was the height of Mont Ventoux? I longed to rush
wildly into figures, but principle restrained me. Did I mean to go to
Chateauneuf? Our friend had been there. Tumble-down old place. One could
see it from the Rocher du Dom across the river. They made rather good
wine there.
Chateauneuf! Good wine there!
Was this the famous Chateauneuf, the ancient country seat of the Popes,
the lordly pleasure-house of the most luxurious and brilliant Court of
the Middle Ages?--("Not much luxury about it now!" said our tourist)--a
vast Summer Palace situated on one of the finest sites of the district,
whence one could see Vaucluse itself in the Vale of the Sorgue, Petrarch's
beloved retreat from the clamour of the Papal City; and Vacqueiras,
the home of Raimbaut de Vacqueiras, the celebrated troubadour, and many
another spot of greater or less renown.
Here, too, a modern singer had been born: Anselm Mathieu, and in the
old house of his family the Provençal Félibres used to meet, reciting
verses, singing songs, and doubtless pledging one another in the famous
vintage of Chateauneuf, the "rather good wine" of our severe critic.
[Illustration: CHATEAUNEUF, NEAR AVIGNON.
_By E. M. Synge._]
He placidly continued his crushing observations. Vaucluse he considered
a much over-rated spot, though the cliffs and crags above the source
of the river _were_ rather striking. Was there anything more to see
in Avignon after one had done the Palace and the Museum? I reluctantly
admitted there was but little one could recommend to a critical spirit.
Our level-headed tourist had spent an hour in Villeneuve that morning--the
little town across the bridge with the big castle, he explained--and found
it depressing--everything peeling off. The description was annoyingly
apt. There was no gainsaying it. Only it was not exhaustive.
Its author intended to go next morning to see the Pont du Gard, about
which one heard so many laudatory accounts. He was told that he wouldn't
think as much of it as he expected. How much he expected after this
warning I was unable to estimate, but I thought it safe to prophesy
disappointment. He said himself that he confidently anticipated it. I
wondered vaguely whether the condition of mind thus described was capable
of analysis, but did not attempt it. I felt Barbara was emotionally in
a state of unstable equilibrium, and dared not add to her provocations.
My neighbour further complained that considering the general importance
of Avignon and one's extreme familiarity with its name, historically
speaking, it seemed surprisingly shabby and small--narrow streets and
all that. We admitted the narrow streets.
And there wasn't a decent church in the whole place! Wouldn't compare
with Bruges or Rouen. My tourist was at Rouen in the autumn of '98, and
at Bruges in September of '99, on a cycling tour--or was it August?
I thought it might be August.
Yes (our friend's memory clarified most satisfactorily), it was the last
week in August. On the 18th he had left London. I knew that hot weather
we had all over England and the Continent at the end of August in that
year?
I evidently must have known it, so it seemed scarcely worth while
confessing that my memory failed to distinguish the particular heat of
that summer from the more or less similar oppressiveness of any other
season.
Well, he and two fellows cycled all through Holland and Belgium in ten
days and three hours; saw everything. They made an average of sixty miles
a day. Barbara, who hailed from north of the Tweed, said "Aw!" and the
flattered cyclist hastened to add, with becoming modesty, that of course
the roads were good and the country flat. They did ninety several days.
Pretty fair with the thermometer at 70° in the shade----
"An interesting country for such a tour?"
"Rather flat; never get a really good spin; though on the other hand,
there is no uphill work."
For general interest did the country compare at all with Provence? I
wanted to turn my informant from his line of ideas just for the fun of
seeing him work back to it, as an intercepted ant or earwig will pursue
its chosen path, no matter how many obstacles one may throw in the way.
Our tourist doubled and fell into line again almost at once.
Provence? He had been recommended to give it a trial, but so far had
seen nothing particular to attract one. Too hot for cycling, and hotels
very poor. And, as he said before, there were no churches, let alone
cathedrals. Look at the cathedral here, as they had the cheek to call
it, perched up on a rock like a Swiss châlet. And what architecture!
Baedecker called it Romanesque. He always called things Romanesque when
there was nothing else he _could_ decently call them. (This was cheering;
a sort of inverted enthusiasm which at least was less depressing than
indifference.) Why couldn't they stick to some definite style--Gothic or
something? However, he (my neighbour) didn't pretend to know anything
about these matters, though he evidently felt that the architects who
couldn't bring themselves to settle down decisively into "Gothic or
something" had made rather a poor thing of their profession. It seemed
to him that there was a baldness about the buildings here. They _might_
be all right, but so they struck him. Rienzi's tower, for instance--not
a rag of ornament!
I had begun to suggest an unsatisfied yearning for a few minarets with
a trifle of Early Perpendicular work down the sides, when I became aware
that for various reasons--Barbara especially--it was wiser to desist.
It was not till our friend had gone next day to court disappointment
at the Pont du Gard that we felt the lifting of the curious, leaden
atmosphere that he had thrown around him. His presence seemed to stop
the heart-beat of the place, nay, one's own heart-beat, till nothing
was left but hotels and averages and heights and dates. _Mon Dieu!_ And
some day somebody would have to travel with such a being--perhaps for
life. Heaven help the other traveller!
However, after all, it was possibly wholesome to have one's hot-headed
impressions subjected to the cold light of an Englishman's reason. Our
compatriot, with his severely rational way of conducting himself, had
doubtless gathered a crop of solid information, which was more than
could be said for _our_ methods. I told Barbara that I was going to
regard Avignon henceforth from the point of view of its population and
height above the sea, and I hunted up facts in guide-books and put her in
possession of all available dates from the earliest ages to the present
day. She did not seem to me to assimilate them satisfactorily.
[Illustration: RIENZI'S TOWER, AVIGNON.
_By E. M. Synge._]
The country round Avignon serves to remind one of the fact that it was,
in ancient times, a good deal nearer the sea than it is at present.
The outlines are like those of a sea-bordering country; such heights
as there are have the character of cliffs, or they are level-topped,
smoothed-out hills until one reaches the grotesque escarpments of the
Alpilles or the wild masses of the Luberon range, once island summits
rising from the waters.
Avignon stands majestically on one of these heights, with the Rhone
valley spreading wide on every hand.
It looks like a magic city in the sunshine or in the glow of evening;
the interminable Palace, the Cathedral, the spires and towers rising
against the sky with that particular serenity of beauty that we think
of as belonging to the land of dreams.
* * * * *
A railway journey of about two hours from Avignon takes one to the little
ducal city of Uzès, which lies in the heart of this curious lateral
country, whose eminences have no peaks or highest points, whose lines
are all horizontal.
Upon the sky-line at the end of the leisurely journey appears a striking
mass of buildings and mediæval towers, announcing to the lover of
architecture that some delightful hours are before him.
A quaint old omnibus takes (and shakes) the passengers--mostly commercial
travellers--up the slight hill and in through the grey gates of this
stately little city, landing one and all at the big inn in the broad
main street. Except that it is so exceedingly quiet, it has something
in common with the street of an English cathedral town.
Obviously Uzès has been a place of importance in the past: the public
buildings are on a grand scale and of fine design; the Ducal Palace
announces the capital of a little Principality or Duchy, and the number
of churches would suggest either a large population or a very devout one.
But a sort of trance seems to have fallen upon the place, and not even
the bustle of the inn at its busiest moments, when the vast, dark-papered
dining-room is filled with hungry passengers, can overcome the sense of
suspended life that haunts the town.
But in the earlier centuries it had a stirring history. Uzès possessed
some valiant seigneurs in the days of Philippe le Bel, for that monarch
was so pleased with their prowess that he erected the town into a
"Vicomté." It was governed by its seigneurs and its bishops who shared
the jurisdiction, and a lively time they must have had of it!
It has always been a fiery little city, and during the religious wars of
the sixteenth century was the scene of terrible struggles and massacres,
even in the very churches, which were half ruined during this period.
Perhaps the tumult of those times has left Uzès weary and sad, for now
the place seems dedicated to the God of Sleep.
The shaded promenade or terrace, with its white parapet of short stone
pillars, runs round two sides of the Ducal Garden outside its walls--a
delightful spot to rest or loiter in, commanding a curious wide view
over the country, which is, however, suddenly shut in by a hard, high
horizon line as level as if it were ruled, or as if it were the edge of
a plain, though it is really a range of hills.
The trees of the shady old garden of the Duché drop their branches over
a high wall; at the back of the demesne the Cathedral stands half hidden
by some of the buildings of the Duché and beside it rises one of the
most singular and beautiful architectural monuments of the South, La
Tour Fenestrella, an exquisite Romanesque tower, much smaller but more
graceful than the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which it otherwise resembles.
It springs upwards, tier after tier of little arches, with an effect
of exquisite lightness and strength, and leaves one wondering why this
delicate example of Romanesque work does not enjoy a greater renown.
Many hours might be well spent in this forgotten little city, where in
the old days the intense quiet that broods over it--as if invading it
from the strange, almost ominous landscape beyond the parapet--was broken
by the din of warfare more violent and more unappeasable than any other
sort of strife: that of religion.
* * * * *
In early spring the plain of the Rhone in the neighbourhood of Avignon
is all flushed with young almond blossoms. The carriage of the tourist
trundles past field after field of misty pink, and for the time he might
fancy himself in the landscape of a Japanese fan.
Above this plain, perched on a bare hillside that gives a bird's-eye
view of the wide expanse of the Rhone valley, stands the ancient village
of Barbentane, a name that occurs constantly in the literature of
Provence, especially in the poems of Mistral. In Roman days Barbentane
or Bellinto, a station on the road between Tarascon and Orange, was an
island surrounded by the waters of the Durance.
[Illustration: STREET AT UZÈS.
_By E. M. Synge._]
It is of far less imposing aspect than Uzès and is approached by a long,
ascending road, which is continuous with the broad main street of the
town, whence other streets climb the hill, wandering into little platforms
and nooks and picturesque corners such as only a hill town in the Midi
can produce. There are ancient buildings at every turn, and above the
rest, beyond the gateway leading up to the windy limestone downs, stands
the tall ruined tower of Barbentane, which has a romantic story attached
to it. Mistral writes of it:
"The Bishop of Avignon ...
Has built a tower at Barbentane,
Sea-wind it spurns, and tramontane,
And round it demons rage in vain.
He'll exorcise
The walls that rise
With turrets square
From rocks so bare.
Its front looks to the setting sun,
And over the windows one by one--
Lest demon ever through them may pass--
He carves his mitre over the glass."[2]
To this demon-proof stronghold the Bishop appoints a warder, who--as is
the way of warders--has a charming daughter, Mourrette. Mourrette has a
lover who is determined to scale the walls of the fortress and carry off
the damsel or die in the attempt. Unfortunately, he dies in the attempt.
"So true, so brave, he ne'er will stop
Till he grasp her hand at the turret top.
Alas! a branch breaks--with a hideous shock,
Her lover is dashed on the hungry rock."
Tragedy as usual! If all had gone well, the story in all likelihood would
never have reached us. We may, perhaps, conclude that life is not quite
so dark as history and literature might lead us to believe.
* * * * *
The author of "Un voyage en France" writes:--
"Les cultures enveloppent jusqu'au Rhone le petit massif sur lequel
se dresse la haute Tour de Barbentane," and these "cultures"--corn,
almond-trees, vines, olives--give an aspect of richness and prosperity
to the great valley.
[Illustration: GATEWAY, BARBENTANE.
_By E. M. Synge._]
On the opposite side of it stands an ancient but still inhabited castle
belonging to the Comte des Essars (or some similar name), situated upon
a sudden height or cliff and approached by a steep and shady avenue which
leads to a modern garden of evergreen shrubs, all very carefully grouped
and tended. At the highest point appears the great square castle, with
its round tower at each corner, and crenellated walls.
The caretaker admits the visitor to a large courtyard and thence to the
suites of sombre old rooms with their dark ceilings, stately mantelpieces
and rich, ancient furniture, all spell-bound as if waiting for the life
that has gone away. The owners only come there for about a month in the
time of the grape-harvest, but the evidence of their presence in little
personal belongings, such as racks full of pipes, carved sticks, riding
whips, photographs, and so forth, emphasises pathetically the silence of
the house, which is speckless and in perfect order, ready at any moment
for habitation.
The place is well worth a visit, not merely for its rather sad charm,
but because it helps the imagination to reconstruct the life and aspect
of the feudal castle; for such edifices as this are generally seen in
ruins, emptied of all their splendours. Here rises before one's eye
the scene of mediæval romance almost precisely as in the days of the
troubadours and their fascinating ladies.
It seemed a pity that our friend the critic had left Avignon without
having seen this place where the little touches of the modern (especially
that prosaic garden of well-groomed evergreens) would have cheered his
soul and proved to him that Provence could, after all, produce something
that was not either tumble-down or peeling off.
Such is the contradictoriness of human nature, that we began to regard
with regret the certainty that he would not be at the _table d'hôte_
that night to record his disappointments. It was quite interesting to
watch the process by which he would throw an atmosphere of spiritual
deathliness--a sort of moral incandescent gaslight--over the fascinating
things of this despised country.
We realised that, in spite of his powers of disenchantment, we had found
a sort of satisfaction (like the satisfaction of a discord in music) in
the bleakness of our friend's outlook upon life and things.
It made one, perhaps not very relevantly, think of Madame de Sévigné's
phrase:--
"Toujours soutenue de l'ignorance capable de Madame de B----"
"Ignorance capable!" We positively missed it!