ORANGE AND MARTIGUES
"Beauty gives men the best hint of ultimate good which their
experience as yet can offer."
"The Life of Reason"--GEORGE SANTAYANA.
Every one who has travelled in mountain regions has been puzzled by the
curious fact that the more peaks his journeyings reveal to him the more
there are to reveal. The number of the mountains seems to increase in
geometrical proportion and the traveller has presently to learn that, in
spite of all appearances, the last towering summit that moves into view
will presently become the platform from which he must crane his neck
to contemplate a still more towering wooer of the clouds and a still
grander scene of desolation and primæval silence.
The traveller in Provence receives a similar impression in relation not
to material but to historical immensities. No sooner has one spot been
explored, than another mountain-peak of tradition comes into sight,
luring ever farther afield.
This is one of the pains of the ardent traveller, and it forms a
curious analogy with the life-journey itself, in which renunciation
after renunciation has to be made, not merely of things far distant and
beautiful, but of things beautiful and near, which only need the stretch
of the hand to touch, but yet are farther from reach than the Pole-star
itself. Among the serious renunciations that had to be made during our
Provençal visit must be counted Courthéson, where one of our favourite
troubadours, Raimbaut de Vacquciras, spent so many of his early days at
the Court of Guilhelm des Baux (of whom more hereafter). Then there was
Ventadour--not exactly near, but still within hail--once so brilliant
a centre of learning and song; and Salon, the reputed scene of Mary
Magdalene's later life. Of this bright little prosperous city, famous for
its oil trade, with its dripping fountain and grey donjon, we did catch
an early morning glimpse _en route_ for an inexorable train. Rocamadour,
full of romantic beauty; Le Puy, strangest of rock-set cities; ill-fated
Béziers, of the Albigensian wars; Dragignan, and a hundred others were
one and all alluring and unattainable.
[Illustration: ROMAN GATEWAY AT ORANGE (ON THE LYONS ROAD).
_By Joseph Pennell._]
A few hours between trains permitted a visit to Orange and its great
theatre and triumphal arch, which redeem the place from a somewhat
featureless commonplace.
[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN THE GRANDE RUE, MARTIGUES.
_By Joseph Pennell._]
We had to ask our way to the theatre, unluckily of some perfidious
inhabitant whose misdirection would have landed us in the suburbs, had
not Fortune, in the shape of a dapper youth in the first rosy flush of
a dawning moustache, come to the rescue.
In the pursuit of his father's trade as a corn-dealer, he had travelled
and learnt English together with a becoming admiration for the British
nation, his enlightenment being assisted by an English mother. It seemed
strange to think of an Englishwoman settled down in this little French
provincial town, but as our guide chattered on, unconsciously revealing
the life of the place, it was clear that French provincial human nature is
much the same as any other. Heartburning, gossip, jealousies, stupendous
proprieties, "convenances" of the most all-shadowing and abstruse kind
made up the dreary existence of the inhabitants. Wretched "jeunes filles"
unable to cross a street unattended, mothers on the prowl for husbands
for the "jeunes filles" (our young friend intimated delicately that he
had a perilous time of it among enterprising parents); the men intent on
business and the recreations of the _café_ and so forth--it all sounded
disheartening enough, and the hopelessness of it seemed to settle on
the spirit like a blight.
Our guide regarded his native town with disdain. Its narrow streets and
dingy aspect he pointed out with ironical pomp.
"This, you see, is our main street. Magnificent you cannot deny!" Had
he not travelled and seen better things?
But the great monuments?
The youth shrugged his shoulders.
For those who liked that sort of thing----!
[Illustration: ON THE GRAND CANAL, MARTIGUES.
_By Joseph Pennell._]
From behind blinds of discreet windows inquiring heads might often be
seen peering out at our quaint procession of three, and our guide would
then pull himself up and step out with a brisk experienced stride, as
of one who has relations with a world that is not Orange!
But those faces dimly seen behind blinds--one smiled, but they brought
a shiver at the same time.
"English tourists often come to have a look at the monuments, and then
I always try to act as guide. I like to talk to them--I get so tired of
living here. It is terrible!"
[Illustration: CHURCH AT MARTIGUES.
_By Joseph Pennell._]
Poor budding, ambitious youth!
The great Roman theatre stands apart from the rest of the buildings,
a vast, blank surface of masonry forming the façade. Inside are the
circular tiers of seats, and up these we clambered to the top, looking
down into the silent stage and feeling that familiar, bootless longing
of the traveller for a glimpse of the scene in the days of its glory.
The Roman arch is at the farther end of the town, standing apart in its
majesty, a grand forlorn monument of that wonderful people.
* * * * *
It was hard sometimes to steer among so many possibilities of adventure.
It behoved us to choose wisely since time and tide were hastening. But
perhaps it was we, not time and tide, that were really hastening. These
do not hasten; it is only their unhappy victims who are never ready
for their coming. To the truly wise and understanding mind, doubtless,
haste would be a thing unknown. Its possessor would be able to meditate
serenely between trains at Clapham Junction.
[Illustration: BOATS, MARTIGUES.
_By Joseph Pennell._]
But for less accomplished mortals the sense of limited time with otherwise
unlimited opportunity, tends to a certain breathlessness which, however,
in our case, gradually gave way before the influences of the country.
[Illustration: THE PORTAL OF THE CHURCH, MARTIGUES.
_By Joseph Pennell._]
One of the places that we had to renounce, might, from all accounts,
have been a sort of Finishing School for students of Serenity. This was
Martigues, the little town on the Etang de Berre, where all good painters
go when they die. They also wisely go there in swarms before they die.
They place here, in opposition to orthodox scholarship, the site of
the Garden of Eden. And judging by their records, this, if mistaken, is
not surprising. The place induces on a suitable temperament a sort of
sketching debauch:--Martigues from the Lagoon; Old Houses, Martigues;
Churches, Martigues; Groups of Boats, Martigues; Nooks and Corners,
Martigues; the Harbour, Martigues; Sailors and Fishermen, Martigues;
Martigues in the Morning; Martigues at Noon; Martigues at Night; Martigues
_ad infinitum_.
Quiet waterways among the mellowest of old houses, churches keeping
tranquil guard above the ripple of the lagoon; the silence of the sunny
port cheerily broken by cries of sailors and bargemen, by the drowsy
life of the place; lights and shadows, colour in every tone, form in a
thousand avatars; creepers clambering over decaying walls, flowers in
odd crannies; all this offers infinitely more attraction to the artist
than all our Horticultural-Gardens-of-Paradise put together. So it is
not to Heaven that he goes, if he can help it; he goes to Martigues.
He is never tired of it, as his numerous sketches show.
Not to have seen Martigues is a precious privilege in its way: it is
a life-long safeguard against satiety; for then, whatever comes, _one_
unfulfilled desire at least remains: to see Martigues--and sketch!