CHAMBÉRY TO NÎMES
From Chambéry our course ran southwest through the Midi, that great
sweep of territory stretching across the Mediterranean basin from the
Alps to the Pyrenees and embracing many of the most interesting regions
in France.
Our departure, early in the afternoon, was under somber skies. We were
just reaching the outskirts of the city when the engine gave evidence of
trouble. The car ran for a little way and then stopped. An investigation
revealed the necessity of cleaning the spark plugs. While engaged in
this work, we did not notice the approach of an ox team which came
swinging along the road, drawing a two-wheeled cart, the wheels high and
heavy, of a type which one often sees in the Midi. We were bending over
the engine, with no thought of impending danger, when, without warning,
the great wheels were upon us. The driver was evidently asleep; it was
too late to attract his attention. The wheel grazed one of us, and
then, as the oxen swung in, crushed the other against the fender. It was
fortunate that the fender yielded just enough to cause him to be forced
under it and thus saved him from serious injury. Our car carried the
scars of that encounter until the end of the trip. We were just as well
satisfied that it was the car which bore the scars.
Not more than a mile or so from the scene of this adventure, a sign
called attention to a long tunnel just ahead. The signs of the French
roads speak an expressive language, they are so elaborately worked out
for the traveler's convenience. This time it was a voice of warning.
Lamps were lighted. The tunnel closed over us. We could just make out
the faint star of daylight ahead. Weird shadows danced in front of the
car. In the silence and gloom, the noise of our progress over the
slippery road was greatly magnified. We emerged from the tunnel to find
ourselves above a broad valley and nearing the small town of Les
Echelles.
[Illustration: _Out of the silence and gloom_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
Until this point our course was the route to the Grande Chartreuse, the
monastery where, in mediæval days, the monks concocted a soothing
cordial to refresh the hours of rude toil. The road now branched off in
another direction. Our hopes of catching a glimpse of the celebrated old
monastery, built high amid enshrining mountains, were doomed to
disappointment. A storm was about to break. Heavy clouds, weighted down
by their burdens of water, blotted out everything. From a patch of blue
sky above Les Echelles, the sun streamed, and then disappeared. We raced
down the easy slope to gain shelter in the village a mile away. Swiftly
the thick curtain of rain closed in. It was a question whether we would
be able to reach shelter before the fury of the elements burst upon us.
Once more our car proved equal to the emergency, and we poked our way
into the shed adjoining a village inn and waited until the worst of the
storm had subsided. The rain continuing, we put up the top, and started
in time to see a brilliant rainbow arching the whole valley. It was only
for a moment. For the rest of the afternoon we splashed steadily
through puddles and mud.
The scenery changed. Mountain landscapes gave place to the lowlands of
the Midi, barren rocks to fertile peasant farms. It was all a glimpse of
France as she really is; not like Germany, a land of large cities, but
rather of small towns and rural hamlets where peasant ownership is a
fact, and where the peasantry form a mighty political force. France, so
torn by rival factions, would be like a machine without a balance wheel
if it were not for a large peasant class attached to the soil by the
bond of ownership. The life of the French peasant is not easy. He toils
long hours for small rewards. Even in the rain, we could see him
continuing at his work. But he is free. Those two or three acres are his
own. That is the great point. This fact of possession, by creating local
ties and by fostering patriotism, is the safeguard of the country. His
implements appeared to be of the simplest; probably most of those whom
we saw working on that rainy afternoon had never seen a steam plow or a
harvesting machine. The homes were equally rude. Everywhere in France
we noticed the absence of those cozy, comfortable houses which are so
characteristic of the average American farm. Few fences were to be seen,
possibly because of the spirit of justice as regards property rights, or
perhaps because the land laws had been so perfectly worked out.
We entered Romans through a street so unusually wide as to be a pleasant
surprise. Darkness was coming on. Road signs were indistinct, so we were
forced to inquire the way to Valence. The people were obliging. Whether
we were in the country or in some small town, there was always in
evidence that same spirit of hospitable helpfulness which we found at
the French _douane_ in Séez.
The street lamps of Valence were burning when we arrived at the Hôtel de
la Croix d'Or, so well known to all who journey from Paris to the
Riviera. The marble entrance was quite imposing, but apparently after
reaching the top of the staircase the builders were suddenly seized by a
passion for economy, since the interior was very plain, like most of
the hotels in the French provincial towns. The dinner, however, made up
for other deficiencies. Here, and all through the Midi, we could be sure
of delicious _haricots verts_, _omelette_, and _poulet_; and what may
seem strange, we never became tired of these dishes. The art of cooking
them must be a monopoly of the French cuisine, for they never tasted so
good in other countries.
Valence is more of a place to stop _en tour_ than to visit for
sight-seeing. It is fortunate in being situated on the main route from
Paris to the Riviera, the road that we were to follow, and probably the
most popular and most frequented motor road in France. Over its smooth,
broad surface passes the winter rush of motorists seeking the warmer,
more congenial climate of the Mediterranean shores.
We often found more or less trouble in getting out of the larger French
towns. The streets are apt to have a snarl and tangle. Carts and wagons
block the way. Roads are the worse for wear. This seemed to us one of
the big differences between France and Germany. The German town is neat,
clean, well-kept as if the watchful eye of municipal authority were
always on the alert to notice and remedy small defects. The average
French town looks neglected. The people are just as thrifty, but they
appear to care less for appearances.
From Valence we swung more quickly than usual into the splendid Route
Nationale above mentioned. It was Sunday. Peasants were entering and
coming from the small age-worn churches. At that hour the fields looked
strangely deserted. Blue skies were radiant, the air agreeably cooled by
the rain of the night before, the dust well laid. More and more we were
yielding to the fascination of Europe from a motor car. Train schedules
did not trouble us. We were independent. There were no worries about
having to arrive or depart at a certain hour. Life on the road was a
constant flow of new impressions, new experiences. Every village had its
own unique attraction. Many motor cars passed us, each one an object of
interest. Possibly in our cruise along these high seas of the French
roads our feelings were a little like those of the mariner when he
sights a passing ship. Where does she hail from? Where her probable
destination? Of what make? What flag is she flying? It was always a
welcome sight to view the Stars and Stripes flying toward us. One can
usually tell the American car even when some distance away, it is built
so high. We noticed many Fords and Cadillacs. There is not much of a
market in Europe for the expensive American car, because the foreign
high-priced car is considered by the Europeans to be good enough. The
cheaper American product has a market because few of the foreign firms
make a cheap car.
High noon was upon us, the heat oppressive, our appetites ravenous, when
we stopped in the poor little village of Pierrelatte. The prospect for
lunch was not encouraging. A single stray resident appeared at the other
end of the silent street. The houses might have been occupied by
peasants who wrested mere existence from a barren soil. The inn, which
was pointed out to us, would never have been recognized as such. It
looked more like a venerable ruin. In an American town of this size we
would have hesitated before entering, and then probably would have
turned away in despair to look for a bakery shop to stay the pangs of
hunger. But we were growing familiar with the small French towns. It
does not take long to discover that a hotel with an exterior symbolizing
woe and want can have a very attractive interior at lunch time.
[Illustration:
_The ancient Roman theater at Orange_ _Page 88_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
We are still carrying pleasant memories of that lunch. There was _potage
St. Germain_, made as only the French can make it. The oil for the
_salade_ was from the neighboring olive groves of Provençe. The
_haricots verts_ picked that morning in the garden, the _raisins_ fresh
from the vineyard. Best of all were the mushroom patties. One portion
called for another. Our hostess was pleased; there was no mistaking our
genuine appreciation of her cooking. Interrupting her culinary labors,
she told us that the mushrooms were of her own canning. Each year it was
necessary to lay in a larger supply. Tourists had found them so good
that, on leaving, they had left orders for shipment to their home
addresses. Now she was planning to erect a small factory. Her recital
was interrupted by a Frenchman, who implored "_une troisième portion_."
He purchased a dozen cans of mushrooms, and if they had been gold
nuggets he could not have stowed them away more carefully in his car.
The French are authorities when it is a question of good things to eat.
The road to Orange was like a continuous leafy arbor. This shimmering
arcade was too refreshingly cool to be covered quickly. On the outskirts
of Orange we halted to see the Arc de Triomphe, a wonderful echo from
the age of Tiberius. The arch stands in a circular grassy plot and the
road divides, as if this product of the Roman mind were too precious to
be exposed to the accidents of ordinary traffic.
The antique theater at the other end of the town is just as remarkable
for architectural splendor. It is not enough to say that this structure
is the largest and most magnificent of its kind in the world. It is also
the best preserved. Every year in August dramatic and lyrical
performances are given by _La Comédie Française_. Thus, after nearly
twenty centuries, the theater is still serving its original purpose.
We were impressed by the auditory facilities. One of us stood on the
lowest tier of seats, and the other on the topmost row. Even a whisper
was distinctly audible. The erection of buildings with such perfect
acoustics may perhaps be classed among the lost arts.
[Illustration: _Arc de Triomphe at Orange_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
Southward from Orange, the country began to look more like Italy. Olive
and mulberry trees were more numerous. The cypress trees, so often seen
in Italian cemeteries, gave an impression of solemnity, almost of
melancholy, to the country. At times they fringed the highway or stood
alone upon the horizon like a distant steeple against a crimson sunset.
The twilight was full of a brooding, dreamy silence as of communion with
the past. This is the atmosphere of Provençe, an atmosphere of "old,
forgotten, far-off things and battles long ago." If one is interested in
wonderful ruins that suggest the might of Rome's empire, then let him go
to Provençe, that part of southern France where the Romans founded their
_provincia_, and where they built great cities. We found the hotels
rather dreary. The towns were quiet. Many of them, like Pierrelatte,
looked so poor. The streets were dirty and littered. One notices these
things at first, and then forgets them, the air is so clear, the
sunshine so dazzling, the horizons so distinct, the stars so bright.
Much of the country is barren and rocky. But the rocks as well as the
ruins have a rich, golden brown color from being steeped for centuries
in this bright southern sun. The people are romantic, impractical, happy
in their poverty, singing amid grinding routine. They have their own
dialect, which is very musical. Even the names of their towns and cities
are full of music, for example, Montélimar, Avignon, Carcassonne. The
country, with its Roman ruins, its bright sun, its rich color, its
laughter, and song, is like another Italy. Nowhere except in that land
do we come so close to the great things of Roman antiquity.
We reached the Grand Hôtel in Avignon at nightfall, but dined outside
that we might the better observe the life of the people. The sweet voice
of an Italian street singer made it easy for us to imagine ourselves
under the skies of Florence or Naples. Avignon is the most Italian
looking city in France.
[Illustration: _The Palace of the Popes at Avignon_ _Page 91_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
The following morning was devoted to rambling. Sometime we must spend a
week in this interesting walled city on the Rhone, where the popes lived
between 1305 and 1377 in the huge palace that resembles a fortress. If
there were nothing to Avignon but its high mediæval walls and watch
towers, the place would be worth a long pilgrimage. These gray ramparts,
apparently new, were actually built in the fourteenth century. What a
picture they gave us of stormy feudal times, when even the Church was
compelled to seek safety behind strong walls!
The Palais des Papes is a colossal structure. We have forgotten what
pope it was who was besieged here for years by a French army, and then
escaped by the postern; it does not matter. The palace walls looked high
and thick enough to defy all attack. The scenes of vice and profligacy
during this period must have rivaled the court life of an ancient Roman
emperor. There was one pope, John XXII, who in eighteen years amassed a
fortune of eighteen million gold florins in specie, not to mention the
trifling sum of seven millions in plate and jewels. Perhaps it was just
as well for the popes of that time that the walls of their fortress
towers were high and thick.
Above the palace of the popes and the adjoining cathedral is the
Promenade des Doms, a public garden. We followed one of the paths that
led along the edge of a high precipice. This view is one of the sights
of Avignon. It embraces the valley of the Rhone, the swiftest river in
France. The rapid current winds and disappears. Nearly opposite, on the
other shore, is the village of Villeneuve. It is desolate enough now,
with no trace of the beautiful villas which the cardinals built and
where they were wont to revel amid luxury after the day's duties at the
palace. Beyond the town we could see the stately towers of Fort St.
André, in that early period a frontier fortress of France, so jealous of
the growing power of the papacy. Most appealing of all, was the broken
bridge of St. Benezet, resisting with its few remaining arches the
hastening Rhone. Above one of the piers is the little Chapel of St.
Nicholas. The bridge is a romantic relic of the gay life of Avignon when
the city was the refuge of the popes. Daudet, in his _Lettres de mon
Moulin_, tells us that the streets were too narrow for the _farandole_,
so the people would place the pipes and tambourine on the bridge and
there, in the fresh wind of the Rhone, they would dance and sing.
[Illustration: _The ruined bridge of St. Benezet at Avignon_ _Page 92_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
"Sur le pont d'Avignon, l'on y danse, 'on y danse;
Sur le pont d'Avignon, l'on y danse tous en rond."
The distance to Nîmes was so short that we decided to motor there for
lunch, see the vast Roman amphitheater and the world-famous Maison
Carrée, and then push on to Montpellier, where we planned to spend the
night and perhaps remain for a day or so.
The ride was more memorable for the oppressive heat than for any
particular charm of scenery. It was noon when we crossed the river and
looked back for a last view of the huge Palais des Papes. The sun blazed
upon the white road, which quivered like white heat. There were few
trees. The engine hood was so hot that we could not touch it. It would
not have surprised us if one tire, or all of them, had burst; they
probably would have done so if we had gone much farther. The glare was
so intense that we entirely overlooked the little _octroi_ station on
the edge of the town. We, however, were not overlooked. Some one was
shouting and waving a hundred yards behind us. It was not inspiring to
back slowly through our own dust to convey the valuable information that
we carried nothing dutiable. Of course, at a time like this, the engine
refused to start. After vigorously "cranking" for a quarter of an hour,
and suffering all the sensations of sunstroke, we moved on to the Hôtel
du Luxembourg for _déjeuner_.
Among our recollections of the lunch at this hotel were the ripe, purple
figs. There is no reason why we should confess how quickly this
delicious fruit disappeared. Farther north, in Berlin, such figs would
have been a luxury, and might have appeared for sale at a fancy price in
some store window. In Nîmes they were served as a regular part of the
lunch. We could almost have traced our trip southward by the fruits that
were served us from time to time.
[Illustration: _The Maison Carrée at Nimes_ _Page 95_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
The broad boulevards and shady avenues of Nîmes form a small part of the
attractions of this prosperous city. There are fine theaters and cafés,
especially the cafés with tables and chairs extending into the streets
to accommodate the crowds of thirsty patrons. It was pleasant to be a
part of this typically French environment, to watch this group or that,
with their gestures, shrugging of shoulders, laughter, and rapid
conversation. Many phases of French life pass before so advantageous an
observation point.
But Nîmes is not simply a modern city. Nowhere else in France, not even
in Orange, does one get a clearer idea of what the splendor of Roman
civilization must have been. _Provincia_ was a favorite and favored
province of the empire; Nîmes was the center of provincial life. For
five centuries the different emperors took turns in enriching and
embellishing it. We visited the Maison Carrée, most perfect of existing
Roman temples, inspected the gateway called the Porte d'Auguste, looked
up at the Tour Magne, a Roman tower, saw the remains of the Roman baths,
and then made our way to the amphitheater, smaller than the Colosseum
but so wonderfully preserved that you simply lose track of the
centuries. The great stones, fitting so evenly without cement, have that
same rich, golden brown color, the prevailing color tone of Provençe. We
entered the amphitheater through one of many arcades, the same arcades
through which so many generations of toga-clad Romans had passed to
applaud the gladiatorial combats. Now the people go there to see the
bull fights which are held three or four times a year. On that
particular afternoon a large platform had been erected for the orchestra
in the middle of the arena. Open-air concerts are very popular in Nîmes
during the summer.
It was something of a shock to pass from these scenes of Roman life by a
jump into a motor car--the amphitheater illustrating the grandeur of
Rome's once imperial sway, the motor car symbolizing the spirit of our
rushing modern age. The contrast was startling.