NÎMES TO CARCASSONNE
There was abundance of time to arrive in Montpellier before dark, so we
let the speedometer waver between thirty and thirty-five kilometers. The
road was hardly a model of smoothness. We were not always enthusiastic
about the roads in the Midi. On the whole, they were not much more than
average, and not so good as we had expected to find them after that
first experience on the Route Nationale to Chambéry. Where there was a
bad place in the road we usually saw a pile of loose stones waiting to
be used for repair, but many of these piles looked as though they had
been waiting a long time. The roads are apparently allowed to go too
long before receiving attention. Owing to the increasing amount of heavy
traffic, the deterioration in recent years has been more rapid than
formerly. In some of the provinces, like Touraine, there were short
stretches of roadway in urgent need of repair. With conditions as they
now are, the money voted by the government is insufficient to keep up
the standard of former years. England now expends more than twice as
much per mile as France, but while the French roads are in danger of
losing to England the supremacy they have so long enjoyed, we cannot
state too clearly that, taken as a whole, they are still the finest on
the Continent. It is probable that the present signs of decadence are
only temporary. The government is fully alive to the needs of the hour.
In all probability the movement headed by President Poincaré more fully
to open up the provinces to motor-tourist travel will have a good effect
upon road conditions.
It would be hard to find a small French city which makes such a pleasant
first impression as Montpellier; there is such an atmosphere of culture.
One does not need to be told that this is a university town. Municipal
affairs seem to be well regulated; the _hôtel de ville_ would do credit
to a much larger city. We discovered an open-air restaurant located upon
an attractive _place_. The _garçon_, after receiving a preliminary
_pourboire_, served us so well that we returned there the next day.
Everybody who visits Montpellier will remember the Promenade de Peyrou
which rises above the town. The scenic display is great. Only a few
miles away, and in clear view, tosses the restless Mediterranean. The
prospect made us realize how far south we had come since the starting of
our tour from Berlin. Another interesting bit of sight-seeing in the
neighborhood is the Jardin des Plantes, a remarkable botanical garden
which was founded as far back as 1593 by Henry IV, and is said to be the
oldest in France.
Whatever the indictment against French roads in the Midi, the stretch
from Montpellier to Carcassonne was above reproach. Much of the way it
was the French highway at its best. Wide-spreading trees arched our
route. We would have been speeding every foot of the distance if the
beautiful scenery had not acted as a constant brake. For a little way we
ran close to the sea. The fresh salt breeze fanned our faces. It was a
rare glimpse of the Mediterranean. This enchanting scene lasted but a
moment, for the road swerved into the great vineyards of the Midi, an
Arcadian land of peace and plenty, the home of a wine industry
celebrated since Roman times. As far as the eye could reach, nothing but
these green waves that billowed and rolled away from either side of the
road. There was a touch of fall in the air, a glint of purple amid the
green. Ripening suns and tender rains had done their work. The road led
through Béziers, bustling center of preparations for the harvest. On
several occasions we passed a wagon loaded with wine casks so large that
three horses with difficulty drew it. The capacity of those huge casks
must have been thousands of gallons.
At Béziers we could have taken the direct route to Toulouse, but then we
would have missed seeing Carcassonne, the most unique architectural
curiosity in France and perhaps in the whole world. Our roundabout
course brought us to Capestang, a scattered peasant village inhabited by
laborers in the vineyards. The luxuries and even the ordinary
conveniences seemed far away from these homes. The shutters consisted of
nothing but a couple of boards bolted or nailed together and clumsily
working on a hinge. It was a region of flies; certainly they had
invaded the little inn where we lunched. A heavy green matting tried
ineffectually to take the place of a screen door, and let in thousands
of unbidden guests. Under these circumstances our lunch was a hasty one.
As the noontide heat was too great to permit a start, we gladly accepted
the invitation of our _hôtesse_ to see the church. The cool interior
induced us to prolong our acquaintance with the sacred relics and to
admire with our guide a statue of St. Peter whose halo had become
somewhat dimmed by the dust of centuries.
The afternoon's ride to Carcassonne was in the face of a strong wind. It
was our first experience with the mistral, a curious and disagreeable
phenomenon of Provençe. There was no let-up to the storms of dust it
swept over us. There were no clouds; simply this incessant wind that
hurled its invisible forces against the car, at times with such violence
that we were almost standing still. A heavy rainstorm would have been
preferable; at least we would not then have been so blinded by the dust.
Occasionally the shelter of the high hills gave a brief respite from
the choking gusts.
All at once we forgot about the wind. In full view from the road was a
hill crowned by the towers and ramparts of a mediæval city, a marvelous
maze of battlements, frowning and formidable as if the enemy were
expected any moment. We rode on to _la ville basse_, the other and more
modern Carcassonne, a little checkerboard of a city with streets running
at right angles and so different from the usual intricate streets of
mediæval origin. Securing rooms at the Grand Hôtel St. Bernard, we
hastened back, lest in the meantime an apparition so mirage-like should
have disappeared. The first view of this silent, fortified city makes
one believe that the imagination has played tricks. There is something
fairy-like and unreal in the vision. It seems impossible that so
majestic a spectacle could have survived the ages in a form so perfect
and complete.
Carcassonne had always been one of our travel dreams. From somewhere
back in high-school days came the memory of a French poem about an old
soldier, a veteran of the Napoleonic wars, who longed to see _la cité_.
One day he started on his pilgrimage, but he was sick and feeble. His
weakness increased, and death overtook him while the journey was still
unfinished. He never saw Carcassonne. Since that time we had wondered
what kind of place it was that had made such an impression upon the
French writers, and induced the French government to make of it a
_monument historique_.
[Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
_The castle and double line of fortifications at Carcassonne_ _Page
103_]
At that moment, as we climbed the hill, the past seemed more real than
the present. We looked for armored knights upon the wall, and listened
for the rattle of weapons, the sharp challenge of the sentry. Crossing
the drawbridge over the deep moat, we were conducted by the _gardien_
along the walls and through the fighting-towers, great masses of masonry
that had known so often the horrors of attack and siege. In this double
belt of fortifications there were sentinel stations and secret tunnels
by which the city was provisioned in time of war. Here, was a wall that
the Romans had built; there, a tower constructed by the Visigoths; and
all so well preserved, as if there were no such thing as the touch of
time or the flight of centuries. Other places, like Avignon, show the
military architecture of the Middle Ages, but it is the work of a single
epoch. The defenses of Carcassonne show all the systems of military
architecture from Roman times to the fourteenth century. Nowhere in the
world can be found such a perfect picture of the military defenses of
the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. The walls and the huge
round towers tell their own thrilling tales of Roman occupation, of
Visigothic triumph, and of conquering Saracen. Then we could understand
why the old French soldier longed to see Carcassonne, and why tourists
from all over the world include the city in their itinerary of places
that must be visited.
From our lofty observation point on the ramparts there was visible a
great range of country, the slender windings of the river Aude, the
foothills of the Pyrenees, and the vague summits of the Cévennes. We
followed a silent grass-grown street to the church of St. Nazaire. It
was beautiful to see the windows of rare Gothic glass in the full glow
of the setting sun. Such burning reds, such brilliant blues and purples!
"_C'est magnifique comme c'est beau._" A French family was standing near
us. Before leaving the church, we looked back. They were still under the
spell of that glory of color.
[Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
_The walled city of Carcassonne_]
There may have been an elevator in the Grand Hôtel St. Bernard, but we
were not successful in locating it. In a general way, this modest
hostelry was of the same type which one finds in most of the small
French cities like Valence and Avignon. We were of course greatly
interested in gathering and comparing impressions of provincial hotel
life. This was particularly interesting in a country like France, where
the provinces with their rural and small-town life represent to such a
marked degree the nation as a whole. It is always an instructive
experience to discover how other countries live, and to compare their
standard of living with our own. The hotel life of any country, if we
keep away from fashionable tourist centers, usually gives an
illuminating insight into the customs of that people. We had often
noticed that the French are indifferent to matters relating to domestic
architecture. So long as the kitchen performs its functions well, so
long as the quality of the cuisine is above criticism, it does not
matter if the rooms are small and gloomy or if the architect forgets to
put a bathroom in the house. The Frenchman likes to dine well. The café
ministers to his social life. But with these important questions settled
to his satisfaction, he is not inclined to be too exacting about his
domestic environment.
If we keep in mind these general observations, it will be easier for us
to understand the defects and advantages of the French provincial hotel.
Most of the hotels where we passed the night would not begin to compare,
in many ways, with the hotels to be found in American towns of the same
size. We noticed a characteristic lack of progressiveness in so many
respects. It was exceptional to find running hot and cold water. The
corridors were narrow and gloomy, the electric light poor for reading.
If there was an elevator, it usually failed to work. Bathing facilities
were on the same primitive scale. The attractions of the writing room
were conspicuous for their absence. In France it is usually the writing
room that suffers most; either it is a gloomy, stuffy chamber, more
fitted to be a closet than a place for correspondence, or else located
with no idea of privacy, and in full view of everyone coming in and
going out. There were no cheerful lounging or smoking rooms. Had it been
winter, the heating facilities would probably have left much to be
desired, and we might often have repeated our experience at the Hôtel
Touvard in Romans. It was January, and very cold. Arriving early in the
afternoon, we found that our rooms had absorbed a large part of the
frigidity of out-of-doors. Complaints were fruitless. We were informed
that it was not the custom of the hotel management to heat the rooms
before seven o'clock in the evening.
In our selection of hotels we followed the advice contained in the
excellent _Michelin Guide_, which has a convenient way of placing two
little gables opposite the names of hotels above the average. While
they were not pretentious, the quality of service was surprisingly good.
We could always get hot water when we wanted it. The _maître de l'hôtel_
was always on the alert to render our stay as comfortable as possible,
and to give us any information to facilitate sight-seeing. Most of the
hotels had electric lights, such as they were; the bedrooms were clean
and comfortable, the cuisine faultless. If it be true that one pays as
high as two francs for a bath, that is because bathing among the French
is more of the nature of a ceremony than a habit. As for the small and
neglected writing room, we must remember that in France the café usurps
that function of the American hotel. This is a national custom. How the
Frenchman lives in his café! Here he comes before lunch for his
_aperitif_, to discuss business or politics, to write letters, to read
the newspapers and play games, to enjoy his _tasse de café_ after lunch,
and in summer to while away the drowsy hours of the early afternoon
while listening to open-air music.
It was pleasant to meet in Carcassonne two American students from
Joliet, Illinois, who were making a long European tour on "Indian" motor
cycles. One of them had received not less than six punctures the
preceding day and was awaiting in Carcassonne the arrival of another
tire. He was beginning to be a little doubtful about the perfect joys of
motor cycling on the French roads. Neither of them spoke French, but
their resourceful American gestures had up to that point extricated them
from situations both humorous and annoying.