Russell Richardson

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.

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.

The ancient Roman theater at Orange Page 88

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.