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XI THE RHONE AND THE
SOUTH FOR its length the Rhone is probably the most rapid river in the world. Until near the very end its roily haste is unceasing. From Lyons, southward, it is easily navigable for good-sized vessels, but the current is so swift that the voyage upstream is attended with considerable difficulty and is at times well-nigh impracticable. The river
rises in
the Swiss Alps and enters Lake Geneva stained with glacier mud. But in
passing
through the tranquil fifty miles of the lake all sediment sinks to the
bottom,
and at the lower end the water is celebrated for its clearness and for
its
wonderful tinge of blue. When I looked down into it from the Geneva
wharves it
seemed like fine glass without a flaw, and everything at the bottom was
perfectly distinct. The Rhone leaves the lake as pure and pellucid as
crystal,
but it so continues for only about a mile. Then the Arve joins it,
bringing the
glacier washings from the valley of Chamonix. It is an interesting
sight to
see the streams come together, one turbid and gray, the other blue as
the sky.
For a long distance they struggle together, boiling and whirling, the
line of
demarkation swaying this way and that, and continuing for some time
quite
distinct; but in the end the stain of the Alpine rocks penetrates the
water
from shore to shore, and the stream never loses that hue of muddy gray
until it
reaches the Mediterranean. Below
Avignon the
river passes through a broad arid tract, and the banks are low and
swampy; but
the scenery of the upper and middle courses is varied and interesting,
and,
with its luxuriant southern vegetation, is often exceptionally
beautiful. At
least, that was the impression it made on me when I journeyed down the
Rhone
valley by train from Lyons one Sunday morning. Much of the way we were
moving
between high, steep hillsides which now and then were crowned with
ruined
castles, the old-time homes of the robber barons of the middle ages.
Where the
slopes descended too sharply to hold cultivated soil they were
buttressed all
over with stone walls and converted into a succession of narrow
terraces. On
all the hillsides, whether terraced or not, were grape-vines, green and
spreading in the heat of early summer. The
peasantry of
the upper valley of the Rhone had only recently begun their haying, but
as we
proceeded southward we gradually entered a region where the season and
the farm
work were much more advanced. The wheat changed color, passing from
fresh green
in the north through all stages of yellowing and ripening till there
began to
be fields cut, and frequent groups of harvesters were reaping others.
In spite
of its being Sunday I could not see but that just as much work was
going
forward as if it had been a week day. Small fields were the rule, and
the
harvesting was nearly always done by hand. The women did much of the
raking
into bundles and the binding, and, in several instances, I noticed
women
gleaning—going through the stubble and picking up stray ears, one or
two at a
time. Toward
noon I
reached Avignon, an old town with a mediæval wall girding it round
about. At
frequent intervals in the wall are towers, each designed to be a little
fortress of defence against invaders, but now long vacant and unused.
The
streets are crooked and narrow, and many of them are paved with rounded
cobblestones that are far from adding to the comfort of the pedestrian.
In the
midst of the town, on a hill overlooking the Rhone, is a great gray
building
that has the appearance of a castle, but which in reality is a one-time
palace
of the popes. For about seventy-five years in the fourteenth century,
at a
period when Rome was an undesirable dwelling-place by reason of Italian
civil
wars, the popes made Avignon their imperial city. Of late the old
palace has
been an army barracks, and soldiers in martial red and blue are always
to be
seen in the vicinity. The
streets and
public squares, as I rambled through them that Sunday midday, were full
of
people, and the cafés were noisy with conviviality. In the chief
square, before
the town's most swell restaurant, a concert was in progress in which
several
women violinists took a prominent part. All such resorts had little
tables set
out in front of them on the walks, and, sometimes, these with their
occupants
encroached so far that passers had to take to the street. Sidewalk
lunching
was not a local peculiarity. It is found in French towns and villages
everywhere, and the men especially seem to take pleasure in being on
the public
thoroughfares, seated in the shadow of the café building or of its
awning,
there to see the world go by and give the world the pleasure of seeing
them as
they leisurely sip their wines and smoke their cigars and cigarettes. I soon had
enough
of the confusion and noise of the town, and went outside the walls for
a walk
along the river; but the change was not altogether a success, for the
sun
glared painfully on the white roadways, and a gusty wind was blowing
that
showed remarkable facility in lifting off my straw hat and spinning it
along
the ground. The river repelled rather than attracted. It had neither
the charm
of a clear mountain torrent with foaming falls and dusky pools, nor of
a
lowland stream with reaches of quiet and repose. Here, as in nearly all
its course,
it was muddy and hurried, like a river in flood, and you felt that in
this rush
of dark water seaward there was something sinister and fateful. You
would not
think its grimy current could be congenial to life of the finny kind,
yet all
along the town borders men were fishing. Possibly they may have been
impelled
simply by a sportsman's instinct that must be gratified, independent
of
results— for I did not see them catch anything. There were also women
by the
waterside engaged in washing clothes. I do not see how they could
expect to get
them clean in such water, but all over France the women have a mania
for doing
their washing in the streams and ponds, and the quality of the water,
whether
it be clear, muddy, or stagnant, seems to be of no consequence. My stay in
Avignon
was short, nor did I pause long anywhere in the southeast. The
impression I got
of the country was not such as to make me wish to linger. The low hills
appeared parched and tropical, the towns sunburned and bare. Olive
orchards were
frequent, but their gray-green foliage looked dusty and suggestive of
prolonged
heat, while the trees themselves were curiously twisted, and were
seemingly
stunted and very old. The landscape's only touch of coolness was in the
emerald
verdure of the vineyards, which in most regions abounded. The
weather, truly,
was very hot, and the low, oven-like railway carriages were stifling;
and they
were the less bearable because my companions were almost certain to
relieve
the tedium of the journey by smoking. A Frenchman travelling by rail is
never
long content unless he has a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his
mouth.
He is not at all bashful about it, but smokes as freely in non-smoking
apartments as in any others. Nor did I ever notice that the presence of
ladies
made any difference. The smokers take it for granted that the aroma of
the
nicotine is to the feminine liking, and the Frenchman's proverbial
politeness
never impels him to inquire whether or not his cigarette is offensive.
In one
instance a young man who was riding in my apartment, accompanied by two
young
women, shared his cigarettes with his companions. They were
an
intelligent and fairly well-looking trio, constantly engaged in lively
and
demonstrative chatter. The gentleman divided his attentions impartially
between
the two ladies and showed his appreciation of their charms by the
occasional
bestowal of caresses and kisses. But the climax was the offer of
cigarettes.
Each of the three took one, the man scratched a match and started his,
and then
offered the burning end to his fair companions, who from that lighted
theirs.
The women puffed as expertly as the man, and they exhaled the smoke and
poked
the ashes off with their little fingers in a manner that seemed to me
quite
scientific. That, I
suppose,
was fast life. For an example of what would be popularly esteemed a
more vulgar
use of tobacco on the part of my fellow-travellers I might cite an old
man and
old Woman who got on the train together at Avignon. The old woman was
the possessor
of a snuff box which she pulled out every little while and passed to
the man.
He took a pinch and she took a pinch, and then they coughed and blew
their
noses in unison as if the effect was more irritable than grateful; but
that
could hardly have been the case or they would not have resorted to the
snuff-box so frequently. The
strangest of
all the companions I had on my southern trip were two monks — great,
stout,
full-bearded fellows who looked as if manual labor and hearty living
were more
in their line than religious contemplation, solitude, and self-denial.
They
wore black skull-caps, brown gowns corded about the waist, and had
sandals on
their stockingless feet. Each carried a Bible and a long string of
wooden
prayer-beads. They were as unlike the life of the world to-day as if
they had
stepped out of some dim and ancient past after a magic sleep of
centuries. I
watched them with a kind of fascination as they sat in opposite corners
at the
other end of my apartment. They opened their Bibles and dropped off
into a
drowsy quiet, reading a little now and then, and telling over their
beads with
moving lips. I wondered if the rumble and clatter of the train speeding
along
over the iron rails was not disturbing to their fossilized and mossy
meditations. One of the
sights
that I had from the car window seemed part and parcel of the same
ancient life
represented by these monks. It was a glimpse of old Carcassonne. The
railway
passes through the new town of like name, but the old town was in full
view on
a slope opposite, as perfect in its mediævalism as if it had been
purposely
preserved for us. There was its citadel, and there was its double line
of
fortifications including no less than fifty round towers — and the
whole
scarcely altered since the days when battles were fought by main
strength
without the aid of gunpowder. Probably no other town in the world gives
so true
an impression of what the walled villages of the middle ages were like.
Another
curious
memory of the south has to do with the coast town of Cette where I
broke my
journey and staid over night. I had the greatest trouble in getting to
sleep
after I retired, for my room seemed to be full of mosquitoes. The
creatures had
musical wings that played the old familiar airs I had heard too many
times in
America to be mistaken about them, only these European mosquitoes did
not bite.
That was the mystery! If I once got used to them I do not think they
would be
particularly troublesome, but habit was too strong, and when they
buzzed into
my vicinity I could not help slapping at them. Half the night was gone
before
slumber put an end to the warfare. At Cette and other points along the coast I had a chance to see the Mediterranean, and I thought its limpid and beautiful blue waters merited all the good things said of them. But the southern sky did not impress me as being specially different from any other skies; and at sunset the west was painted with the same tints I knew at home in New England. A VINEYARD I kept on
westward
after leaving Cette and stopped next at Toulouse, where I saw something
of the
country around the city and of the peasantry working in the fields —
men and
women hoeing onions, harvesting grain, etc., but the only thing new and
different from what I had seen before was the well-sweeps that were
common all
through the town outskirts. Every yard had one, and their poles were
sticking
up whichever way I looked. When I resumed my journey, a few hours' travelling took me out of the parched lands of the southeast into a region really beautiful. The landscape began to heave into hills, and as I proceeded the hills grew constantly larger. They were pleasantly wooded, too, and among the other trees on the slopes were many sturdy chestnuts crowded with tasselled bloom. At length the noble range of the Pyrenees came into view, its lofty blue heights rising ridge on ridge till the summits of those in the haziest distance were crested with snow; and there, on the border-lands of Spain, my journey, so far as it has to do with the more characteristic phases of the south, was at an end. |