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 CHAPTER IV
A VISIT TO LYONS
At Chambéry we interrupted our trip through southern France to visit
Lyons, the center of the silk industry not only for France but for the
entire world. For once, we traveled by train. There is an element of
strain about mountain motoring which is as severe upon driver as
upon car. A diversion is not only welcome but almost necessary to the
motorist who has twice guided his car over the Alps within the short
space of a few days. The exhilaration of looking down into France or
Italy from the summit of the Alps does not lessen the dangers of the
long descent, where for considerable stretches every foot of the way
is crowded with possibilities of accident.
Lyons, while usually overlooked by the vast army of summer tourists,
holds, in many respects, a unique place among the world's great
cities. We would speak of its magnificent location upon two rivers,
the rapid Rhone and the sluggish Saône; of the twenty-seven bridges
that cross them; of the many miles of tree-lined quays, which hold
back the spring floods and offer a lovely promenade to the people.
No one who has seen Lyons will forget how the houses rise in
picturesque confusion, tier piled above tier, to the heights of Fauvière,
where some of the Roman emperors lived centuries ago, and where,
on the site of the old Roman forum, stands a beautiful church,
overlooking the city and embracing one of the views of Europe of
which one never tires. On a clear day the Alps are visible, and the
snows of Mont Blanc, and just outside the city one can see the two
rivers uniting in their sweep to the Mediterranean.
Lyons is a military stronghold. Its prominence as a manufacturing and
railroad center indicates, of course, its great strategic importance.
Seventeen forts guard the hills around the city. The army is much in
evidence. This constant coming and going of the French soldiers
gives much color and animation to the street scenes. Everyone is
impressed by the cuirassiers. They are powerfully built and look so
effective, like real soldiers who could uphold the traditions of
Napoleon's time, and who would feel much more at home on the
battle field than at an afternoon tea. We saw the Zouaves, in their
huge, baggy red pantalons and with their faces tanned by exposure
to the tropical sun of Algeria. Their red caps reminded us of the
Turkish fez.

The Rhone at Lyons Page 65

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
The Place des Terraux, peaceful enough to-day with its busy shops
and clouds of white doves, witnessed many a tragic spectacle of the
French Revolution. The guillotine stood in the center of the square.
Lyons, always royalist in its sympathies, was one of the first cities to
raise the standard of revolt against the excesses of the revolutionists
in Paris. The consequences of this act were fatal and terrible. The
Reign of Terror in Paris was surpassed by the more gruesome reign of
terror in Lyons. An army was sent against the city, which was finally
captured, after a desperate resistance. "Then the convention resolved
to inflict an unheard-of punishment; it ordered the destruction of a
part of the city and the erection on the ruins of a pillar, with the
inscription, 'Lyons waged war with liberty; Lyons is no more.'"[4]
The city was "the scene of perhaps the greatest cruelty of the
Revolution, when women who had begged for mercy to their dear
ones, were tied to the foot of the guillotine and compelled to witness
hours of butchery."[5] It was soon found that the guillotine did not
work fast enough. The defect was quickly remedied. Hundreds of
captives were taken outside the city, where the guns of the
revolutionists continued the slaughter on a larger and more
satisfactory scale.
Possibly the most interesting fact about modern Lyons is its industrial
prominence. Baedeker tells us that the city exports annually over one
hundred million dollars' worth of silk. Its life seems to be founded
upon this one industry. The rich Lyonnais are silk manufacturers. The
museum of silks is the finest thing of its kind in Europe. In the old
part of the city is the statue of Jacquard, the inventor of the silk
loom. As we walked through the narrow streets, there could be heard
the sharp clicking of the shuttles, a sign that the weavers were busy
at their looms. We were shown the "conditioning house," where the
imported raw silk is tested and subjected to a high temperature. This
is the first important step in the manufacture of silk, which in the raw
state absorbs moisture readily. But by exposing the silk to heat at a
temperature of seventy-two to seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit, the
water evaporates and the weight of the silk may then be ascertained.
To prevent fraud it is then marked by a sworn valuer. France raises
very little raw silk, most of it being imported from Japan and China.
Out of a population of nearly half a million, nearly a third is directly
engaged in the production of silk, and the workers in the surrounding
districts would probably number as many more. For a distance of
thirty miles, outside of Lyons, the country is dotted with little houses,
each containing one or more looms. The prosperity of few large cities
is more clearly the result of a single industry.
Americans are especially interested in Lyons for its connection with
the starting of silk manufacturing in the United States. A short time
ago we were shown a letter written in 1863 by an American living in
Lyons. He refers to the excitement created in this district by the
rumor that weavers were being engaged with a view to establishing
silk manufacturing in the United States on a very extensive scale, and
that several companies had been formed and had sent out agents to
purchase in Lyons all the machinery and looms used in the
manufacture of silk. The writer doubted if the conditions in the United
States would make possible the success of the venture. In spite of
this prediction, the industry developed rapidly, so that to-day nine
hundred American manufacturers have a combined annual output
valued at over two hundred million dollars. At the time of the
assassination of Lincoln the United States government received a silk
flag from the weavers of Lyons dedicated to the people of the United
States in memory of Abraham Lincoln. The flag was of the finest
fabric and was inscribed: "Popular subscription to the Republic of the
United States, in memory of Abraham Lincoln. Lyons, 1865."
But while the United States is making more silk than France, Lyons
remains the real center and heart of the industry. American high-
power looms are mostly engaged in turning out, by the mile, a
cheaper kind of silk, and largely confined to standard grades in most
common use. The thread is much coarser. After having lived in Lyons
it is possible to understand why this city continues to be the center of
the silk industry, even when we consider that this is a mechanical
age, and that the inventions of one nation spread quickly to
competing nations. American manufacturers are using the Jacquard
loom, a Lyonnais invention. The first American looms were imported
from Lyons, but one thing which was not bought and imported with
the loom, was that aptitude for handling it which is inborn in the
Lyonnais. Machinery has its limitations, and back of the machine is
the question of efficient labor. The trained hand of the workman is
needed at every turn. The looms of Lyons are famous for their light,
soft, brilliant tissues. The silk thread woven into many of these
beautiful products is so fine that two and one-half million feet of it
would weigh only two and one-fifth pounds.
It is an experience to see the weavers at their work, and to watch the
sure, skillful way in which they weave the thousands of delicate
threads into harmonies of color. Their skill is the heritage that has
come down from father to son. These workmen have a start of many
centuries over their American competitors. Their ancestors were
weaving silk before America was discovered, the industry being
started in Lyons in 1450 by Italian refugees. Traditions count for a
great deal in the silk industry, and from the moment when Lyonnais
weavers gained the Grand Prix from their Venetian rivals, under Louis
XIV, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, their looms were
busy making costly robes and rare tapestries for the royalty of
Europe. In the museum at Lyons is a robe worn by the famous
Catherine II of Russia. One is shown tapestries that adorned the
apartments of Marie Antoinette in the Tuileries at Paris, and the
throne room of Napoleon I in the palace at Versailles. Money could
not buy these precious souvenirs of the Lyonnais looms. Many of the
gorgeous robes worn at the coronation ceremony of George V were
made in Lyons. To-day, as in the past, to make these rich silks and
brocades that France is exporting, there is needed not only the skill
of the worker, but the soul of the artist. This artistic French
temperament is the important and deciding factor that makes Lyons
the center of the silk industry. There has been the attempt to create
in the United States a style which would be distinctly American. It
failed. The German emperor also encouraged efforts to create a style
which would be typically German. The result was the same. The
atmosphere in these countries is too commercial and mechanical for
artistic vitality. In such an environment it is said that the French
weavers who are employed in American silk factories become less
effective, and lose much of their artistic originality. The industrial
pace is too fast. The cost of labor in the United States is so great that
the emphasis has to be placed on speed and quantity in order to
cover the cost of production. But in Lyons, with a cheaper labor cost,
the organization of hand and power looms is so perfect that a
manufacturer is able to fill large orders readily.
A superior loom organization, combined with a temperament
naturally artistic and creative, explains the advantage of the Lyonnais
manufacturer over his American rival, and why it is that American
buyers for our large department stores come to Lyons twice a year to
select designs and place orders with the Lyonnais manufacturers.
Department stores which cater to the wealthiest class of trade have
their representatives permanently stationed here to keep in closest
possible touch with the latest French fashions.
This question of style is of such absorbing interest to the average
American home that it will be worth while to notice the forces at work
in Lyons to produce it. Paris is so largely the parade ground for new
fashions that nearly everyone overlooks the tremendous influence of
Lyons in the creation of styles. The hundred and more silk
manufacturers of Lyons have their own designers, who are constantly
devising new patterns and color combinations. Most of the new
designs and color schemes that appear every season in muslins,
taffetas, satins, in all the varied kinds and qualities of silk, have their
origin here. This is the creative source. It is Paris that discriminates
and decides to which of these new patterns it will give expression in
the models which will be copied in all the fashion centers of the
world. Paris has the artistic sense of knowing how to combine the
materials that Lyons furnishes. The two cities work together. The
famous fashion stores of Paris and the silk manufacturers of Lyons
are the primary factors in the creation of styles, and yet, after all, the
origin of style is to be found in the spirit of the times. Our restless
age craves constant change. A century ago in France, when life
moved more slowly, the silk dress was an important part of the
bride's trousseau, and after being worn on special occasions through
her life, was handed down to the next generation. But to-day the
styles change with the seasons.
And as they change in Paris so they change in the United States. If
we look at this question of style simply from the standpoint of
organization, it seems remarkable how perfectly every little detail of
the complicated machinery has been worked out. A French silk
manufacturer, who arrived in Lyons after a visit to several American
cities, was impressed not only with the rapidity with which styles
spread from the upper to the middle classes, and the quickness with
which the American people grasp new ideas of dress, but also with
the fact that Paris fashions appear in New York and Chicago at almost
the same time that they appear in Paris. He saw accurate
reproductions of the spring Paris fashions, made in America of French
materials, and with the color, the line, the idea, the detail, so
perfectly reproduced that it would have been difficult to decide
between them and the Paris garment. More and more we are coming
to realize our great debt to France, and to the Old World, for our
education in matters of taste, for our appreciation of beauty in line
and color.
And in Lyons one comes closest to this artistic spirit in the workshops
of the weavers, and especially those who work on the hand looms.
There are thousands of these weavers of the old school that has
done so much to make famous the silk industry of the city. Their
wages are small and they work amid surroundings of extreme
poverty. We visited some of them in their shops. Often we found the
loom situated in a damp, gloomy basement, or on the top floor of
some old house that looked as though it might have passed through
the storm and stress of the period of the French Revolution. These
sanitary conditions are so bad that in 1911 there was organized a
charitable company with the sole purpose of providing decent
lodgings where the weavers could work under improved conditions of
light and shade. We always found them hospitable, eager to exhibit
their work and explain the workings of the loom. In one workshop
the weaver was busy with a piece of satin, the design being wrought
in silver and gold. For this beautiful bit of tapestry, which had been
ordered for one of the apartments of the Queen of England in
Windsor Castle, the workman was receiving only one dollar a day. On
another loom there was being reproduced a piece of sixteenth-
century brocade. A French millionaire had noticed the original in a
museum and wanted an exact reproduction of it for a new château
he is building. After a morning passed amid such scenes, you feel
that Lyons is worth visiting, if for no other reason than to see at their
work these artists of the loom who are so closely associated with one
of the world's oldest and most interesting industries.
 CHAPTER V
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.

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
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.
 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.
 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.
 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.
 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.
 CHAPTER VI
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.
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.
 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
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