CHAPTER IXA DAY IN SPAIN

The Grande Plage at BiarritzCopyright by Underwood & Underwood

The Grande Plage at Biarritz

On one of these occasions we saw the young King of Spain stop his Spanish car before one of the stores. He was bareheaded, and was driving his own car. One of his officers sat with him. The king is a keen sportsman, and motoring is one of his favorite diversions. Under the reign of this popular and aggressive young monarch there ought to be great progress in the improvement of the Spanish roads and in the opening of Spain's scenic wealth to the tourist world. Toward the close of the afternoon every one went to the beautiful casino to enjoy the concert andune tasse de thé, and then later in the evening to watch the brilliant spectacle of dress and gayety.

The interesting places around Biarritz are part of its attraction. If we had stayed there for months, there could have been an excursionfor each day. Placed beside the ocean, at the foot of the Pyrenees, close to the Spanish frontier and amid the fascinating Basque country where the people have retained all their primitive ways and quaint dress, Biarritz makes an ideal center for one-day trips. The excursion which we enjoyed most was to the Spanish resort of San Sebastian, a modern seaside town where the king and queen pass the summer in their splendid Villa Miramar.

There is always a thrill about motoring for the first time in a new country. We had long looked forward to crossing the Spanish frontier and visiting the summer capital of King Alfonso XIII. It was a ride of about thirty miles, far too short for one of the most interesting sweeps of country to be found anywhere in Europe.

There was plenty of variety. This Basque country, forming a triangular corner of northern Spain and reaching over into France, is full of it. The people speak a dialect which is as much a puzzle to Spanish as to French. Until less than half a century ago, they had retained their independence. Proud of their history, and claiming to be the oldest race in Europe, they still cling to their language and hold to their ancient customs, their dances, songs, and pastoral plays. In this region of valleys and mountains we were always within sight or sound of the sea, the road approaching a smooth, white beachwashed with foam, or sinking into a quiet valley drowsy with the faint monotone of the waves.

A few miles before reaching Spain is the old seaside town of St. Jean-de-Luz, once the winter headquarters of Wellington and now buried in the shade of its venerable trees. The life in this little village of only four thousand people was not always so simple as it is now. Louis XIV was a frequent visitor, with his courtiers. One can see the château where the "Grand Monarque" lodged at the time of his marriage to the Infanta Marie Thérèse of Spain on June 9, 1660. Another page from this gorgeous period is the church of St. Jean Baptiste, where the ceremony took place. Following the Basque custom, the upper galleries are reserved for the men, while the area below is reserved for the women.

On reaching the Franco-Spanish frontier village of Béhobie a French officer appeared and, after he had entered the necessary details in his book, allowed us to cross the bridge over the Bidassoa River into Spain. This part of the town is called Béhobeia. It is a unique arrangement, this administration of what is practically one and the same town bytwo different countries. Yet the difference between Béhobie and Béhobeia is as great as the difference between France and Spain. The houses across the river began to display the most lively colors. It would have been hard to say whether browns, pinks, blues, or greens predominated. Some of the people wore blue shoes. Red caps were the style for cab drivers. Of course we looked around for some of our "castles in Spain," but saw instead the Spanish customhouse. An official came out, modestly arrayed in more than Solomon's glory. He wore red trousers, yellow hose, and blue shoes, and looked as though in more prosperous days he might have been amatador. We had forgotten to bring along a fluent supply of Spanish. The oversight caused us no inconvenience. French is sufficient to carry one through any matter of official red tape.

One hears many reports about the difficulty of passing the Spanish customhouse, the severity of the examination, of the long delays. At our hotel in Biarritz they told us that the only safe way would be to pay eight francs to a private company on the French side of the frontier, andthat with thepassavantso obtained, together with ourtriptyque, we would not only secure prompt service but also make this company responsible for our safety while in Spain. So much solicitude made us wonder just what percentage of our eight francs would be received by this hotel proprietor, so we decided to cross the frontier without the much advisedpassavant.

These warnings proved to be exaggerated. The delay was not greater than it would have been in France or Germany. Thedouanierswere, nevertheless, keenly alert to prevent the smuggling of motor supplies for purposes of sale in Spain. These articles are much more expensive in Spain than elsewhere in Europe. The number of our tires was noted, so that the officials could make sure that we carried the same number of tires out of the country. Another arrangement, new to us, was the method of ascertaining how much the gasoline duty would be. The amount of gasoline in the tank was calculated by depth only and not by capacity.

A hundred fascinating scenes of Spanish country life attracted our attention. Peasantwomen, evidently returning from market, bestraddled patient little donkeys, or walked, balancing on their heads burdens of various kinds. One of them carried a baby under one arm, a pail filled with wine bottles under the other, and all the time preserved with her head the equilibrium of a basket piled several stories high with household articles. We would not have been greatly surprised to see another baby tucked away somewhere in the top story. These peasant types looked bent and worn, their wrinkled faces old from drudging toil in the fields; they fitted in perfectly with the dilapidated farmhouses. The country was fertile, with vineyards and cornfields, but a prosperity in such contrast with the wretched homes of the people. Little donkeys strained in front of heavily loaded wagons that would have taxed the strength of a large horse. The ox carts were curious creations, the wheels being without spokes, as though made from a single piece of flat board. The small chimneys on the houses resembled those which we had seen in Italy. We did not see a single plow, not even a wooden one; the peasants of the Basque country useinstead thelaga, or digging fork, an implement shaped like the letter "h."

The ox-carts were curious creationsCopyright by Underwood & Underwood

The ox-carts were curious creations

San Sebastian is a clean, fresh-looking city, a place essentially, almost exaggeratedly, Spanish, with all that gayety and vivid architecture which one naturally expects to see in a place patronized by the royal court. It was hopeless to think of finding a place for our car in any garage. They were all full. This was the day of the bull fight. From different parts of Spain, as well as from France, motorists had swarmed in to see thematadorsshow their skill and daring. In Spain the people divert themselves at the bull fight very much as we would go to see a baseball game. We saw motor cars stationed in long files in the streets.

Leaving our car to stand in the rear of one of these imposing lines, we strolled down a bright, picturesque street to the Concha. Just as La Grande Plage represents Biarritz, so the Concha represents San Sebastian. "Concha" suggests a bay shaped like a shell. The word exactly describes the beautiful body of water around which the city is built. Through the narrow channel we could see the waves roll in,contracted at first, then widening as they sweep down the bay to break on the long, curving stretch of yellow sand. From the Concha we could see the white walls of the royal Villa Miramar. The fortress La Mota guarded from its high elevation the narrow entrance to the harbor. We walked along the Paseo de la Concha, in the dense shade of tamarisk trees which nearly encircled the bay. Sitting in chairs under the trees were Spanish girls, their dark eyes glowing through their black lace veils. The scene was full of color, completely Spanish, the green of the tamarisks shining between the golden sands and the white villas which edged the water. We watched the bathers, haughty dons from Madrid and peasants from Aragon, for the moment on a level in the joyous democracy of the surf.

After lunching at the Continental Hotel, fronting on the Concha, we turned our steps in the direction of the amphitheater, where the bull fight was to take place. The tickets cost twelvepesetas(about $2.40) apiece. It was not with any anticipation of pleasure that we decided to watch the Spaniards engage in theirnational sport. The bull fight is a combination of a scene from the Chicago stockyards and from an ancient Roman arena. It is a succession of shivers and thrills, from the first blast of the trumpet announcing the entry of thetoreadorsto the finalestocade, when the last bull falls dying upon the bloody sand. Few of thetoreadorsdie a natural death. Connected with the large amphitheater is the operating room, where the wounded fighters can receive prompt treatment. We were told that it is customary for them to receive the sacrament before entering into the arena. Their coolness and dexterity in sidestepping the mad rushes of the bull are wonderful. But the moment comes when the bull is unexpectedly quick, when the foot slips just a little, or when the eye misjudges the precious fraction of an inch which may mean life or death. We noticed at regular intervals, around the arena, wooden barriers, placed just far enough from the main encircling barrier to let the hard-pressedtoreadorslip in, when there was no time to vault.

These exhibitions take place all over Spain, and in San Sebastian at least once a week.There is keen rivalry between Spanish cities over the skill of theirtoreadors. Bull fighting is not on the decline. The city of Cordova has just started a school for the training of professional bull fighters.

When we arrived the amphitheater was crowded to the highest tier of seats. The vast crowd, impatient, whistled and shouted. Attendants passed among the spectators, selling Spanish fans painted with bull-fight scenes. The large orchestra was playing. Suddenly, above the music and the noise of the crowds, sounded the piercing blast of a trumpet. The music ceased. The crowd became silent, then cheered and clapped as doors swung open and two horsemen dashed out and made the tour of the arena. They were followed by a procession oftoreadors,picadores, andbanderilleros, with their attendants. Thepicadoreswere armed with long pikes with which to enrage the bull. They were mounted on wretched skeletons of so-called horses, with one eye blindfolded. Six bulls were to battle with their tormentors before finally falling, pierced by thetoreador'ssword. Three or four horses are usually killed by eachbull. Thebanderillerosappear in the second phase of the struggle, after the horses have been killed. They are on foot. Their work is to face the bull, infuriated by the pikes of thepicadores, and to plant in his neck several darts, each over two feet long and decorated with ribbons. Thetoreadorcomes on the scene the last of all, when the bull, though tired, is still dangerous. It would be a mistake to imagine that the bulls are spiritless, or have been so starved that they are weak, without strength, energy, and courage. These animals that we saw leap into the arena were all specially bred Andalusian bulls, the very picture of strength and wild ferocity.

We have no desire to describe in detail the barbarous spectacle which followed. In front of us sat an American couple. It was the lady's first bull fight, and when the moment was critical, the scene a gory confusion of bull, horses, andpicadores, she would scream and hide her face behind her fan. In contrast, were the Spanish girls seated around us. Their faces were whitened more by powder than by emotion. They would languidly move embroideredfans, or wave them with gentle enthusiasm when thebanderilleroplanted a daring dart or thetoreadorthrust home the death stroke.

There was one moment in that exhibition, however, when even their hardened indifference to suffering was touched. One of thebanderillerosplanted his dart in the neck of the bull, but slipped while trying to get away from the enraged beast. There was a cry of horror, a groan of pity from the crowd as the great armed head lifted its victim and hurled him thirty feet through the air. The man struck heavily on the sand, moved a little, and then lay motionless. There was no shouting at that moment. An agony of suspense pervaded the amphitheater. But the bull was given no opportunity to follow up his attack; atoreadorwaved a red cape before his eyes; another dart was planted in his neck. He turned savagely to face and charge on his new assailants, who nimbly avoided his rush. The wounded man was carried from the arena. The enthusiasm and cheers of the crowd were unbounded when he revived and struggled with the attendants to get back into the arena.

The death strokeCopyright by Underwood & Underwood

The death stroke

After all, human nature has changed but little under these southern skies, so that what the plebeian sought in the gladiatorial combats of the amphitheater, the Spaniard or Frenchman of to-day seeks and finds in the bloody scenes of thecourse de tauraux.

We left early to get a start of the rush of motor cars for the French frontier, but others had done the same thing, so that by the time the Spanish authorities had stamped oursortie definitive, we found the international bridge filled with cars, all impatiently waiting to take their turn at the Frenchdouane. Then amid a whirl of dust and a blowing of horns, car after car leaped for the homeward flight. Ahead of us and behind us, cars of every make, motor horns of every variety. The dust fog was continuous. Every one seemed racing to get out of it. It was a likely place for an accident. There was the wind-smothered shriek of a horn as a French racer shot by to lead the exciting procession. Farther ahead, the road turned sharply, and we stopped to find thirty or forty cars held up at a railway crossing. One of them was the French racer; officers weretaking her number. It was growing dark, and we lighted our lamps. Looking back from the summit of a long hill, we could see the lights of other cars swiftly ascending around the curves. The wind was rising. Through the twilight came the dull roaring of heavy surf. A revolving beacon light, appearing and then disappearing, announced that we were once more in Biarritz.

Our three days in Biarritz had grown to three short weeks before we were able to break the spell of the alluring Grande Plage and shape our course in a northeasterly direction, along the foothills of the Pyrenees, through the picturesque regions of Périgord and Limousin to Tours and the châteaux country. Bayonne, the fortress city, looked peaceful enough with its tapering cathedral spires rising above the great earthen ramparts, now grass-grown and long disused to war. Not far from Bayonne the road forked; we were in doubt whether to continue straight on or to turn to the left. A group of workingmen near by ceased their toil as we drew near to ask for information. The answer to our question was very different from what we expected. One of them approached the car, brandishing a scythe in a manner more hostile than friendly, and asked if we were Germans. This question concerning our nationality came with all the forceof a threat. The restless scythe cut a nearer airy swath. He had recognized the German make of our car, and was convinced that we belonged to the hatednation allemande. A German motor car is not the safest kind of an introduction to these French peasants, especially when thevin du payshas circulated freely. If appearances counted for anything, this particular peasant was quite inclined to use his scythe for more warlike purposes than those for which it was originally intended. But his companions, more peaceably disposed, seizing him, drew him back from the car and gave us, although reluctantly, the necessary information.

It was not our first experience of this kind. In France there is a strong sentiment against Germany. Our German car was often the target for unfriendly observation. This fierce ill feeling appears to be increasing. Never since the war of 1870 has there been such a period of military activity in the two countries. Germany is raising her army to a total of nearly nine hundred thousand men, at an initial cost of two hundred and fifty million dollars, and a subsequent annual cost of fifty milliondollars. France has decided to meet these warlike preparations by keeping under the colors for another year the soldiers whose term of service would have expired last fall. This measure adds about two hundred thousand soldiers to the fighting strength of the French army. This increase of armament involves necessarily the admission of the increase of suspicion and antagonism.

At such a time of tension and suspense it was for us a rare privilege to motor through the French provinces, to stop in the small towns and villages and to hear from the lips of the people themselves an expression of their attitude toward Germany. Rural France is conservative; opinions and ideas form slowly, yet there can be no doubt but that their views represent the sentiment of the French nation which is so largely agricultural. No feature of our long tour through France was more instructive than this opportunity to study at first hand the influences at work to widen the gulf between the two nations. We conversed with soldiers, officers, peasants in the fields, and casual French acquaintanceswhom we met in the cafés and hotels. Every one admitted the gravity of the situation, and said that nothing short of the actual shadow of German invasion could have induced France to submit to the tremendous sacrifices incident to the large increase of the army.

The enthusiasm with which France has consented to the enormous sacrifices entailed by increasing the army on so large a scale shows how widespread is the impression of impending conflict. France realizes that there is only one way to prevent war, and that is to be so strong that Germany will hesitate to take the fatal step. There have been past menaces of invasion, and while it is true that Germany has not made war for over forty years, she has repeatedly threatened it. William I and Moltke wanted to attack France in 1874 and again in 1875, before she had recovered from the effects of 1870, to make it impossible for her again to become a power of the first rank. Russia and England supported France; Germany drew back to wait for another chance. Professor Lamprecht, the great German historian, regrets that Germanydid not hurl her armies against France at that time. In the Delcassé crisis of 1905 France was again threatened. We know now that the Morocco negotiations between France and Germany in 1911 kept Europe on the verge of war for months.

This movement toward a more vigorous expression of French national spirit, while gathering strength for the last ten years, actually dates from the sending of the gunboatPantherto Agadir in 1911. This was the igniting spark. It was in that moment that the French nation found itself. The generation that lived through and followed the disastrous war of 1870 was saddened and subdued. There was little of that spirit of national self-confidence; politics played a larger role than patriotism. But now a new generation is to the front. Young France is coming into power, and the result is a rebirth of self-confidence and aggressiveness along patriotic lines. It will no longer be possible for Germany to be successful in a policy of intimidation against France, as she was in the Congress of Berlin in 1878. The new France is toopatriotic, too proud, too conscious of her own strength, to concede to any unreasonable demand for economic compensation that Germany or Austria might make.

If there were no other reason for possibility of war, the internal situation in Germany itself would be enough to place France on her guard. In spite of Germany's industrial progress, the struggle of the masses for bread is nowhere more bitter. The intense competition in the markets of the world, the necessity of paying interest on borrowed capital, the fact of a vast and rapidly increasing population—all this spells low wages in a country where taxes are high and where the burdens of armament are fast becoming unbearable. Such conditions make for socialism. Already the socialists form the most powerful party in the Reichstag. The Kaiser wishes peace, but he is, above all, a believer in monarchical institutions. If socialism continues to spread with its present rapidity, no one doubts that he would stake Germany's supremacy in a foreign war in order to unite the nation around him and to divert the people from their strugglefor a more democratic form of government. A successful war with France would not only mean rich provinces, a big war indemnity, but it would also mean a new prestige for the Hohenzollern government, sufficient to carry it through the socialistic perils of another generation.

In view of these facts, it is not surprising that the French nation considers a conflict inevitable, and especially when they see the Kaiser appealing to his already overtaxed and discontented people to make a supreme sacrifice. With Germany the question is one of economic existence. She can feed her population for only a fraction of a year. More and more she finds herself dependent upon rival nations for foodstuffs and raw materials. She has built up great steel and iron industries, but the supply of ore in the province of Silesia will be exhausted, at the present rate of consumption, in about twenty-five years. Germany will then be totally dependent upon France, Spain, and Sweden for iron ore. But France has an eighty per cent superiority over Spain and Sweden in her supply of this material.Her richest mines are situated in Basse-Lorraine, hardly more than a cannon shot from the German frontier. By the conquest of a few miles in Lorraine, she would secure enough iron ore to supply her iron and steel industries for centuries. A suggestive commentary upon Germany's aggressive plans may be noted in the German atlas of Steiler. It writes the names of different countries and their cities in the spelling of each country. The French cities and provinces are written in French, with the exception of provinces of Basse-Lorraine, Franche-Comté, and Bourgogne. These are written in German.

Another force in Germany making for war is the Pan-German League. This is the war party of the armor-plate factories of the officers of the army and navy, of a large part of the German press, of the Crown Prince, of many who have intimate relations with the Kaiser. The spectacular demonstrations of the Crown Prince in the Reichstag against the too peaceful policy of the Chancellor at the time of the Morocco negotiations, the sending of thePantherto Agadir, the enormousincrease of the army and navy in recent years, the arbitrary suppression of French influence in Alsace-Lorraine, have all been the fruits of its efforts. There can be no question of the tremendous power of this organization which is so close to the heart of the Crown Prince. If the Kaiser should die to-morrow, France might well have reason to distrust the warlike and impulsive young ruler who would ascend the Hohenzollern throne. The Crown Prince has recently written a book calledGermany in Arms. Its warlike fervor shows how little he is in sympathy with the emperor's loyalty to peace. What makes the influence of the Crown Prince all the more dangerous is the great discontent to-day in Germany with the government's foreign policy "of spending hundreds of millions upon a fruitless and pacific imperialism."

Added to all these influences which are straining the relations between France and Germany, is the question of Alsace-Lorraine, for more than two centuries a French province and ceded to Germany after the Franco-Prussian War as a part of the price of peace.It is now a generation and more that Germany has tried to assimilate the province, but with so little success that to-day the people persist more than ever in their sympathy with French culture and their hostility toward Germany. There has been immigration; probably two fifths of the population are Germans, but the two peoples do not mix. The silent struggle between two civilizations goes on. The reason for the failure of German government in Alsace-Lorraine is due to its refusal to recognize this dual civilization. Alsace is largely French in sympathy; but instead of letting the people cling to their local customs, Germany has tried to make them think and speak German, and adopt the German ways. Instead of enjoying an equality with the other states in the regulation of local affairs, the province is treated as a vassal state, the governor being responsible to the Kaiser. Naturally such a system of government means the continual clash of the two nationalities. The teaching of French and French history has been almost suppressed in the schools, and the younger generation compelled to learn German. "Butthey are French at heart, and after leaving school return again to the traditions of their family. After forty years, no music stirs them like theMarseillaise." It is said that the little Alsatian schoolboys, when on a trip to the frontier, decorate their hats and buttonholes with the French colors. No one can be long in Strassburg without realizing the futility of Germany's campaign against French influence. It is true that there is a certain veneer of German civilization; the policemen wear the same uniform as the Berlin police; German names appear over the principal shops; but in the stores and cafés one hears the middle-class Alsatians speaking French; French clothes, French customs prevail. In a word, the people, without French support, have gradually become more French in feeling and in culture than at the moment of annexation. One effect of this struggle against Germany's brutal and arbitrary policy has been to start a strong undercurrent of sympathy in France. In many of the French towns one sees Alsace postcards in the store windows. The picture on one card was a reproduction of a French painting. A soldier appears on thelookout in a forest. Not far away is a captive bound to a tree. He is watching with expectant joy the coming of the soldier. One can easily guess that the captive is Alsace, the soldier, France. We might also speak of the petty annoyances practiced by the German authorities in Alsace upon any one suspected of French sympathy. Sporting clubs have been dissolved. One reads of French sportsmen who have been refused permission to rent "shootings." The most recent measure of oppression gives the governor of the province absolute power to suppress all French newspapers, as well as all societies supposed to favor French culture.

This is only a part of the evidence at hand, which gives the impartial observer reason to believe that the friction of nationalities in Alsace is the prelude to the larger and more terrible struggle to-day is regarded in France as inevitable. At the School of Political Science in the sorbonne at Paris, where the superiority of German methods used to be accepted without question, it is said the professors can now hardly mention them, for fear of hostile demonstrations.

This question of Franco-German relations has already overshadowed Europe. All attempts to promote a more friendly understanding have been fruitless. Even though the present tension be only temporary, it is very doubtful if there can be any approach to better relations until Germany has solved the question of Alsace-Lorraine, abandoning her policy of rough-shod assimilation, recognizing the existence of a dual civilization, granting autonomy of local affairs, and welcoming the province, on an equal footing with the other German states, to the brotherhood of the empire. With this source of discord removed, Alsace-Lorraine might become a bond instead of a barrier between France and Germany. Such a solution, however remote, would be an important step toward a more auspicious era of friendly feeling, of good faith. Unfortunately, the Kaiser is opposed to this conciliatory policy. The fact that Alsace-Lorraine belongs to the empire as a whole, and is therefore a bond of unity between the German states, makes him unwilling to disturb the present arrangement and to recognize anything approaching a dual government in Alsace-Lorraine.

In the light of the above facts, our encounter with the French peasant was of deep significance. We could see behind it the forces—economic, political, and sentimental—that are at work to divide France and Germany. Naturally, we were on the lookout for any incident of this kind which would give us a clearer view of the great question which is placing such terrible burdens upon the two countries.

We shall not easily forget our experience in one French town. It was Sunday evening, and the street was crowded with peasants and artisans. One of us had stuck in his hat a Swiss feather, such as is commonly worn in the Tyrol of southern Germany. He purchased a French newspaper, and after glancing through it, dropped it in the gutter. This harmless act very nearly involved us in serious trouble. A burly Frenchman, noticing the feather and taking him for a German, resented the apparently contemptuous way in which the journal had been thrown in the street. "Vous avez insulté la patrie," he said in a loud voice. Like a flash the rumor spread in the street that threeGermans had insulted France, and a threatening crowd surrounded us. A restaurant offering the nearest refuge, we stepped inside to orderune demi-tasseand to wait until the excitement had subsided. Thegarconrefused to serve us. Outside, the crowd grew larger. Then a policeman appeared. Upon learning that we were Americans, he quickly appreciated the humor of the situation, and explained the misunderstanding to the crowd pressing around the door. The excitement abated as quickly as it arose, and we were allowed to continue our walk without further interruption.

A familiar village scene in provincial Francepage 157

Mont-de-Marsan has little to relieve the monotony of its narrow village life. We bumped over cobbled streets to the Hôtel Richelieu, securing pleasant rooms which opened on an attractive little court, enlivened by a murmuring fountain. Dinner was hardly over when the silence of the country began to settle along the deserted streets. Such a soporific environment was sleep-compelling. An alarm clock was not necessary, for at early dawn the street resounded with a medley of noises, the varied repertoire of the barnyard,—ahundred of them, in fact. Geese, chickens, goats, and sheep were all tuning up for the village fair. It is a mystery how we motored through that maze of poultry and small wooden stands heaped with fruits, poultry, game, even dry goods—a kind of open-air department store. The clerks were grizzled peasant women, some of them eating their breakfast of grapes and dry bread, others displaying tempting fruit to entice us into a purchase.

Motoring on to St. Justin, we plunged into an immense forest broken only now and then by small clearings and extending for nearly sixty miles to the lumber town of Casteljaloux. Woodland depths shut out the view. Mile followed mile of dark pines and somber perspective, an endless succession of dim forest glades. The sappers were at their work, peeling the bark from the long trunks and attaching small earthenware cups to catch the resinous gum. The road was so easy and smooth that we did not find it difficult to take notes. From the lumber yards of Casteljaloux was blown the fragrant odor of fresh-sawn pine. Bright sunshine flooded the wide-open country. The freedom of the fields was around us again. Here and there a maple showed the first gorgeous colors of autumn.

In the enjoyment of these peaceful scenes we ran unexpectedly through an encampment of French soldiers. The army was getting readyfor the autumn maneuvers. Rifles were stacked, and heavy accouterments deposited on the grass. There were three or four large Paris omnibuses transformed into kitchens, motor-propelled and equal to a speed of twenty miles an hour. Soldiers and officers watched us curiously, almost suspiciously. Our notebooks were hastily put aside. To be detected taking notes from a German motor car in a French encampment might have had unpleasant consequences, or at least subjected us to serious inconvenience. One of the officers took our number; another "snapped" us with a camera, but there was no attempt to interfere with our progress.

The infantry wore long blue coats and red trousers. One wonders why the French army, otherwise so scientifically equipped, should have such showy uniforms. If France went to war to-morrow, her soldiers would be at a great disadvantage. These uniforms would be a conspicuous target at the farthest rifle range. All other modern armies, like those of Germany, England, or Italy, have adopted the "invisible" field dress. But in France the colors have notchanged from the blue and red of Napoleon's soldiers. A few years ago the War Minister Berteaux tried to introduce a uniform of green material. His efforts were without success; the old color tradition was too strong. A French officer commented as follows: "The French army is one of the most routine-bound in Europe. In some things, like flying, we have a lead, because civilians have done all the preliminary work, but in purely military matters, like uniforms, officialdom delays reform at every turn. It was not until 1883 that we gave up wearing the gaiters and shoes of Napoleon's time, and took to boots like other armies." Even the officers whom we saw from our motor car were dressed in scarlet and gold, red breeches, and sky-blue tunics with gold braid.

A little farther on we passed several motor cars filled with French officers; just behind them came a dozen Berliet trucks of a heavy military type, loaded with meat and ammunition. These are the times of motor war. The automobile has revolutionized the old method of food supply. The long, slow train of transport wagons, unwieldy and drawn by horses,has been replaced by swift motor trucks. The French army is unsurpassed in mechanical equipment. No effort has been spared to give the army the full benefit of technical and scientific improvements. This year, for the first time, the Paris motor omnibuses are serving as meat-delivery vans. With this innovation, the army can have fresh meat every morning, instead of the canned meats of other years. The supply stations can be, in safety, thirty miles from the front, and yet remain in effective communication with the troops. France is in grim earnest. The army is ready and competent. The terrible lessons of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870 have been learned.

A French officer with whom we conversed on the subject of the French and German armies, spoke of the superiority of the French artillery over German guns in the recent Balkan war. He said that the French were counting upon their great advantage in this respect to offset the German superiority in numbers. Commenting on the wish of the Kaiser to visit Paris, he was quite sure that the Kaiser would never repeat the performance of his grandfather,Emperor William I, and arrive in Paris at the head of the German army.

A miracle of Gothic splendor

Our lunch in Marmande reminded us of a banquet, but we were not yet French enough to do full justice to three kinds of meat. France is essentially a country of fields and gardens. How we looked forward to everydéjeunerand everydînerso bountifully spread with the famous products of her soil! The cuisine of these small towns would not suffer in comparison with the hotels of larger cities. One is served more generously for half the price, and the cooking is just as good.

A delightful succession of little foreign touches brightened the ride from Marmande,—the sluggish bullock carts, and vineyards interspersed with tobacco fields, small churches with bell cotes guarded by solemn, century-old cypress trees; or perhaps it was an old Gothic house or an ancient gateway with a piece of mediæval wall still clinging to it. In one village we saw bizarre stores, where the doorway and window were one. This must be a survival of Roman times, because we had seen the same thing in Pompeii. We were quicklycalled back from antiquity, however, by the cement telegraph poles which lined the road for some miles. It was a surprise to see such evidence of progress in a region where the years leave so few traces of their march.

By this time the weather had become the chief topic of conversation. A storm was swiftly approaching. Tall cypress trees creaked and swayed in the wind; the dark clouds, nearly above us, shot out murky, ominous streamers, like the tentacles of a gigantic octopus; a few big drops fell; then the floodgates burst. The drenching downpour was so sudden that there was no time to put up the top of the car. A tall tree offered refuge, but soon each separate leaf had a tiny waterfall of its own. Fortune did not entirely desert us, for a small farmhouse, near by, promised a more substantial shelter. It was just the kind of peasant's home that we had often seen from the roadside: an exterior of rustic quaintness, built of stone and rough timbers, and artistically framed in rustic vines and flowers. What would the interior look like? We knocked. A barefooted peasant woman opened the door.She was surprised to see three dripping apparitions, apparently swept in by the rage of the elements, but her invitation to enter could not have been more cordial. The "salon" served the purposes of kitchen, bedchamber, and dining room. There was no trace of carpet or rug on the cobble-stoned floor. The heap of straw in the corner did not disclose whether it was for dog or goat. On the wall hung a cheap color-print of Napoleon. The hospitable "Asseyez-vous" called our attention to a single decrepit chair. There was not even a wooden table. The rain, pattering down the chimney, had almost extinguished the blaze in the small open fireplace. Could anything have been more barren or forlorn! Judging from the appearance of ourhôtesse, the bathtub either did not exist or had long since ceased to figure prominently in the domestic life of the household. Two other peasant women of the same neglected appearance entered without knocking. One of them was barefooted; the other would have been if she had not worn heavysabots. Both of them greeted us, but their dialect was unintelligible. The sun coming outwe said good-by with all the polite French phrases at our command. The three peasant women stood in the doorway and waved their ragged aprons till we disappeared over the hill.

The bridge spanning the Dordogne into cheerful Bergerac showed a town busy with festal preparation for the coming of President Poincaré. Pine branches were being wound around telephone poles; festoons of green decorated the houses; windows were bright with flags; the streets overhung with arches bearing inscriptions of welcome. We stopped at a tea shop which was also aboulangerie.

It was interesting to discover, from the local papers, that our route for the next two days was to be part of the itinerary selected by President Poincaré for his tour through the French provinces.

This trip resulted from the president's desire to know his people better, to become acquainted with their local life, to visit their industries, and especially to attract the attention of the motor world to beautiful and interesting regions of France which had too long been neglected,—these slumberous small towns of the Dordogne,Limousin and Périgord, hidden from the broad travel track, rich in local traditions and peculiarities, wrapped in their old-world atmosphere, surrounded by exquisite landscapes with marvelous horizons. For these towns, the president's coming was a big event. Some of them recalled that since the days of Louis XI no ruler of the state had visited their village.

We were to see Périgueux, with its precious relics of Roman life and of the Middle Ages; Limoges, noted for its beautiful enamels and the center of the porcelain industry. It was this part of France, so little visited even by the French themselves, that President Poincaré chose for his week of motoring. For him, as well as for us, it was to be a delightful voyage of discovery.

The twenty-nine miles to Périgueux proved a memorable motor experience. Much of the way was among steep, tree-covered slopes. No one met us along the road.

It is surprising how far one can motor in France without seeing any trace of human life; areas of deserted country are so common; abandoned farmhouses appear so frequently.The reason lies not alone in the drift of population to the larger towns and cities, but in the fact that the French birth rate is failing to hold its own. France, so rich in other respects, is actually threatened by a decreasing population. In 1911 the number of deaths exceeded the number of births by 33,800. In the first third of the last century, when the death rate was much higher than now, there were six births to every death; in 1871 the ratio had fallen to two births to each death; in 1901 it was even. If we consider the number of births per 10,000 inhabitants during the decades of the last century, we find the series to be an invariably decreasing one—from 323 in 1800 to 222 in 1900. In 1870 Germany and France had each about 38,000,000. Germany now has over 67,000,000, a gain of 27,000,000 over the present French population of 39,340,000. France is thus placed at a great disadvantage in the matter of national defense. If we assume the German army to be only 750,000 soldiers, there would be one soldier to every 89 inhabitants; France, to have the same army, would be obliged to have one soldier to every 52 or 53 inhabitants. The fact that theFrench soldiers will now be compelled to serve three years in the army, as compared with two years in Germany, shows how France is now paying the penalty for neglecting that vital national problem of population.

Our ride to Périgueux gave vivid emphasis to the above figures. There was little evidence of peasant life. One had the impression of roaming through a vast, uninhabited country.

From the top of a hill the town, and the valley of the Isle, stretched beneath us a lovely view; the windings of the river Isle, its bridges mirrored in the crimson flood. Wooded hills faded slowly into the blue depths of twilight. The graceful Byzantinecampanileand domes of St. Front reminded us of the church of St. Marks in Venice. Europe has few more romantic corners. Descending the hill, we motored over the river and into the town, under arches of electric lights arranged in letters to spell words of greeting to the president.

The Grand Hôtel du Commerce should have been torn down years ago. It was a good example of how poor a provincial hotel can be. Even the recommendation of the Touring Clubof France could not make us forget the musty smells that filled rooms and corridors. We opened wide all the windows. After a few minutes, the fresh air revived us.

For a place that occupies so little space in the pages of Baedeker, Périgueux is unique. Numerous remains from the different epochs of history may be found. The Roman period, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and modern times have all left their imprint. There is the massive tower of Vesône, once part of a Gallo-Roman temple. The Château Barrière has one curious feature: a railroad runs through the deep moat of feudal times. We shall need all our superlatives to describe the Jardin des Arènes. Where else will you find a public garden laid out on the site of an ancient Roman amphitheater, keeping the same size, the same circular form, and even preserving some of the original arches to admit the modern public? A French journalist once wrote that "even without its bright sunlight, even without imagination, Périgueux remains one of the quaintest towns in the world and one of those places which the French people would visit in crowdsif it were situated in another country." Viewed from a distance, the cathedral of St. Front makes a striking appearance; the five huge domes might have been transplanted from St. Sophia of Constantinople.

From Périgueux we followed the Isle for some distance before turning to wind over the hills. It was a region of chestnut trees, themarronniersfor which the province is so celebrated. For miles the trees formed a stately hedge along both sides of the highway, and groves of them were in the near distance, their spreading branches reminding us of English oaks.

The ascent continued to Thivièrs, a tiny village of the Dordogne. One of thevieux citoyenspointed out the Hôtel de France as the best place to lunch. "On mange très bien lábas," he said. The lunch was achef d'œuvre. We had never tasted suchpoulet au casseroleor suchcotelettes de mouton grillées. Thelievrehad a delicioussuc de viandewhich went well with thepommes frités. There wasvin à discrétion, and, besides, different kinds offromageand the French melons, golden and juicy and always the best part of the repast.

Nothing is more delightfully characteristic of these small towns like Thivièrs than the delicacies peculiar to them. These little communities, so different from each other in local customs and mannerisms, are just as unique and original in their cooking. It was always interesting, when we had lunch or dinner in a new place, to scan the ménu for some new dish that we had never tasted. Whenever thegarconormaître de l'hôtelpointed to an item on the ménu and said, "C'est une specialitè de la maison," then we knew that something good was coming. One never tires of these French delicacies. Our regret at leaving them behind was usually tempered by the consolation that something equally new and delicious was awaiting us in the next placeen route. Each one of the following names recalls experiences that we shall not soon forget. These are simply samples. The list would be too long if we named them all; thetruitesof Chambéry; the mushroom patties of Pierrelatte; thejambonof Bayonne; thetruffesof Périgueux; therillettesandvinsof Tours; themiel du Gatinaisof Orléans; the fried sole of Chartres and Dieppe. In Normandy, sweetcider was often placed on the table instead of the mildvin du pays. The cheese,patisserie, and fruits were good everywhere.

Another item, which we cannot overlook, never appeared on the ménu and yet always flavored the whole repast. That was the geniality, the provincial hospitality, which greeted us in every little inn and hotel. The welcome was just as hearty as the farewell. If there was some one dish that we especially liked, thepatronnewas never satisfied till she was sure that we had been bountifully served. After so many experiences like these, it is easy to understand why the foreign motorist feels so much at home in France.

It was a splendid run to Limoges. The long grades were scarcely noticeable, the easy curves rarely making it necessary to check our speed. Donkey carts were fashionable, andsabots, as usual, in style. There was always a shining river or green valley in sight. Haute-Vienne, arrayed in flags and evergreens, awaited the coming of the president. Here, as all along the route, we saw the same joyful picture of festal preparations. The bridge over the river Vienne was like a green arbor.

Some of the worthy citizens of these communities were probably more familiar with town affairs than the current events of the outer world. We read in a local journal of a shopkeeper who shouted a lusty "Vive Faillières," to greet the president's arrival. The mayor of one village threw himself in front of the presidential car, and threatened to commit suicide if the president did not make a speech, as he had done in a neighboring town. These petty municipal jealousies gave us a picture of France in miniature. What country is more torn by faction! Internal dissension is the nation's peril.

The river kept us company until Limoges was in sight. The president had left the city only a few hours before our arrival. Decorations were still in their splendor. Onearc de triomphebore the words "Vive Poincaré." Another read, "Nos fleurs et nos cœurs." This popular ovation seems remarkable when we consider the strength of socialism in France, and the fact that Limoges is a socialistic center. The mayor, a socialist, refused to receive the president. The City Council was not present at the festivities ofwelcome. Municipal buildings like the Hôtel de Ville were not decorated. All this was in accordance with instructions received from the leaders of the socialistic party. It was even considered unsafe for the president to include Limoges in his itinerary. But the people, the wage earners, the various trade organizations, acted for themselves. Their spontaneous, enthusiastic greeting was all the more striking in contrast with the cold indifference of the city authorities. To be in an important French city at just this time, on the very day when the president was there, to see all the preparations for his welcome, to hear the people talk about him and praise him, made us feel that we had been close indeed to one of the great personalities of modern Europe. France has found her leader, a man of vast energy who understands his country's problems and is peculiarly fitted to solve them. His motor tour through the provinces was like a triumphal march. Everywhere he preached that gospel of unity which is the great need of the hour.

Thanks to a letter of introduction, we had the interesting privilege of visiting a porcelainfactory and of seeing the different processes through which the product passes from the shapeless lump of clay to the final touch of the artist's brush. The city reflects the artistic spirit of its inhabitants. One notices many attractive garden plots and window gardens, and the beauty of the flowers appears in their art. These artists can reproduce them in porcelain and enamel because first of all they have painted them in their hearts.

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