CHAPTER XXVTHE SONG OF THE RHONE

"Parlemant, Mistral et DuranceSont les trois fléaux de Provence";

"Parlemant, Mistral et Durance

Sont les trois fléaux de Provence";

and later we hear complaints against the Parliament to the Council of the Lateran for attacks made by it on the "liberty of the Church," interference in the functions of the bishops, and so forth.

But this is after the death of René, and after Charles III., his nephew and successor, had left all his territory to his cousin, Louis XI., and Provence once more lapsed to the Crown of France.

From this point French history and Provençal history become one, and Provence has for her Counts Louis XI., Francis I., Henry II., Francis II. ("Roy de France et d'Ecosse," as de Bouche entitles him). Then come the religious wars in Dauphiny and Provence, the suspension of the Parliament, the Great Plague in the time of Henry III., and the "birth of the Ligue, which has caused so many evils in France," according to our historian.

The Etats Généraux de Provence were held at Aix in the reign of Henry IV.

From this time to that of Louis XIV. the country is hopelessly given over to religious troubles. Religion, or the passions that are let loose under that name, have been the scourge of this distracted land made by nature for happiness and peace.

Such are the bare outlines of Provençal history during the times that, in this country of ancient lineage, present an aspect almost modern. Those authors who have studied the drama of its farthest past treat familiarly of ages in which the Glacial Epoch plays a quite juvenilerôle.

One writer (Berenger Feraud) divides the Paleolithic Age into several epochs, one of which (Epoque Solutréen) he alludes to as a relatively short one of 11,000 years; generally they are about 100,000 years or so.

In Provence the human story can be traced to the earliest of those geological epochs when man could only express himself by "modulated cries." It took centuries and centuries to acquire a rudiment of words.

From the second epoch, when the country had become colder, dates our venerable Hearth and Home; the family living in caves (such as are still to be seen at Les Baux, for instance), and sleeping or crouching round the wood fires on long winter nights and days, slowly developing speech from the increased need of exchanging sequent ideas.

Then came the awful darkness and death of the Glacial Period, changing still further the contours of the country.

The retreat of the glacial cold ushered in the "Epoque Magdalenienne," when life became comparatively easy, though the climate of Provence was still "colder than that of St. Petersburg." The Magdaleniens had arrived at sculpturing rough figures on the rocks, and from those records it is concluded that they were gay, jovial, and inclined to pleasantry; the sort of person apparently who makes a dinner-party go well. Strange dinner-parties they must have had in their wild nooks and caverns in the mountains of Provence!

Gradually from these mysterious days we emerge upon centuries less absolutely hidden from our curiosity: thetime of the invasion of the Ligurians, Iberians, Celts, and other races, from about the fifteenth centuryb.c.to 600b.c.This brings us almost back to the light of day, with the rather startling consciousness that the ancient Ligurians, who represented to the imagination the beginning of all things Provençal, suddenly appear as modern innovations.

A long stretch of time had still to pass, filled with a hundred half-fabulous events, before the Roman Conquest brought the country within the domain of actual history.

And during all those ages what language was being used and developed by the multitudes of races that passed like phantoms across the country, phantoms to our imagination, yet each race, each individual, driven to wild and eager deeds and desires by the strange life-force, the "will to live," that sets the whole extraordinary pageant of things in motion?

From the "modulated cries" of the men who lived in holes in the earth—not yet in the comparatively elegant cave-dwellings—to the exquisite language of the troubadours, what has been the course of its growth? No one knows. The only real guide that remains is the language itself, a confusing phonographic record of the whole troublous existence of the country of its birth.

The nearer a language is to its origin the more it is complicated. Ingenious and subtle grammatical forms prove an ancient tongue.[25]

The natural progress is from synthesis to decomposition; and this decomposing force is nothing more nor less than the natural laziness of the human being, one of the most tremendous forces of the universe!

"All dialects originate from this germ of decomposition, in opposition to the antique synthetic principle of the language," says M. Fauriel.

Thence progress can be studied by following backwards a language to its source, that is to its more complex form. But for long stretches of time no specimens of written language existed. Most of the popular songs and stories were transmitted orally, and so there is only a document here and there to reveal the slow development.

The influence of Rome as a civiliser was so enormous that it acted as a break on the new movement which was destined in time to create the world we call modern. That new world which the Barbarians were to bring into being was postponed in the making by the very excellence of the institutions that it gradually superseded.

This slowness of pace affected the language. It took six centuries to transmute the Latin into the Romance tongues, a process as tremendous in its way as the formation during geological eons of the limestone and the chalk.

Two great movements had taken place in the speech of Gaul and Spain; first the imposition of the Latin tongue on the conquered provinces and then the reversal of the process till the Latin was again corrupted back into dialects. In the return journey the Latin remained as a foundation and in it were left many words belonging to the ancient language of the country, so that non-Latin words in Romance may date from either before or after the introduction of the classic tongue.

It was not until the fourth century that it showed signs of giving way. It broke up gradually into modern French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Roumanian Provençal. The tribes of the Acquitani gave the character to the dialects of the South-west, where, according tomany writers, their speech still survives in the Basque language.

It would be a long story, that of the great Romance tongues from the earlier waverings of the Latin in the fourth century, to the eleventh century, when the first troubadour, Guillem de Poictiers, delighted the knights and ladies of Limousin and half France with his songs.

Thelangue d'ocwas by that time ready to his hand, or so it would seem, for it is a remarkable fact that there is scarcely any difference between the language of this pioneer troubadour and that of his latest successors in the thirteenth century, whose voices were so soon to be drowned in the din and horror of the Albigensian wars.

Two hundred years of dance and song! Something at least saved from the gloom and folly of the human story!

During the six hundred years from the fourth to the eleventh century modern Europe, its religion, its institutions, its language, its destiny were in process of formation. And a rude process it was.

A PROVENÇAL FARM.By E. M. Synge.

During these centuries, "deluged with blood," the language must have been in a state of fusion. We know that, for the earlier epochs at least, no one could write his name except a cleric, and agreements were all signed with a cross. There was no general social movement, only incessant changes in the balance of power between kings and nobles. Brutal, unreasoning, material in the real sense of the word, despite their reputation as ages of faith, these centuries were destitute of progressive elements, and there was little or nothing to cause the speech to refine or develop. Literature and Latin died together. The Gallic tongue left traces in the speech of the South and there are several Provençal words in Irish and Welsh and in the language of the districts of the Vaudois showing their common Celtic origin,if one may judge from the first words of the Lord's Prayer:—

Strange to say, the Franks left scarcely any trace in the speech of the country. Wide as were the conquests of this people, with Charlemagne for Emperor in later days, their victory did not extend to the language.

Latin, as we have seen, flagged in the fourth century, and was finally extinguished about the middle of the ninth century.

This breaking up of the speech of the Romans into Romance forms a curious analogue to the breaking up of the Roman architecture into Romanesque. This latter change took place after the formation of independent States had superseded the old centralising Imperial idea.

Architecture, in its turn, developed different local styles, all deriving their character from the Roman and all called by the general name of Romanesque.

The chief peculiarity of Provençal Romanesque is in the pointed vaultings of the churches as distinguished from the familiar round arch of the Roman work.

The date of the introduction of the pointed arch into Gaul is a vexed question, but it is certain that it arrived earlier in Provence than in the North of France. It was found easier to build, and it "exerted less thrust on the side walls."[26]

But it was used in Provence for utilitarian reasons only, and it curiously happened that the South abandoned the pointed arch just when the North began to adopt it fordecoration. The South preferred the round arch for this purpose, and as the architects grew more skilful they were able to cope with its difficulties, and thus—contrary to the usual rule—the pointed form in Provence denotes greater antiquity than the round vaulting. In the North, of course, it is exactly the reverse.

Byzantine influence was introduced into the South by the trade channel through France with the Levant, of which Perigueux in Acquitaine was a centre, and here the Venetian traders built a church on the plan of St. Mark's at Venice. This church of Perigueux was taken as a model by local architects who introduced the Byzantine dome and the aisleless nave; this latter being also a Byzantine feature, which may be seen in some of the churches of Toulouse for instance. Byzantine, or possibly merely late Roman influence is shown in the polygonal form of the apses and cupolas, "in the flat arches employed to decorate the walls, in the mouldings with small projections and numerous members; in the flat and delicate ornament; and in the sharp and toothed carving of the foliage."

Another feature of Provençal work is the strikingly Roman character, produced, it is supposed, by the great number of fine Roman buildings in the country. These architectural models, according to the authoritative opinion of Ross and McGibbon, while stimulating the growth of the art of the South, probably prevented it from developing on original lines by "impressing on it the stamp of the classic trabeated style," that is the construction founded on that of the archaic buildings formed of wooden beams.

This process of architectural development, while analogous to that of the language, is naturally much simpler and much easier to follow. The history of the speech of this great continent is wearisomely obscure and complex.

Gaston Paris[27]writes as follows:—"There were in Gaul at the Merovingian epoch, without mentioning the Basque and Breton corners, three languages: (1) grammatical Latin, become a dead language; (2) the vulgar Latin or Romance spoken by all the indigenous population; (3) the German represented by the Frank, the Burgundian, and the Gothic."

But the Germans in Gaul, mixing with the ancient Gallo-Roman families, ended by speaking Romance, all distinctions between the two races disappearing. The writings of Gregory of Tours throw light upon this transitional period, thelingua rusticahaving by that time encroached upon the would-be grammatical Latin.

"... There were profound alterations suffered by the speech of the people in the vowels and consonants during the Merovingian epoch," and during that same epoch new principles of rhythm which permitted of versification in the Romance tongue were being slowly and laboriously adapted to these alterations of sound.[28]From this the author concludes that there existed a "poetic activity," though we have no detailed remains to prove it. We know only that at the spring festivals (survivals of antiquity) there were popular songs and dances. Those who recited and sang were calledjoculares—and caused much scandal to the Christian moralists!

The lighter German songs of love and wine have left no obvious trace, but the elements of their epics are embedded in the Frenchepopéewhich Gaston Paris thinks owes to them its existence. He speaks of it as the outcome of the national spirit—which had arisen after the Franks had given a sort of unity to the country—and of the more individualist inspiration of the German epics.Thus the popular language must have been under a smelting or moulding process, passing through the poetic crucible for many a year of which we have no record.

There are but few milestones on this ancient road, but if all were carefully examined in order of time, it is probable that the gaps might be bridged over by the eye of learning and the line of development made plain.

An anecdote of the tenth century, given by M. Fauriel, illustrates the condition of the language of that date.

A Gaul who had been present at several of the miracles of St. Martin, being asked by some Acquitanians to give an account of them, is diffident, and says he is illiterate.

"Speak as you please," said one of the Acquitanians, "speak Celtic or Gothic if you prefer it, provided only you speak of St. Martin."

It was at this time that the language of Acquitaine which has lingered in the valleys of the Pyrenees began to be called Basque. The rest of the country was speaking the Romance, with its 3,000 "barbarian words." Among these are some Acquitanian, a few of which are below:—

Basque Words in Provençale.

Unlike the languages of the so-called Sanscrit type (to which belong Greek, Latin, Celtic, and even Slavonian), the Basque—as is well-known—cannot be traced back to any common origin: this mysterious aboriginal tongue of the Acquitani is an orphan and an alien without kith or kin, unless indeed the adventurous writer who claims for it an Etruscan origin be in the right.

Acquitaine took a large part in the wars with the invading Arabs of Spain, and their Duke Eudes, after many victories, was finally defeated by the famous Abderrahman and the county was left at the mercy of the conquerors until Charles Martel at length expelled them.

It was in these wars that Charlemagne made his famous and disastrous expedition to Ronçevalles which inspired the poetic imagination of the day.

The many wars of these times of transition and the long struggles of the Gallo-Romans and Acquitanians against the Franks formed subjects for the popular poetry which was slowly working towards the literary outburst of the eleventh and twelfth centuries.

COW-BOYS OF THE CAMARGUE.By Joseph Pennell.

The people of Acquitaine seem to have been leaders in the revolt against the Frankish dominion; their country had been left by Charlemagne as an independent kingdom, but on his death they at once went to war with the Franks and led the way to the dismemberment of the Carlovingian Empire. There is an ancient poem whose name and hero is Walter of Acquitaine—related to the Nibelingen and Scandinavian sagas—which seems to represent the national and anti-Frankish spirit of the Acquitanians and of all the Gallo-Roman epoch.

It was in Limousin, as we have seen, that all these movements of popular literature finally arrived at a sort of culmination, and we find ourselves suddenly in a brilliant world of gaiety and song.

Count Ebles III. of Ventadour was then composing his verses of "alacrity and joy," and the Châteaux ofLimousin were enthusiastically cultivating the new poetry; and a little later William IX. of Poictiers, the "first troubadour," was born, the gay, courteous teller of stories and singer of songs, of whom the already quoted saying was abroad that "he went about the world to impose on the ladies."

He had the audacity to refuse to join the Crusade, perhaps because he was a "free-thinker"—a rare being indeed in those days—denying the existence of God.

But when Jerusalem fell and the Christians were forming a kingdom there, he went out with a multitude of knights to join them, though apparently with a heavy heart.

On the eve of departure he composed a lyric to his native land.

"Adieu, now diversions and sports!Adieu now furred robes of vair and of grey,Adieu ye fine vestments of silk,I shall depart into exile...."[29]

"Adieu, now diversions and sports!

Adieu now furred robes of vair and of grey,

Adieu ye fine vestments of silk,

I shall depart into exile...."[29]

And so, in this confused struggling fashion, during the course of centuries, thelangue d'occame to be the language of chivalry and romantic love: the language in which are written the laws of courtesy and of honour that we reverence to this day. The transition from the rudeness which was fitted to express the few ideas of early mediæval life to the fineness and polished charm of the troubadour poetry remains always more or less of a mystery; but however it came about, it is certain that when the troubadours and the chivalrous knights were born into the world by the "grace of God," the beautiful characteristic tongue which had been forged for their use by the beating of the ages of events was waiting and worthy to carry the thought and the emotion of an awakening people.

"Salut, empèri dóu soulèu, que bordoCoume un orle d'argènt lou Rose bléuge!Empèri dóu soulas, de l'alegrìo!Empèri fantasti de la ProuvènçoQu'emé toun noum soulet fas gau au mounde!"

"Salut, empèri dóu soulèu, que bordo

Coume un orle d'argènt lou Rose bléuge!

Empèri dóu soulas, de l'alegrìo!

Empèri fantasti de la Prouvènço

Qu'emé toun noum soulet fas gau au mounde!"

("Hail, Empire of the sun, which the dazzling Rhone borders like a silver hem! Empire of happiness and gaiety, fantastic Empire of Provence, thou who with thy name alone charmest the world!")Mistral,The Poem of the Rhone(Canto Second—xviii.).

("Hail, Empire of the sun, which the dazzling Rhone borders like a silver hem! Empire of happiness and gaiety, fantastic Empire of Provence, thou who with thy name alone charmest the world!")

Mistral,The Poem of the Rhone(Canto Second—xviii.).

CHAPTER XXV

THE SONG OF THE RHONE

With the spirit of the country, the whole crew and company of theCaburle—Maître Apian's barge in Mistral's poem—seems to be imbued. Even the little maiden Anglore—in love with a water-sprite—even she has caught something of the largeabandonof the great stream.

Warned that the Prince—whom she believes to be the Drac—will fascinate and then desert her, she cries: "Eh! bien qu'il me fascine. Si mon destin est tel, moi, je me laisserai choir a la pipée, comme au gouffre béant tombe la feuille."

The whole poem is steeped in the movement and sunshine of the river: the charm of the life on its banks, especially in times now past; the plying of the barges up and down, laden with merchandise, the towns and ancient castles that they pass, the gay spirit of the passengers along this buoyant thoroughfare, "l'ornière du monde" as Maître Apian calls it, the owner of the "most famous equipage of the whole river"—seven barges and forty horses for towing. In the finest of them, theCaburle, he sets forth from the neighbourhood of Lyons to descend the river to Beaucaire for the great fair, his other barges following, with cargo and with food for the horses.

"Que sus la dougo, au retour de Prouvenço.Gaiardamen remountavon la rigo."(Qui sur la berge, au retour de Provence,Gaillardement remontaient la convoi.)

"Que sus la dougo, au retour de Prouvenço.Gaiardamen remountavon la rigo."

"Que sus la dougo, au retour de Prouvenço.

Gaiardamen remountavon la rigo."

(Qui sur la berge, au retour de Provence,Gaillardement remontaient la convoi.)

(Qui sur la berge, au retour de Provence,

Gaillardement remontaient la convoi.)

And so the little flotilla goes on its way down the current, theCaburleleading, with the image of St. Nicholas at its prow, and at the poop, placed high on the rudder, the mariner's cross, painted red and carved (one winter when the waters had been caught in the grip of the frost) by Maître Apian himself. And the instruments of the Passion: nails, lance, hammer, and all associated with it directly or indirectly, are piously represented.

"En cargo pèr la fiero de Bèu-Caire,l'a cènt batèu que vuei soun de partènço."(With cargo for the fair of Beaucaire, there are ahundred barges starting to-day.)

"En cargo pèr la fiero de Bèu-Caire,l'a cènt batèu que vuei soun de partènço."

"En cargo pèr la fiero de Bèu-Caire,

l'a cènt batèu que vuei soun de partènço."

(With cargo for the fair of Beaucaire, there are ahundred barges starting to-day.)

(With cargo for the fair of Beaucaire, there are a

hundred barges starting to-day.)

And there is a friendly rivalry between them, for the first boat to arrive at the meadow of Beaucaire receives, as a welcome from the citizens, a fine sheep. Alas! as we know, the days of the fair of Beaucaire are over!

"Despachatiéu, en aio, fourro-bourro."

"In haste, agitated, pell-mell," the mariners bestir themselves, and the merry, busy procession moves down stream. Maître Apian lifts his cap.

"Au noum de Dieu e de la Santo Viergo,Au Rose."

"Au noum de Dieu e de la Santo Viergo,

Au Rose."

"To the Rhone!" he cries, and all who are with him uncover their heads, and make the sign of the cross, dipping their fingers in the wave—for the river is blessed every year, with a fine procession at the Pont St. Esprit, and so it is holy water.

A most singular and very "mixed" company theCaburlecarries with her down the river during twelve long cantos: among them, curiously enough, William of Orange, son of the King of Holland, who had been sent to Provence for his health. Besides him there are three Venetian ladies who keep their companions lively with songs and jests. And this little blond prince—whom the doctors think the mistral is likely to benefit—has come to seek the flower of the Rhone of which he has heard so much—

"Flour de pantai, de gentun, de belésso,que, pèr tout païs ounte s'atrovo,L'ome i'es gai e la dona i'es bello."("Fleur de beauté, fleur de grace et de rêvePar tout pays ou on la trouve,L'homme est joyeux, la femme belle.")

"Flour de pantai, de gentun, de belésso,que, pèr tout païs ounte s'atrovo,L'ome i'es gai e la dona i'es bello."

"Flour de pantai, de gentun, de belésso,

que, pèr tout païs ounte s'atrovo,

L'ome i'es gai e la dona i'es bello."

("Fleur de beauté, fleur de grace et de rêvePar tout pays ou on la trouve,L'homme est joyeux, la femme belle.")

("Fleur de beauté, fleur de grace et de rêve

Par tout pays ou on la trouve,

L'homme est joyeux, la femme belle.")

Then they all tell him that it is the flowering rush that nourishes itself in the water—which "l'Anglore" loves to gather. And the little blond prince pricks up his ears and wants to know who or what is l'Anglore. And thereby hangs a tale.

"La voilà, la voilà," they all cry on the barges.

Her hand on her hip, Anglore, with a branch of the flower of the Rhone in her hand, stands on the bank waiting and smiling. Since her infancy she has come to watch these boats arriving, the great flat boats that they callsisselandson the river. Well known to all the sailors, she would exchange greetings and friendly badinage with them as they passed. And the men would throw apples and pears into her apron as she held it out to catch them. She was a familiar figure along the water-side, and bore the nickname of Anglore, the lizard, because she was always basking in the sun onthe banks. But she was not idle. Assiduously she sifted with her little sieve the grains of gold that the Ardèche brought down after the rains. Her father was a pilot at the Pont St. Esprit to guide the boats past the "spurs of the treacherous buttresses." And the sailors, having passed the Trois Donzelles and the Îles Margeries, would say joyously—

"Allons, ... nous allons bientôt voirAu Malatra papilloner l'Anglore."

"Allons, ... nous allons bientôt voir

Au Malatra papilloner l'Anglore."

And there, sure enough, she was, with her red handkerchief on her head, busy at work. And they would cry, "Ohé, has she not made her fortune, l'Anglore?"

And Anglore replies, "Aïe! pauvrette, ils n'en jettent pas tant d'or dans l'Ardèche, ces gueux de Cévennols! Mais vous passez bien vite."

"Le Rhône est fier (high) there is no stopping, belle jeunesse! But when we go up stream on our return, and the horses pull at the ropes, then we will bring you some dates."

"Bon voyage aux marins," she cries farewell.

"Adieu, Mignonne!"

And one of the crew, Jean Roche, throws her several kisses as the barge moves away. He has a tender interest in the maiden, who however has no heart to give him, for she has been fascinated by a most singular lover, the Drac, or Spirit of the Rhone who lives under the green waters and entices unwary maidens down and down to his shimmering home beneath the flood.

"Oh! lis atiramen de l'aigo blousoQuand lou sang nòu espilo dins li veno!"("Oh! l'attraction du liquide élémentQuand jaillit dans les veines le sang neuf!")

"Oh! lis atiramen de l'aigo blousoQuand lou sang nòu espilo dins li veno!"

"Oh! lis atiramen de l'aigo blouso

Quand lou sang nòu espilo dins li veno!"

("Oh! l'attraction du liquide élémentQuand jaillit dans les veines le sang neuf!")

("Oh! l'attraction du liquide élément

Quand jaillit dans les veines le sang neuf!")

ANGLORE ON THE RIVER BANK.Scene from Mistral's Poem of the Rhone.By E. M. Synge.

It seems to intoxicate the children of the riverside.

"L'aigo que ris e cascaio ajouguidoEntre li coudelet...."("de l'eau qui rit et gazouille enjouéeparmi les galets....")

"L'aigo que ris e cascaio ajouguidoEntre li coudelet...."

"L'aigo que ris e cascaio ajouguido

Entre li coudelet...."

("de l'eau qui rit et gazouille enjouéeparmi les galets....")

("de l'eau qui rit et gazouille enjouée

parmi les galets....")

The mother of Anglore tells her children of the dangers of the river; of "the blues" of the calm water where it is of profound depth. It is here that the Drac loves to disport himself: a fishlike creature, svelte as a lamprey, twisting himself joyously in the whirl of the waters, with greenish hair which floats on the waves like seaweed. Anglore hears the story of the young woman of Beaucaire beating her linen on the river banks, when she suddenly sees the Drac in the water, and he makes a sign of invitation to his palace of crystal where he promises to show her all his riches, the wreckage of shipping for many a year. And the maiden, unable to resist the strange fascination, is drawn under the waves in a sort of dream; and for seven long years she lives with the Drac in his fresh green grotto filled with watery light.

And Anglore, on one hot, still night, goes down to the banks in the moonlight. In the profound silence she hears the murmur of the river. The glowworms are throwing their strange glamour on the grass and the nightingales are answering one another in the woods; and then suddenly the girl seems to lose her head, and flinging off her few garments, plunges into the stream.

It is a half fearful pleasure as she moves through its cool freshness. If a fish ricochets over the surface in pursuit of a fly, if a little whirlpool makes a tiny sound of in-sucking as it twirls in the rush, if a bat cries, her heart gives a sick beat. But it is joy to be thus clothed by the sumptuous mantle of the torrent; "to bemingled, confounded with the great Rhone." Suddenly, in the moonlight, deep down, stretched upon the moss—the Drac! His eyes fix her, fascinate; and fearful, stupefied, she has to go towards the sorcerer who murmurs words of mysterious love. And then, all at once, Anglore, feeling his cold arms round her, springs up and sees gliding through the water a vague shadow, serpentine and white, and floating on the surface a flowering reed!

A narrow escape! But the quaint part of the story is yet to come. When the barge of Maître Apian makes its return journey the crew throws the rope ashore and Anglore knots it round an old stake. Then Jean Roche takes Anglore in his arms and lifts her on board, and every one crowds round to welcome her.

"Eh bèn, que dis Angloro?" they cry.

"Dise tout bèn de vous," she replies politely.

Then Jean Roche says, "Santo que canto! If thou wert not more sensible than I, Anglore, dost thou know what we would do?"

"Pancaro, digo" (Pas encore, dis).

"Well, to-morrow evening we would go together to see the plays at Beaucaire, the two of us, arm in arm, on the meadow we would go and see the gypsies who tell fortunes; we would stroll round to all the booths, and I would buy you a beautiful ring."

"Of glass?" asks Anglore.

"No, of gold. And at the end of the fair I would bring you back as my wife at Saint Maurice."

But Anglore laughs and puts him off, and finally tells him that he has been forestalled by one who would drown him in the depths of the Rhone if he caught him fishing in his "lone."[30]

So poor Jean Roche relapses into dismal silence. Presentlythe Prince of Orange, radiant, and carrying a branch of the flower of the Rhone, issues from his tent on the barge where he has been sleeping, humming, still half asleep, the Venetian song of the three lively ladies—

"Sur mon bateau qui fileViens, je t'enlève au frais:Car, prince de Hollande,Je n'ai peur de personne."

"Sur mon bateau qui file

Viens, je t'enlève au frais:

Car, prince de Hollande,

Je n'ai peur de personne."

And Anglore suddenly turns very pale and nearly faints.

"C'est lui! c'est lui!" she cries wildly; and it turns out that she takes the prince for the Drac! And he, with his mind turning on the object of his search, says that he recognises her. "O fleur du Rhone epanouie sur l'eau."

"Drac, je te reconnais! car sous la loneJe t'ai vu dans la main le bouquet que tu tiens.A ta barbette d'or, à ta peau blanche,A tes yeux glauques, ensorceleurs, perçants,Je vois bien qui tu es."

"Drac, je te reconnais! car sous la lone

Je t'ai vu dans la main le bouquet que tu tiens.

A ta barbette d'or, à ta peau blanche,

A tes yeux glauques, ensorceleurs, perçants,

Je vois bien qui tu es."

Rather embarrassing for Monsieur le Prince! However he is quite equal to the occasion. He presents her with the flower, and then—suddenly he trembles! It is scarcely necessary to add (we are in Provence) that the next canto is occupied with the loves of Anglore and the blond prince.

These go simply and smoothly on board the barge, where the mariners show the most astonishing tact and never seem to get in the way. When the Prince asks Anglore what she would say if he told her he was really the son of the King of Holland, she replies, "My Drac, I should simply say that you can transfigure yourself into any form that may be agreeable to you, and if you havetaken that of the Prince of Orange it is for some freak or mad fancy. Oh! my Drac, of what use is it to try to hide yourself?"

What was there to be done (the poem demands) but instantly to embrace "la folatre"? It is hard to say, adds the poet, "which is the more intoxicated, more under the spell of enchantment."

And so, in their great happiness they float down stream.

"radieux et ivres de votre luminière du Rhone."

Fields, vineyards, olive-groves, castles, cities, drift by as in a beautiful dream.

All the while the hot Provençal sun is beating on the barge, and the sorceress river is flowing and flowing: the whole scene a symbol of the country and its magic. After one has swept down and toiled up the Rhone in theCaburle, one knows a little more of what it all means, this fief of the sun and wind, this Land of the Passionate River!

"Not a growing thingSave stunted tamarisk.Salt-wort, sea poppy"

"Not a growing thingSave stunted tamarisk.

"Not a growing thing

Save stunted tamarisk.

Salt-wort, sea poppy"

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CAMARGUE

Sometimes a lonely sea-mew breaks the monotony of the sky, or, some huge-winged bird, the "stalking hermit of the lagoon," casts a flitting shadow.

"One vast desert ...The sole confine some distant glare of sea."

"One vast desert ...

The sole confine some distant glare of sea."

In summer there are no flowers in this forsaken region, only the white inflorescence of salt crystals—frozen tears of generations of vanished peoples one might fancy them. And, as if in mockery, a mirage, born of those bitter tears, hovers on the horizon as the hot sun breeds an invisible vapour from which arise distant cities and a labyrinth of smooth lagoons that shimmer alluringly across the white solitude.

Such is the Camargue. The description, however, applies in strictness to the summer season. In winter the salt with which the ground is saturated is not visible; there is only a moist oozy-looking soil, growing reeds and stunted bushes.

PORCH OF CHURCH OF ST. GILLES IN THE CAMARGUE.By E. M. Synge.

Mistral's heroine,Mirèio, who dies in the Camargue at the Church of Les Saintes Maries, falls down exhausted before she arrives there, by the shores of the great lake of the Camargue and is awakened by the stinging of thedangerous gnats which infest the whole region in the hot season, and perhaps account for the malaria which lies in wait for the careless traveller.

The driver of the carriage in which we traversed this river-encircled district, told us that in summer the water in these branches of the Rhone fell so low that the fish died in immense quantities, and this attracted great swarms of flies whose sting became very perilous in consequence of their gruesome banquet.

This deserted region is a near neighbour of the Crau, separated only by the river at the southern end from the Field of Pebbles; yet in all the Camargue, as the natives say, you cannot find a stone to throw at a dog—a mode of expression betraying the sentiment of the country as regards our four-footed friends and brothers.

Our journey was from Aigues Mortes to Les Saintes Maries, a drive across the Camargue of about 36 kilometres—36 kilometres of strange, silent, mournful country, well-nigh desert, for the salt in the soil prevents cultivation and all growth is stunted and wild and of little use except here and there for grazing purposes. From time immemorial it has been the home of herds of black cattle, "wild cattle" they are generally called, and in all the poems and accounts of the district, one finds highly-coloured descriptions of the driving of these ferocious creatures to pasture and of the exciting barbaric ceremony of branding them in the spring. They are always spoken of as being extremely formidable, and their appearance in great hordes, fierce and untamed, their dashing owners in pursuit on splendid steeds, is described with charming picturesqueness.

Our driver kept a keen look-out for these creatures as we made our way across the plain. At last, just as we were in despair of seeing them, he pointed out their hoof-marks where they come down to the water to drink. Itwas a thrilling moment, and we scanned the distance with eagerness, listening for the thunder of galloping feet. Suddenly the driver pulled up and gave an exclamation.

"Les Voilà!"

Alas! a disillusion, the first we had met with in Provence.

A little way off, in quite domestic tranquillity, were some twenty or thirty amiable, decorous-looking black beasts who had presumably never "thundered" or dreamt of it in all their well-spent lives. Day after day, from byre to pasture and from pasture to byre, at no time even in their giddiest calfdom had they given their guardian—who was now superintending their repast—a moment's uneasiness! Fiery, untamed cattle, at any rate in the winter season, are not to be seen on the Camargue.

The red flamingoes, too, are really pink, and very pale at that; but it is beautiful to see them flying in great flocks over the lake of the Vaccares, and settling to feed or to exchange ideas on some wild islet on whose low shores beat white-capped fussy little waves which the smallest mistral quickly raises on its shallow water.

We visited this lake from Arles on another occasion, for the Camargue is too big to see all at one time. Even as it was, our day was crowded—to Aigues Mortes in the morning across the plain, visiting Les Saintes Maries, and back to Arles in the evening.

AIGUES MORTES, LOOKING ALONG THE WALLS.By E. M. Synge.

After Carcassonne one felt there was nothing more to experience in the shape of a mediæval city. Yet Aigues Mortes—the city of St. Louis, the City of the Marsh, with its wonderful ramparts and square towers, all unchanged since the days of the Crusaders—brought before the eye of the imagination yet another aspect of the fascination of the Middle Ages. The walls are said to be built on the models of the fortified towns of Syria andto be almost a repetition of those of Ascalon. Here, as in many mediæval cities, were originally wooden balconies overhanging the base of the walls, the battlements being in fact a wall with ingress at intervals to the balcony. Later was substituted for the wooden balcony projecting galleries of stone on corbels, and these stone galleries or machicolations are comparatively recent.

To this scene belongs, among other historical events, the splendid procession of St. Louis and his followers as they embarked from this city of his founding for the first crusade.

The place is called Aigues Mortes from the dead branches of the river,[31]and its situation in this low-lying ground near the sea, with the whole Camargue lying flat and mournful before it, bears out the suggestion of the strange melancholy name.

Ancient writers of romance are fond of talking about the "frowning walls" of a city. On looking back at Aigues Mortes as one recedes from it across the Camargue one admits their justification. The dark high ramparts, with their stern-looking square towers—unlike the round extinguisher towers of Carcassonne—do most undeniably "frown."[32]

The city with its great gateway seems not to belong to our present life at all, in spite of its hotels and shops and the people in the market-place. It is as if a fragment of the tenth or eleventh century had been dropped by some accident when the Scroll of Time was being rolled up!

The illusion is almost painfully perfect, producing that curious bewilderment with which we provincial mortals (by no means yet citizens of the universe) are assailed when forced to realise—as well as intellectually to accept—thefact of a state of existence absolutely alien to our own experience.

Another delightful expedition in the Camargue is to the Church of St. Gilles on the outskirts of this extraordinary desert through which the main line runs at this point; and many of the trains stop at the little station only a short distance westward from Arles. By a singular chance the curé happened to be in the train on his way to Nimes, to read a paper about the many vexed archæological questions regarding this famous and exquisite church, this "ne plus ultra of Byzantine art," as Mèrimée calls it; and he was much delighted to talk about the building of which he is immensely proud.

Such a Church for beauty and interest had never before existed! These were the sentiments of the good curé, a rosy-cheeked, comfortable, courteous old antiquary. It certainly merits his enthusiasm.

The three great richly sculptured arches of the façade are magnificent of their kind. It seems as if all the saints and angels of Christendom had alighted in a swarm upon these sumptuous portals. They cluster on frieze and cornice, on arch and bracket and niche, in multitudes, the whole work perfectly balanced and finely executed, and resulting in an effect of romantic richness combined with the pious simplicity of sentiment which is characteristic of all Southern Romanesque churches. The crypt is especially magnificent.

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