Part V — The Valley of the Garonne
I Introductory
The basin of the Garonne includes all of the lower Aquitanian province, Lower Languedoc,—still a debatable and undefinable land,—and much of that region known of lovers of France, none the less than the native himself, as the Midi.
Literally the term Midi refers to the south of France, but more particularly that part which lies between the mouth of the Rhône and the western termination of the Pyrenean mountain boundary between France and Spain.
The term is stamped indelibly in the popular mind by the events which emanated from that wonderful march of the legion, known as “Les Rouges du Midi,” in Revolutionary times. We have heard much of the excesses of the Revolution, but certainly the vivid history of “Les Rouges” as recounted so well in that admirable book of Félix Gras (none the less truthful because it is a novel), which bears the same name, gives every justification to those valiant souls who made up that remarkable phalanx; of whose acts most historians and humanitarians are generally pleased to revile as cruelty and sacrilege unspeakable.
Félix Gras himself has told of the ignoble subjection in which his own great-grandfather, a poor peasant, was held; and Frederic Mistral tells of a like incident—of lashing and beating—which was thrust upon a relative of his. If more reason were wanted, a perusal of the written records of the Marseilles Battalion will point the way. Written history presents many stubborn facts, difficult to digest and hard to swallow; but the historical novel in the hands of a master will prove much that is otherwise unacceptable. A previous acquaintance with this fascinating and lurid story is absolutely necessary for a proper realization of the spirit which endowed the inhabitants of this section of the pays du Midi.
To-day the same spirit lives to a notable degree. The atmosphere and the native character alike are both full of sunshine and shadow; grown men and women are yet children, and gaiety, humour, and passion abound where, in the more austere North, would be seen nought but indifference and indolence.
It is the fashion to call the South languid, but nowhere more than at Bordeaux—where the Garonne joins La Gironde—will you find so great and ceaseless an activity.
The people are not, to be sure, of the peasant class, still they are not such town-dwellers as in many other parts, and seem to combine, as do most of the people of southern France, a languor and keenness which are intoxicating if not stimulating.
Between Bordeaux and Toulouse are not many great towns, but, in the words of Taine, one well realizes that “it is a fine country.” The Garonne valley, with a fine alluvial soil, grows, productively and profitably, corn, tobacco, and hemp; and by the utmost industry and intelligence the workers are able to prosper exceedingly.
The traveller from the Mediterranean across to the Atlantic—or the reverse—by rail, will get glimpses now and then of this wonderfully productive river-bottom, as it flows yellow-brown through its osier-bedded banks; and again, an intermittent view of the Canal du Midi, upon whose non-raging bosom is carried a vast water-borne traffic by barge and canal-boat, which even the development of the railway has not been able to appreciably curtail.
Here, too, the peasant proprietor is largely in evidence, which is an undoubted factor in the general prosperity. His blockings, hedgings, and fencings have spoiled the expanse of hillside and vale in much the same manner as in Albion. This may be a pleasing feature to the uninitiated, but it is not a picturesque one. However, the proprietorship of small plots of land, worked by their non-luxury demanding owners, is accountable for a great deal of the peace and plenty with which all provincial France, if we except certain mountainous regions, seems to abound. It may not provide a superabundance of this world’s wealth and luxury, but the French farmer—in a small way—has few likes of that nature, and the existing conditions make for a contentment which the dull, brutal, and lethargic farm labourer of some parts of England might well be forced to emulate, if even by ball and chain.
Flat-roofed houses, reminiscent of Spain or Italy—born of a mild climate—add a pleasing variety of architectural feature, while the curiously hung bells—with their flattened belfries, like the headstones in a cemetery—suggest something quite different from the motives which inspired the northern builders, who enclosed their chimes in a roofed-over, open-sided cubicle. The bells here hang merely in apertures open to the air on each side, and ring out sharp and true to the last dying note. It is a most picturesque and unusual arrangement, hardly to be seen elsewhere as a characteristic feature outside Spain itself, and in some of the old Missions, which the Spanish Fathers built in the early days of California.
Between Bayonne and Bordeaux, and bordered by the sea, the Garonne, and the Adour, is a nondescript land which may be likened to the deserts of Africa or Asia, except that its barrenness is of the sea salty. It is by no means unpeopled, though uncultivated and possessed of little architectural splendour of either a past or the present day.
Including the half of the department of the Gironde, a corner of Lot et Garonne, and all of that which bears its name, the Landes forms of itself a great seaboard plain or morass. It is said by a geographical authority that the surface so very nearly approaches the rectilinear that for a distance of twenty-eight miles between the dismal villages of Lamothe and Labonheyre the railway is “a visible meridian.”
The early eighteenth-century writers—in English—used to revile all France, so far as its topographical charms were concerned, with panegyrics upon its unloveliness and lack of variety, and of being anything more than a flat, arid land, which was not sufficient even unto itself.
What induced this extraordinary reasoning it is hard to realize at the present day.
Its beauties are by no means as thinly sown as is thought by those who know them slightly—from a window of a railway carriage, or a sojourn of a month in Brittany, a week in Provence, or a fortnight in Touraine.
The ennui of a journey through France is the result of individual incapacity for observation, not of the country. Above all, it is certainly not true of Guienne or Gascony, nor of Provence, nor of Dauphiné, nor Auvergne, nor Savoie.
As great rivers go, the Garonne is not of very great size, nor so very magnificent in its reaches, nor so very picturesque,—with that minutiæ associated with English rivers of a like rank,—but it is suggestive of far more than most streams of its size and length, wherever found.
Its source is well within the Spanish frontier, in the picturesque Val d’Aran, where the boundary between the two countries makes a curious détour, and leaves the crest of the Pyrenees, which it follows throughout—with this exception—from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic.
The Garonne becomes navigable at Cazères, some distance above Toulouse, and continues its course, enhanced by the confluence of the Tarn, the Lot, the Arriège, and the Dordogne, beyond the junction of which, two hundred and seventy odd miles from the head of navigation, the estuary takes on the nomenclature of La Gironde.
Of the ancient provinces of these parts, the most famous is Guienne, that “fair duchy” once attached—by a subtle process of reasoning—to the English crown.
It is distinguished, as to its economic aspect, by its vast vineyards, which have given the wines, so commonly esteemed, the name of claret. These and the other products of the country have found their way into all markets of the world through the Atlantic coast metropolis of Bordeaux.
The Gascogne of old was a large province to the southward of Guienne. A romantic land, say the chroniclers and mere litterateurs alike. “Peopled by a race fiery, ardent, and impetuous... with a peculiar tendency to boasting, hence the term gasconade.” The peculiar and characteristic feature of Gascogne, as distinct from that which holds in the main throughout these parts, is that strange and wild section called the Landes, which is spoken of elsewhere.
The ancient province of Languedoc, which in its lower portion is included in this section, is generally reputed to be the pride of France with regard to climate, soil, and scenery. Again, this has been ruled otherwise, but a more or less intimate acquaintance with the region does not fail to endorse the first claim. This wide, strange land has not vastly changed its aspect since the inhabitants first learned to fly instead of fight.
This statement is derived to a great extent from legend, but, in addition, is supported by much literary and historical opinion, which has recorded its past. It is not contemptuous criticism any more than Froissart’s own words; therefore let it stand.
When the French had expelled the Goths beyond the Pyrenees, Charlemagne established his governors in Languedoc with the title of Counts of Toulouse. The first was Corson, in 778; the second St. W. du Courtnez or Aux-Cornets, from whence the princes of Orange derive their pedigree, as may be inferred from the hunting-horns in their arms.
Up to the eighteenth century these states retained a certain independence and exercise of home rule, and had an Assembly made up of “the three orders of the kingdom,” the clergy, the nobility, and the people. The Archbishop of Narbonne was president of the body, though he was seldom called upon but to give the king money. This he acquired by the laying on of an extraordinary imposition under the name of “Don-Gratuit.”
The wide, rolling country of Lower Languedoc has no very grand topographical features, but it is watered by frequent and ample streams, and peopled with row upon row of sturdy trees, with occasional groves of mulberries, olives, and other citrus fruits. Over all glows the luxuriant southern sun with a tropical brilliance, but without its fierce burning rays.
Mention of the olive suggests the regard which most of us have for this tree of romantic and sentimental association. As a religious emblem, it is one of the most favoured relics which has descended to us from Biblical times.
A writer on southern France has questioned the beauty of the growing tree. It does, truly, look somewhat mop-headed, and it does spread somewhat like a mushroom, but, with all that, it is a picturesque and prolific adjunct to a southern landscape, and has been in times past a source of inspiration to poets and painters, and of immeasurable profit to the thrifty grower.
The worst feature which can possibly be called up with respect to Lower Languedoc is the “skyey influences” of the Mistral, dry and piercingly cold wind which blows southward through all the Rhône valley with a surprising strength.
Madame de Sévigné paints it thus in words:
“Le tourbillon, l’ouragan, tous les diables dechainés qui veulent bien emporter votre château.”
Foremost among the cities of the region are Toulouse, Carcassonne, Montpellier, Narbonne, and Béziers, of which Carcassonne is preëminent as to its picturesque interest, and perhaps, as well, as to its storied past.
The Pyrenees have of late attracted more and more attention from the tourist, who has become sated with the conventionality of the “trippers’ tour” to Switzerland. The many attractive resorts which the Pyrenean region has will doubtless go the way of others elsewhere—if they are given time, but for the present this entire mountain region is possessed of much that will appeal to the less conventional traveller.
Of all the mountain ranges of Europe, the Pyrenees stand unique as to their regularity of configuration and strategic importance. They bind and bound Spain and France with a bony ligature which is indented like the edge of a saw.
From the Atlantic at Bayonne to the Mediterranean at Port Bou, the mountain chain divides its valleys and ridges with the regularity of a wall-trained shrub or pear-tree, and sinks on both sides to the level plains of France and Spain. In the midst of this rises the river Garonne. Its true source is in the Piedrafitta group of peaks, whence its waters flow on through Toulouse, various tributaries combining to give finally to Bordeaux its commanding situation and importance. Around its source, which is the true centre of the Pyrenees, is the parting line between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. On one side the waters flow down through the fields of France to the Biscayan Bay, and on the other southward and westward through the Iberian peninsula.
Few of the summits exceed the height of the ridge by more than two thousand feet; whereas in the Alps many rise from six to eight thousand feet above the massif, while scenic Mont Blanc elevates its head over fifteen thousand feet.
As a barrier, the Pyrenees chain is unique. For over one hundred and eighty miles, from the Col de la Perche to Maya—practically a suburb of Bayonne—not a carriage road nor a railway crosses the range.
The etymology of the name of this mountain chain is in dispute. Many suppose it to be from the Greek pur (fire), alluding to the volcanic origin of the peaks. This is endorsed by many, while others consider that it comes from the Celtic word byren, meaning a mountain. Both derivations are certainly apropos, but the weight of favour must always lie with the former rather than the latter.
The ancient province of Béarn is essentially mediæval to-day. Its local tongue is a pure Romance language; something quite distinct from mere patois. It is principally thought to be a compound of Latin and Teutonic with an admixture of Arabic.
This seems involved, but, as it is unlike modern French, or Castilian, and modern everything else, it would seem difficult for any but an expert student of tongues to place it definitely. To most of us it appears to be but a jarring jumble of words, which may have been left behind by the followers of the various conquerors which at one time or another swept over the land.