of Provence, especially in the poems of Mistral. In Roman days Barbentane or Bellinto, a station on the road between Tarascon and Orange, was an island surrounded by the waters of the Durance.
STREET AT UZÈS.
By E. M. Synge.
It is of far less imposing aspect than Uzès and is approached by a long, ascending road, which is continuous with the broad main street of the town, whence other streets climb the hill, wandering into little platforms and nooks and picturesque corners such as only a hill town in the Midi can produce. There are ancient buildings at every turn, and above the rest, beyond the gateway leading up to the windy limestone downs, stands the tall ruined tower of Barbentane, which has a romantic story attached to it. Mistral writes of it:
"The Bishop of Avignon …
Has built a tower at Barbentane,
Sea-wind it spurns, and tramontane,
And round it demons rage in vain.
He'll exorcise
The walls that rise
With turrets square
From rocks so bare.
Its front looks to the setting sun,
And over the windows one by one—
Lest demon ever through them may pass—
He carves his mitre over the glass."[2]
To this demon-proof stronghold the Bishop appoints a warder, who—as is the way of warders—has a charming daughter, Mourrette. Mourrette has a lover who is determined to scale the walls of the fortress and carry off the damsel or die in the attempt. Unfortunately, he dies in the attempt.
"So true, so brave, he ne'er will stop
Till he grasp her hand at the turret top.
Alas! a branch breaks—with a hideous shock,
Her lover is dashed on the hungry rock."
Tragedy as usual! If all had gone well, the story in all likelihood would never have reached us. We may, perhaps, conclude that life is not quite so dark as history and literature might lead us to believe.
The author of "Un voyage en France" writes:—
"Les cultures enveloppent jusqu'au Rhone le petit massif sur lequel se dresse la haute Tour de Barbentane," and these "cultures"—corn, almond-trees, vines, olives—give an aspect of richness and prosperity to the great valley.
GATEWAY, BARBENTANE.
By E. M. Synge.
On the opposite side of it stands an ancient but still inhabited castle belonging to the Comte des Essars (or some similar name), situated upon a sudden height or cliff and approached by a steep and shady avenue which leads to a modern garden of evergreen shrubs, all very carefully grouped and tended. At the highest point appears the great square castle, with its round tower at each corner, and crenellated walls.
The caretaker admits the visitor to a large courtyard and thence to the suites of sombre old rooms with their dark ceilings, stately mantelpieces and rich, ancient furniture, all spell-bound as if waiting for the life that has gone away. The owners only come there for about a month in the time of the grape-harvest, but the evidence of their presence in little personal belongings, such as racks full of pipes, carved sticks, riding whips, photographs, and so forth, emphasises pathetically the silence of the house, which is speckless and in perfect order, ready at any moment for habitation.
The place is well worth a visit, not merely for its rather sad charm, but because it helps the imagination to reconstruct the life and aspect of the feudal castle; for such edifices as this are generally seen in ruins, emptied of all their splendours. Here rises before one's eye the scene of mediæval romance almost precisely as in the days of the troubadours and their fascinating ladies.
It seemed a pity that our friend the critic had left Avignon without having seen this place where the little touches of the modern (especially that prosaic garden of well-groomed evergreens) would have cheered his soul and proved to him that Provence could, after all, produce something that was not either tumble-down or peeling off.
Such is the contradictoriness of human nature, that we began to regard with regret the certainty that he would not be at the table d'hôte that night to record his disappointments. It was quite interesting to watch the process by which he would throw an atmosphere of spiritual deathliness—a sort of moral incandescent gaslight—over the fascinating things of this despised country.
We realised that, in spite of his powers of disenchantment, we had found a sort of satisfaction (like the satisfaction of a discord in music) in the bleakness of our friend's outlook upon life and things.
It made one, perhaps not very relevantly, think of Madame de Sévigné's phrase:—
"Toujours soutenue de l'ignorance capable de Madame de B——"
"Ignorance capable!" We positively missed it!
CHAPTER IV
PETRARCH AND LAURA
"Solea lontana in sonno consolarme
Con quella dolce angelica sua vista
Madonna; or mi spaventa e mi contrista;
Né di duol, né di téma posso aitarme:
Ché spesso nel suo volto veder parme
Vera pietà con grave dolor mista;
Ed udir cose, onde'l cor fede acquista,
Ché di gioja e di speme si disarme.
Non ti sovèn di quell' ultima sera,
Dic' ella, ch'i lasciai gli occhi tuoi molli,
E sforzata dal tempo me n' andai?
I' non te'l potei dir all or, né volli:
Or te'l dico per cosa esperta e vera;
Non sperar di vedermi in terra mai."
Francesco Petrarca (Sonnetto CCXI.)
CHAPTER IV
PETRARCH AND LAURA
How well one understands why it is that the South has produced so much art and so little philosophy! We found ourselves spending hours basking in this delicious sun, while we idly wondered how often the beautiful Laura crossed the square, exactly how she looked, and spoke, and smiled; above all, how she felt: the real truth about that mysterious romance. The customs of the day, the universal habit of love-making as part of the necessary accomplishments of a gentleman, make it difficult to recognise the genuine love-story when one finds it.
Barbara was much interested in these immortal lovers, much more so than in Rienzi's tower or old churches; and we managed to glean a good deal of desultory information on the subject, which brought us to the conclusion that Laura was a real person and Petrarch's a real passion. The fact that in his prose writings he scarcely ever alludes to his beloved one seemed to us to support our views. He did not care to talk to all the world of what he felt so deeply. Sonnets were more impersonal. In his favourite copy of Virgil he records his first meeting with Laura, and her death twenty-one years later. Barbara considered this conclusive.
"Laura, who was distinguished by her own virtues and widely celebrated by my songs, first appeared to my eyes in early manhood in the