Europe from a Motor Car Part 3

[4] _Political History of Modern Europe_, by Ferdinand Schwill, Ph.D.

The city was "the scene of perhaps the greatest cruelty of the Revolution, when women who had begged for mercy to their dear ones, were tied to the foot of the guillotine and compelled to witness hours of butchery."[5] It was soon found that the guillotine did not work fast enough. The defect was quickly remedied. Hundreds of captives were taken outside the city, where the guns of the revolutionists continued the slaughter on a larger and more satisfactory scale.

[5] From "The Alpine Road of France," by Sir Henry Norman, M. P., in _Scribner's Magazine_, February, 1914.

Possibly the most interesting fact about modern Lyons is its industrial prominence. Baedeker tells us that the city exports annually over one hundred million dollars' worth of silk. Its life seems to be founded upon this one industry. The rich Lyonnais are silk manufacturers. The museum of silks is the finest thing of its kind in Europe. In the old part of the city is the statue of Jacquard, the inventor of the silk loom. As we walked through the narrow streets, there could be heard the sharp clicking of the shuttles, a sign that the weavers were busy at their looms. We were shown the "conditioning house," where the imported raw silk is tested and subjected to a high temperature. This is the first important step in the manufacture of silk, which in the raw state absorbs moisture readily. But by exposing the silk to heat at a temperature of seventy-two to seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit, the water evaporates and the weight of the silk may then be ascertained. To prevent fraud it is then marked by a sworn valuer. France raises very little raw silk, most of it being imported from j.a.pan and China. Out of a population of nearly half a million, nearly a third is directly engaged in the production of silk, and the workers in the surrounding districts would probably number as many more. For a distance of thirty miles, outside of Lyons, the country is dotted with little houses, each containing one or more looms. The prosperity of few large cities is more clearly the result of a single industry.

Americans are especially interested in Lyons for its connection with the starting of silk manufacturing in the United States. A short time ago we were shown a letter written in 1863 by an American living in Lyons.

He refers to the excitement created in this district by the rumor that weavers were being engaged with a view to establishing silk manufacturing in the United States on a very extensive scale, and that several companies had been formed and had sent out agents to purchase in Lyons all the machinery and looms used in the manufacture of silk. The writer doubted if the conditions in the United States would make possible the success of the venture. In spite of this prediction, the industry developed rapidly, so that to-day nine hundred American manufacturers have a combined annual output valued at over two hundred million dollars. At the time of the a.s.sa.s.sination of Lincoln the United States government received a silk flag from the weavers of Lyons dedicated to the people of the United States in memory of Abraham Lincoln. The flag was of the finest fabric and was inscribed: "Popular subscription to the Republic of the United States, in memory of Abraham Lincoln. Lyons, 1865."

But while the United States is making more silk than France, Lyons remains the real center and heart of the industry. American high-power looms are mostly engaged in turning out, by the mile, a cheaper kind of silk, and largely confined to standard grades in most common use. The thread is much coa.r.s.er. After having lived in Lyons it is possible to understand why this city continues to be the center of the silk industry, even when we consider that this is a mechanical age, and that the inventions of one nation spread quickly to competing nations.

American manufacturers are using the Jacquard loom, a Lyonnais invention. The first American looms were imported from Lyons, but one thing which was not bought and imported with the loom, was that apt.i.tude for handling it which is inborn in the Lyonnais. Machinery has its limitations, and back of the machine is the question of efficient labor.

The trained hand of the workman is needed at every turn. The looms of Lyons are famous for their light, soft, brilliant tissues. The silk thread woven into many of these beautiful products is so fine that two and one-half million feet of it would weigh only two and one-fifth pounds.

It is an experience to see the weavers at their work, and to watch the sure, skillful way in which they weave the thousands of delicate threads into harmonies of color. Their skill is the heritage that has come down from father to son. These workmen have a start of many centuries over their American compet.i.tors. Their ancestors were weaving silk before America was discovered, the industry being started in Lyons in 1450 by Italian refugees. Traditions count for a great deal in the silk industry, and from the moment when Lyonnais weavers gained the Grand Prix from their Venetian rivals, under Louis XIV, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, their looms were busy making costly robes and rare tapestries for the royalty of Europe. In the museum at Lyons is a robe worn by the famous Catherine II of Russia. One is shown tapestries that adorned the apartments of Marie Antoinette in the Tuileries at Paris, and the throne room of Napoleon I in the palace at Versailles.

Money could not buy these precious souvenirs of the Lyonnais looms. Many of the gorgeous robes worn at the coronation ceremony of George V were made in Lyons. To-day, as in the past, to make these rich silks and brocades that France is exporting, there is needed not only the skill of the worker, but the soul of the artist. This artistic French temperament is the important and deciding factor that makes Lyons the center of the silk industry. There has been the attempt to create in the United States a style which would be distinctly American. It failed. The German emperor also encouraged efforts to create a style which would be typically German. The result was the same. The atmosphere in these countries is too commercial and mechanical for artistic vitality. In such an environment it is said that the French weavers who are employed in American silk factories become less effective, and lose much of their artistic originality. The industrial pace is too fast. The cost of labor in the United States is so great that the emphasis has to be placed on speed and quant.i.ty in order to cover the cost of production. But in Lyons, with a cheaper labor cost, the organization of hand and power looms is so perfect that a manufacturer is able to fill large orders readily.

A superior loom organization, combined with a temperament naturally artistic and creative, explains the advantage of the Lyonnais manufacturer over his American rival, and why it is that American buyers for our large department stores come to Lyons twice a year to select designs and place orders with the Lyonnais manufacturers. Department stores which cater to the wealthiest cla.s.s of trade have their representatives permanently stationed here to keep in closest possible touch with the latest French fashions.

This question of style is of such absorbing interest to the average American home that it will be worth while to notice the forces at work in Lyons to produce it. Paris is so largely the parade ground for new fashions that nearly everyone overlooks the tremendous influence of Lyons in the creation of styles. The hundred and more silk manufacturers of Lyons have their own designers, who are constantly devising new patterns and color combinations. Most of the new designs and color schemes that appear every season in muslins, taffetas, satins, in all the varied kinds and qualities of silk, have their origin here. This is the creative source. It is Paris that discriminates and decides to which of these new patterns it will give expression in the models which will be copied in all the fashion centers of the world. Paris has the artistic sense of knowing how to combine the materials that Lyons furnishes. The two cities work together. The famous fashion stores of Paris and the silk manufacturers of Lyons are the primary factors in the creation of styles, and yet, after all, the origin of style is to be found in the spirit of the times. Our restless age craves constant change. A century ago in France, when life moved more slowly, the silk dress was an important part of the bride's trousseau, and after being worn on special occasions through her life, was handed down to the next generation. But to-day the styles change with the seasons.

And as they change in Paris so they change in the United States. If we look at this question of style simply from the standpoint of organization, it seems remarkable how perfectly every little detail of the complicated machinery has been worked out. A French silk manufacturer, who arrived in Lyons after a visit to several American cities, was impressed not only with the rapidity with which styles spread from the upper to the middle cla.s.ses, and the quickness with which the American people grasp new ideas of dress, but also with the fact that Paris fashions appear in New York and Chicago at almost the same time that they appear in Paris. He saw accurate reproductions of the spring Paris fashions, made in America of French materials, and with the color, the line, the idea, the detail, so perfectly reproduced that it would have been difficult to decide between them and the Paris garment. More and more we are coming to realize our great debt to France, and to the Old World, for our education in matters of taste, for our appreciation of beauty in line and color.

And in Lyons one comes closest to this artistic spirit in the workshops of the weavers, and especially those who work on the hand looms. There are thousands of these weavers of the old school that has done so much to make famous the silk industry of the city. Their wages are small and they work amid surroundings of extreme poverty. We visited some of them in their shops. Often we found the loom situated in a damp, gloomy bas.e.m.e.nt, or on the top floor of some old house that looked as though it might have pa.s.sed through the storm and stress of the period of the French Revolution. These sanitary conditions are so bad that in 1911 there was organized a charitable company with the sole purpose of providing decent lodgings where the weavers could work under improved conditions of light and shade. We always found them hospitable, eager to exhibit their work and explain the workings of the loom. In one workshop the weaver was busy with a piece of satin, the design being wrought in silver and gold. For this beautiful bit of tapestry, which had been ordered for one of the apartments of the Queen of England in Windsor Castle, the workman was receiving only one dollar a day. On another loom there was being reproduced a piece of sixteenth-century brocade. A French millionaire had noticed the original in a museum and wanted an exact reproduction of it for a new chateau he is building. After a morning pa.s.sed amid such scenes, you feel that Lyons is worth visiting, if for no other reason than to see at their work these artists of the loom who are so closely a.s.sociated with one of the world's oldest and most interesting industries.

CHAPTER V

CHAMBeRY TO NiMES

From Chambery our course ran southwest through the Midi, that great sweep of territory stretching across the Mediterranean basin from the Alps to the Pyrenees and embracing many of the most interesting regions in France.

Our departure, early in the afternoon, was under somber skies. We were just reaching the outskirts of the city when the engine gave evidence of trouble. The car ran for a little way and then stopped. An investigation revealed the necessity of cleaning the spark plugs. While engaged in this work, we did not notice the approach of an ox team which came swinging along the road, drawing a two-wheeled cart, the wheels high and heavy, of a type which one often sees in the Midi. We were bending over the engine, with no thought of impending danger, when, without warning, the great wheels were upon us. The driver was evidently asleep; it was too late to attract his attention. The wheel grazed one of us, and then, as the oxen swung in, crushed the other against the fender. It was fortunate that the fender yielded just enough to cause him to be forced under it and thus saved him from serious injury. Our car carried the scars of that encounter until the end of the trip. We were just as well satisfied that it was the car which bore the scars.

Not more than a mile or so from the scene of this adventure, a sign called attention to a long tunnel just ahead. The signs of the French roads speak an expressive language, they are so elaborately worked out for the traveler's convenience. This time it was a voice of warning.

Lamps were lighted. The tunnel closed over us. We could just make out the faint star of daylight ahead. Weird shadows danced in front of the car. In the silence and gloom, the noise of our progress over the slippery road was greatly magnified. We emerged from the tunnel to find ourselves above a broad valley and nearing the small town of Les Ech.e.l.les.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Out of the silence and gloom_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

Until this point our course was the route to the Grande Chartreuse, the monastery where, in mediaeval days, the monks concocted a soothing cordial to refresh the hours of rude toil. The road now branched off in another direction. Our hopes of catching a glimpse of the celebrated old monastery, built high amid enshrining mountains, were doomed to disappointment. A storm was about to break. Heavy clouds, weighted down by their burdens of water, blotted out everything. From a patch of blue sky above Les Ech.e.l.les, the sun streamed, and then disappeared. We raced down the easy slope to gain shelter in the village a mile away. Swiftly the thick curtain of rain closed in. It was a question whether we would be able to reach shelter before the fury of the elements burst upon us.

Once more our car proved equal to the emergency, and we poked our way into the shed adjoining a village inn and waited until the worst of the storm had subsided. The rain continuing, we put up the top, and started in time to see a brilliant rainbow arching the whole valley. It was only for a moment. For the rest of the afternoon we splashed steadily through puddles and mud.

The scenery changed. Mountain landscapes gave place to the lowlands of the Midi, barren rocks to fertile peasant farms. It was all a glimpse of France as she really is; not like Germany, a land of large cities, but rather of small towns and rural hamlets where peasant ownership is a fact, and where the peasantry form a mighty political force. France, so torn by rival factions, would be like a machine without a balance wheel if it were not for a large peasant cla.s.s attached to the soil by the bond of ownership. The life of the French peasant is not easy. He toils long hours for small rewards. Even in the rain, we could see him continuing at his work. But he is free. Those two or three acres are his own. That is the great point. This fact of possession, by creating local ties and by fostering patriotism, is the safeguard of the country. His implements appeared to be of the simplest; probably most of those whom we saw working on that rainy afternoon had never seen a steam plow or a harvesting machine. The homes were equally rude. Everywhere in France we noticed the absence of those cozy, comfortable houses which are so characteristic of the average American farm. Few fences were to be seen, possibly because of the spirit of justice as regards property rights, or perhaps because the land laws had been so perfectly worked out.

We entered Romans through a street so unusually wide as to be a pleasant surprise. Darkness was coming on. Road signs were indistinct, so we were forced to inquire the way to Valence. The people were obliging. Whether we were in the country or in some small town, there was always in evidence that same spirit of hospitable helpfulness which we found at the French _douane_ in Seez.

The street lamps of Valence were burning when we arrived at the Hotel de la Croix d'Or, so well known to all who journey from Paris to the Riviera. The marble entrance was quite imposing, but apparently after reaching the top of the staircase the builders were suddenly seized by a pa.s.sion for economy, since the interior was very plain, like most of the hotels in the French provincial towns. The dinner, however, made up for other deficiencies. Here, and all through the Midi, we could be sure of delicious _haricots verts_, _omelette_, and _poulet_; and what may seem strange, we never became tired of these dishes. The art of cooking them must be a monopoly of the French cuisine, for they never tasted so good in other countries.

Valence is more of a place to stop _en tour_ than to visit for sight-seeing. It is fortunate in being situated on the main route from Paris to the Riviera, the road that we were to follow, and probably the most popular and most frequented motor road in France. Over its smooth, broad surface pa.s.ses the winter rush of motorists seeking the warmer, more congenial climate of the Mediterranean sh.o.r.es.

We often found more or less trouble in getting out of the larger French towns. The streets are apt to have a snarl and tangle. Carts and wagons block the way. Roads are the worse for wear. This seemed to us one of the big differences between France and Germany. The German town is neat, clean, well-kept as if the watchful eye of munic.i.p.al authority were always on the alert to notice and remedy small defects. The average French town looks neglected. The people are just as thrifty, but they appear to care less for appearances.

From Valence we swung more quickly than usual into the splendid Route Nationale above mentioned. It was Sunday. Peasants were entering and coming from the small age-worn churches. At that hour the fields looked strangely deserted. Blue skies were radiant, the air agreeably cooled by the rain of the night before, the dust well laid. More and more we were yielding to the fascination of Europe from a motor car. Train schedules did not trouble us. We were independent. There were no worries about having to arrive or depart at a certain hour. Life on the road was a constant flow of new impressions, new experiences. Every village had its own unique attraction. Many motor cars pa.s.sed us, each one an object of interest. Possibly in our cruise along these high seas of the French roads our feelings were a little like those of the mariner when he sights a pa.s.sing ship. Where does she hail from? Where her probable destination? Of what make? What flag is she flying? It was always a welcome sight to view the Stars and Stripes flying toward us. One can usually tell the American car even when some distance away, it is built so high. We noticed many Fords and Cadillacs. There is not much of a market in Europe for the expensive American car, because the foreign high-priced car is considered by the Europeans to be good enough. The cheaper American product has a market because few of the foreign firms make a cheap car.

High noon was upon us, the heat oppressive, our appet.i.tes ravenous, when we stopped in the poor little village of Pierrelatte. The prospect for lunch was not encouraging. A single stray resident appeared at the other end of the silent street. The houses might have been occupied by peasants who wrested mere existence from a barren soil. The inn, which was pointed out to us, would never have been recognized as such. It looked more like a venerable ruin. In an American town of this size we would have hesitated before entering, and then probably would have turned away in despair to look for a bakery shop to stay the pangs of hunger. But we were growing familiar with the small French towns. It does not take long to discover that a hotel with an exterior symbolizing woe and want can have a very attractive interior at lunch time.

[Ill.u.s.tration:

_The ancient Roman theater at Orange_ _Page 88_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

We are still carrying pleasant memories of that lunch. There was _potage St. Germain_, made as only the French can make it. The oil for the _salade_ was from the neighboring olive groves of Provence. The _haricots verts_ picked that morning in the garden, the _raisins_ fresh from the vineyard. Best of all were the mushroom patties. One portion called for another. Our hostess was pleased; there was no mistaking our genuine appreciation of her cooking. Interrupting her culinary labors, she told us that the mushrooms were of her own canning. Each year it was necessary to lay in a larger supply. Tourists had found them so good that, on leaving, they had left orders for shipment to their home addresses. Now she was planning to erect a small factory. Her recital was interrupted by a Frenchman, who implored "_une troisieme portion_."

He purchased a dozen cans of mushrooms, and if they had been gold nuggets he could not have stowed them away more carefully in his car.

The French are authorities when it is a question of good things to eat.

The road to Orange was like a continuous leafy arbor. This shimmering arcade was too refreshingly cool to be covered quickly. On the outskirts of Orange we halted to see the Arc de Triomphe, a wonderful echo from the age of Tiberius. The arch stands in a circular gra.s.sy plot and the road divides, as if this product of the Roman mind were too precious to be exposed to the accidents of ordinary traffic.

The antique theater at the other end of the town is just as remarkable for architectural splendor. It is not enough to say that this structure is the largest and most magnificent of its kind in the world. It is also the best preserved. Every year in August dramatic and lyrical performances are given by _La Comedie Francaise_. Thus, after nearly twenty centuries, the theater is still serving its original purpose.

We were impressed by the auditory facilities. One of us stood on the lowest tier of seats, and the other on the topmost row. Even a whisper was distinctly audible. The erection of buildings with such perfect acoustics may perhaps be cla.s.sed among the lost arts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Arc de Triomphe at Orange_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

Southward from Orange, the country began to look more like Italy. Olive and mulberry trees were more numerous. The cypress trees, so often seen in Italian cemeteries, gave an impression of solemnity, almost of melancholy, to the country. At times they fringed the highway or stood alone upon the horizon like a distant steeple against a crimson sunset.

The twilight was full of a brooding, dreamy silence as of communion with the past. This is the atmosphere of Provence, an atmosphere of "old, forgotten, far-off things and battles long ago." If one is interested in wonderful ruins that suggest the might of Rome's empire, then let him go to Provence, that part of southern France where the Romans founded their _provincia_, and where they built great cities. We found the hotels rather dreary. The towns were quiet. Many of them, like Pierrelatte, looked so poor. The streets were dirty and littered. One notices these things at first, and then forgets them, the air is so clear, the sunshine so dazzling, the horizons so distinct, the stars so bright.

Much of the country is barren and rocky. But the rocks as well as the ruins have a rich, golden brown color from being steeped for centuries in this bright southern sun. The people are romantic, impractical, happy in their poverty, singing amid grinding routine. They have their own dialect, which is very musical. Even the names of their towns and cities are full of music, for example, Montelimar, Avignon, Carca.s.sonne. The country, with its Roman ruins, its bright sun, its rich color, its laughter, and song, is like another Italy. Nowhere except in that land do we come so close to the great things of Roman antiquity.

We reached the Grand Hotel in Avignon at nightfall, but dined outside that we might the better observe the life of the people. The sweet voice of an Italian street singer made it easy for us to imagine ourselves under the skies of Florence or Naples. Avignon is the most Italian looking city in France.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Palace of the Popes at Avignon_ _Page 91_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

The following morning was devoted to rambling. Sometime we must spend a week in this interesting walled city on the Rhone, where the popes lived between 1305 and 1377 in the huge palace that resembles a fortress. If there were nothing to Avignon but its high mediaeval walls and watch towers, the place would be worth a long pilgrimage. These gray ramparts, apparently new, were actually built in the fourteenth century. What a picture they gave us of stormy feudal times, when even the Church was compelled to seek safety behind strong walls!

The Palais des Papes is a colossal structure. We have forgotten what pope it was who was besieged here for years by a French army, and then escaped by the postern; it does not matter. The palace walls looked high and thick enough to defy all attack. The scenes of vice and profligacy during this period must have rivaled the court life of an ancient Roman emperor. There was one pope, John XXII, who in eighteen years ama.s.sed a fortune of eighteen million gold florins in specie, not to mention the trifling sum of seven millions in plate and jewels. Perhaps it was just as well for the popes of that time that the walls of their fortress towers were high and thick.

Above the palace of the popes and the adjoining cathedral is the Promenade des Doms, a public garden. We followed one of the paths that led along the edge of a high precipice. This view is one of the sights of Avignon. It embraces the valley of the Rhone, the swiftest river in France. The rapid current winds and disappears. Nearly opposite, on the other sh.o.r.e, is the village of Villeneuve. It is desolate enough now, with no trace of the beautiful villas which the cardinals built and where they were wont to revel amid luxury after the day's duties at the palace. Beyond the town we could see the stately towers of Fort St.

Andre, in that early period a frontier fortress of France, so jealous of the growing power of the papacy. Most appealing of all, was the broken bridge of St. Benezet, resisting with its few remaining arches the hastening Rhone. Above one of the piers is the little Chapel of St.