“Reflected Image of a Paradise”

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17575, 27 June 1925, Page 17 (Supplement)

“Reflected Image of a Paradise”

Carcassonne - Beautiful Old Town of South France.

TIIE liardy traveller journeying southwards through France to the Mediterranean with its allhiring Riviera should not under any conceivable circumstances omit to visit the town of Carcassonne, with its wonderful old citadel, the incarnation of many centuries of art and history. It is not a mere castle, but a town —ail entire and selfcontained town superbly fortified, and replete with its castle and church, a | one-time cathedral, hemmed in by forts | and bastions, garnished with posterns, drawbridges and portcullises, surrounded by moats, and honeycombed with subterranean passages. The whole is encircled by a double ring of hefty walls crowned by some fifty towers that I have withstood the fierce assaults of j many an invader. In all the length and breadth of France there is but one monument that can compare with this marvel of the south, this fine historic citadel of Carcassone. and that is the gem of Brittany— Mont St Michel, writes C.H.B.F. in the “Weekly Scotsman.” The Lower Town. The town of Carcassonne, situated on the left bank of the River Aude, pleasant enough, dates from 1247, and contains much that is of interest, though but the stepping stone to the Citadel across the curious thirteenth century bridge which spans the river. A brief survey of the lower town, or town proper, will serve as a preamble to our more important visit. The church of St Vincent, to the north, dates from the twelfth century, but was extensively rebuilt after its destruction in 1355 by Edward the Black Prince. The nave measures 67 ieet across—a dimension seldom repeated in France. In the Rue de la Maire, at Number 70. is a fourteenth century house, the only one extant in the The C athedral of St Michel dates back to the twelfth century, and is the fortunate possessor of one of the bandages which wound Christ’s body in the tomb. T his most sacred relic was | brought from Jerusalem by the monks of St Augustine, and after varied rest* i.ig places it now finds a haven here. The curiously painted nave, the work of modernists, will long remain in the memory. < arcassonne possesses a museum a most important collection of canvases, among which there vnay be admired works from the magic brush of Rubens, Titian, Van Dyck and Greuze. But, onward to the fortress across the river! The Citadel. ' The traveller has a choice of entry into the Citadel, namely, by the Eastern Gate (tlie Porte Xarbonnaise) or by the Western Gate (the Porte de I’Aude), which is nearest the town. Taking to the left upon entering by (he Porte de I’Aude, you discover the Lists, or space between the outer and inner circle of forts. In days that are no more jousts and tournaments were held within these lists, and doubtless, too, intrepid invaders have met their .loom herein, after valiantly piercing the outer ring of fortified towers. A guide book, or preferably the expert services of one of the guides, should be called in to explain the outstanding features, in detail, of each of the fiftythree towers which protect the ancient citadel. llow stoutly built are these towers, | ‘ind what havoc and destruction will have been wrought m the early years I of their existence* It is easy in the I fertile imagination to picture a scene I one. you may be sure, of very many) ■ m the voluminous history of Carcas-

tonne, while standing upon the battlements whose moats and wells all tell their tale. One smiles a little at the thought of the meagre protection which Carcassonne would afford against the weighty projectiles of the gigantic but now dismantled gun at Chaulnes on the Somme, or against other weapons of recent warfare. But in the dark uncertain days of the middle ages Carcassonne proved a veritable haven of security to its successive garrisons. Some little way round the Lists leads to the ancient castle of the feudal counts of Carcassonne—a fortress within a chain of forts, and the last refuge of the garrison (if ever they were reduced to this ignominious extremity). The castle is a substantial building worthy of every attention, and is protected by all the ingenious devices of the ages. Shortly after leaving the castle the southern corner of the Citadel is reached, and herein is the church of St Nazaire, a one-time cathedral, degraded now in rank but rich in monumental worth. St. Nazaire. The traveller enters this “ House of God ’ through a little modern porch under the steeple. Two different styles contrive herein for mastery, though blending harmoniously, and each is lovely in its way. In the construction of the church the triple nave is Roman, while the choir and transept are Gothic in design. Think of it—a thousand years have rolled above its head, l'or records still exist naming the church as far back as 920 A.D. Saint Nazaire is in the form of a Latin cross some 190 feet in length by 120 ieet in breadth, and the happy, tourist whose footsteps echo softly in the lofty nave may spend an hour in silently admiring the splendour of its stones. But it is in the choir that the glory lies. T here, surrounded by statues fondly sculptured during the episcopacy of Pierre dc Rochefort, who lies, himself, in a nearby chapel—there is the choir, a thing of beauty and surely a joy for ever. • These fine statues contribute in no mean manner to its charm, and to me they. vividly recall those of Amiens cathedral—don t you remember, you who have idled in the aftermath of war in the ruins that once were Picardy." Can you not see the similarity of style? Most likely the same old mediaeval master hands have carved them all. Incomparable Old Glass. After the choir with its statues come the windows through the incomparable old glass of which—the finest in all the Midi—the sun pours its rays, stain- : ing with innumerable colours the lofty beauty of the interior, where a myriad gems seem to glitter with majestic fire upon the ancient walls. The great rose window facing to the north assumes betimes the violet or purple tint of dawn, while that lacing to the south receives and gently filters the fond caresses of the setting sun, which throws its changing beams of multi-coioured light, resembling the delicate pink of an evening twilight. In the Radulph chapel you will find the tomb of a thirteenth century bishop. Long has lie rested here—longer may lie still remain! Behind the modern altar can be seen an ancient fountain grotesquely sculptured, and there is elsewhere in the building a beautiful statue of a woman praying. The organ of St Nazaire, said to be the oldest in France, dates back—so authentic records run—to 1522. So much, then, for Carcassonne byday—but what of a glimpse of CarcasI sonne by night? How wonderful it is, in this advanced twentieth century, to steal silently through the dark deI serted streets of this ancient citadel, whose origin is lost in the mists of

time; to commune with the ever-pres-ent spirits of the dim, uncertain past that walk with ghostly intent by one’s side. For they can be felt when thus picking one’s way among the peaceful stones by the mysterious light of a lantern. (Oh! shame upon those whose linger presses the switch of ail electric torch! ) Overhead the moon illuminates betimes the open spaces, shading with delicious and romantic mastery the wonders of the night. » « Burning of the Town. Then there is the weird spectacle of Carcassonne on fire. Once seen under ideal conditions this truly unique oc- ' currence will never be forgotten. The act was initiated in 1898 as a signal honour to certain illustrious compatriots who were passing through the town, and so well did the experimental fire succeed that Carcassonne has been “ burnt ” each year since then, at the time of the fetes of the “ quatorze juillet.” the national holidays. It would destroy the effect of this singular feat and dampen the ardour of the prospective tourist were I to disclose the details! Suffice it if I recommend him to ascend the hill to the cemetery of St Michel above Ahe town proper, and from that elevation survey the scene. There are some things in life that stand out boldly against the mediocre background of everyday occurrences, and assuredly the “ burning ” of Carcassonne is one of them. Round about this time, plays are enacted in the open air theatre which has been created adjacent to the church of St Nazaire, lacing No. 42, Tower—that called the Tour du Moulin du Midi. In 1910, two years after the inauguration of the theatre, “ Hamlet ” was produced, and took place at nighl! Those of us who have seen the curtain rung up on “Ilamlet” with the outline of the battlements at Elsinore, dimly discerned in the fading tints of sepulchral light (electrical effects), will remember the thrill of weird anticipation that took us. But what would have been our state of nervous tension and the swaying of our imagination had we been lucky enough to witness the superb performance of “ Hamlet ” in the open air of Heaven, on real battlements, with torches to light the scene and the eerie noises of the night to punctuate the dialogue! It may yet be your privilege to witness a revival of “ Ilamlet ” or “ King Lear” in this fine theatre, for then only can the unique sensation be enjoyed to the full. This very year a select company of Paris actors inter preted upon the stage at Carcassonne a poetical adaptation of “ The Phoenicians.” by Euripides, and “ Mithridate,” by Racine. - i “ Reflected Image of a Paradise.” _J Then, when the happy tourist takes liis till of Carcassonne and the splendid valley of the Aude, with its gorges and canons, its Black Mountain and its thermal springs, and bears away with him in the inner sanctuary of his mind a reminiscence of the glories of the past which the restless spirits of the Citadel, whispering have imparted to him, he will assuredly reiterate the words of a certain holy man of Languedoc in the early fifth century—“. . . The region is wonderfully interlaced with vines; garnished with fruits and meadows; charmed with woods; refreshed by sparkling fountains, and watered by streams winding their tortuous courses through the valley. In truth, the people of the country seem not to have a portion of the earth so much as the reflected image of a paradise. . . The reflected image of a paradise I Oh, lucky reveller in the mighty past, for you and me Time has moved apace, and with the passing of the years have come changes, welcome and unwelcome. But for this place Time has stood still throughout the long historic ages, and has dealt kindly with it.