From Seven to Seventy: Memories of a Painter and a Yankee

by Edward Simmons

III. Montreuil

The history of France could be told by the wall which surrounds the village of Montreuil. Originally encircled by a Roman structure (the bricks of which still show a few feet above the ground), every succeeding dynasty has added its touch, each a different material, until the wall has become as expressive of the past as a patchwork quilt. There are several layers of soft stone, one of granite put on by Vauban; the top must have been added many years ago, for there are large trees growing upon it. The town was besieged thirteen times by the English, but was never taken.

During one of these sieges, there was a drought inside the wall, and they were forced to brave the enemy and get their water from one of the many springs out upon the hillside. Thinking it better to save the fighting men for sterner duty, it was decided to let the clerks and those who wrote in the books go for the supply. There was one petit clerc, noted for the beauty of his singing in church, who was beloved of a girl of high birth. These two met but seldom, as their affair was not approved by the young woman’s family. One night the clerk’s name was on the list of those who must go outside the gates. His sweetheart found it out and, stealing the message before it was delivered to him, she put on boy’s clothing and took his place. That night the English lay in wait and killed a dozen or more water carriers, throwing the bodies into the spring. This was supposed to have stopped the flow of the water, and to-day the inhabitants will show the sink in the side of a hill which used to be this spring. I have always wanted to dig down and see if a girl’s skeleton were there.

Standing on this wall, I could not help being hypnotized by the surroundings into a feeling that it was not the nineteenth, but the fifteenth or sixteenth century. I could see, with my mind’s eye, coming up the valleys toward the walled town, a long line of men and laden beasts, a troop of soldiery returning to their nest with the spoils, the loot raped from the countryside; for as neither printing nor powder had come to their aid, the countryfolk were robbed of everything they had but their shift and their pickax. Led, perchance, by Sieur Johan or my lord high bishop, they bore upon their saddlebows beautiful maidens with streaming hair, their heads drooping and their hands tied behind their backs.

At the end of one of the streets of Montreuil, quite a distance down, there is a church which seems to be covered with lichens, but on nearer approach they are seen to be bullet holes—mute testimonials to the sufferings the people have endured during the ages—for example, the result of the French Commune.

I slept in the inn made famous by Laurence Sterne. It was here that he stopped near the beginning of his Sentimental Journey and hired his valet. On its wall in large copper letters were the figures 1640, indicating that it had been built in that year. It was a fitting place to stop on a quest of romance, and, indeed, one could not be surprised at any strange adventure that might overtake one in such a memory-laden setting. Even the bedroom (I wondered if it were the same that Sterne occupied) was of a charm and quaintness that was conducive to the most extravagant dreams. The furniture and fixings breathed of the long ago, and all about in convenient nooks and crannies were bits of old brass for which any collector would give a king’s ransom. But best of all (and these were evidently placed so that they would be the first things upon which the sleep-laden eyes of the lodger would rest when he was awakened by the early morning noises), was the decoration around the foot of the bedroom wall. In solemn procession, and reaching to a height of about five or six feet, were illustrated the gods and goddesses of Olympus! I have always wanted to do a room like this.

IV. Grez

Grez has been immortalized by the artists that have stopped there. The bridge, built over the river Loing, which was so much like the Concord that it was a constant delight to me, has been painted times innumerable, but it is so charming that we never tire of seeing it on canvas.

The story of Grez is the story of nearly every French village, and one has only to notice the way it is laid out to visualize its history. There is one central street upon which the houses face so close together as to form a solid wall on either side. In the back of this phalanx of stone the whole life of the community goes on. Here are the gardens, many of them sloping down to the river, where are the stones upon which they wash their clothes; here the children play, protected from all harm. The cultivated fields lie away up on the hillsides, as do the pastures, but in olden times, before the last ray of the sun had left the sky, every evening would see each inhabitant of the village back in his home, close to his neighbors, protected not only from the roaming wild animals, but from the lord upon the hill as well. The wolves were the scavengers and nightly used to clear the little street of all its refuse, so that anything thrown out of the window (and everything was) had disappeared in the morning light.

I passed many months in Grez. Here again I met the trail of Stevenson, only too late. He had started the habit of going there, and I saw the actual garret room which he speaks about in the Treasure of Franchard. It was here that the mummer died—while the big shadows were dancing about the walls—and left the boy to the doctor. The same landlady was bustling around the inn, and during my stay, as business was none too good (or else she was a generous provider and therefore a bad manager), we had to give her our money beforehand or there would be no dinner.