The "bull-fight," so called, was nothing so very bloodthirsty or terrifying; merely the worrying by the "amateurs" of a short-legged, little black bull, about the size of a well-formed Newfoundland dog, or perhaps a little larger—appearances are often deceptive when one receives a disappointment.
Truly, as Mistral says, Provence is a land of joy and, laughter, and fêtes followed close on one another, it seemed.
We had seen the announcements in the local journals of a "Mis à Mort" at Nîmes, and a "Corrida de Meurte"—borrowing the phrase from the Spanish—at Arles, each to take place in the great Roman arenas, which had not seen bloodshed for centuries; not since the days when the Romans matched men against each other in gladiatorial combat, and turned tigers loose upon captive slaves.
The "to-the-death" affairs of Arles and Nîmes appealed to us only that we might contrast the modern throngs that crowd the benches with those which history tells us viewed the combats of old. Doubtless there is little resemblance, but all the same there is a certain gory tradition hanging about the old walls and arches of those great arenas which is utterly lacking in the cricket-field, tawdry plazas of some of the Spanish towns. The grim arcades of these great Roman arenas are still full of suggestion.
We did not see either the "Mis à Mort" at Arles, or the "Corrida de Meurte" at Nîmes; the automobile got stalled for a day in the midst of the stony Crau, with a rear tire which blew itself into pieces, and necessitated a journey by train into Arles in order to get another to replace it. Owing to the slowness of this apology for a railway train, and the awkwardness of the timetable, the great "Mis à Mort" at Arles was long over ere we had set out over the moonlit Crau for Martigues on the shores of the Etang de Berre.
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| St. Blaise | Les Saintes | St. Mitre |
| At Martigues | ||
We knew Martigues of old, its bouillabaisse, the Père Chabas and all the cronies of the Café du Commerce where you kept your own special bottle, of whatever apéritif poison you fancied, in order that you might be sure of getting it unadulterated.
"La Venise de Provence," Martigues, is known by artists far and wide. Chabas and his rather grimy little hotel, which he calls the Grand Hotel something or other, has catered for countless hundreds of artist folk who have made the name and fame of Martigues as an artist's sketching-ground. After a three weeks' pretty steady automobile run the artist of the party craved peace and rest and an opportunity of putting Martigues's glorious sunsets on canvas, and so we camped out with Chabas, and ate bouillabaisse and the beurre de Provence and langouste and Chabas's famous straw potatoes and rum omelette for ten days, and were sorry when it was all over.