Riviera Towns | Page 8

land of lofty mountains and deep valleys, of wind and sun, of sea
and snow. Mental as well as physical acclimatization comes. The spirit,
the life, the very soul of the Risorgimento had nothing Italian in it. It
was of Piedmont and Savoy and the Riviera--a product of the Alpes
Maritimes."
I would have listened longer. But the bell above us began to ring,
several peals first, and then single strokes, each more insistent than the
last. The abbé was still in the Garibaldi mood, and the volunteer of '49
and I were in sympathy. He knew it, and refused to hear the summons
to vespers. But out of the door came a girl who could break a spell of
the past, because she was able to weave one of the present. She
dominated us immediately. She would not have had to say a word. A
hymn book was in her hand, opened at the page where she intended it

to stay open. "This afternoon, M. l'Abbé, we shall sing this," she stated.
"No, we cannot do it!" he protested rather feebly. "You see, the
encyclical of the Holy Father enjoins the Gregorian, and I think the
boys can sing it--"
The organist interrupted: "You certainly know, M. l'Abbé, that we
cannot have decent singing for the visits to the stations, unless the big
girls, whom I have been training now for two months--"
"But we must obey the Papal injunction, Mademoiselle Simone," put in
the priest still more mildly.
Mademoiselle Simone's eyes danced mockingly, and her mow
confirmed beyond a doubt the revelation of clothes and accent. Here
was a twentieth-century Parisienne in conflict with a reactionary rule of
the church in a setting where turning back the hands of the clock would
have seemed the natural thing to do.
"Pure nonsense!" was her disrespectful answer. "With all the young
men away, the one thing to do is to make the music go."
I had to speak in order to be noticed. "So even in Cagnes the young
girls know how to give orders to M. le Curé? The Holy Father's
encyclical--" I could stop without finishing the sentence, for I had
succeeded. The dancing eyes and the moue now included me.
"M. l'Abbé, it is time for the service," she said firmly. "If this Anglais
comes in, he will see that I have reason."
She disappeared. The abbé looked after her indulgently, shrugged his
shoulders, with the palms of his hands spread heavenward, and
followed her.
In the meantime the worshipers, practically all of them women and
children, had been turning corners above and below. I made the round
of the group of buildings, and saw only little doors here and there at
different levels. There was no portal, no large main entrance. When I

came back to the bend of the road, the music had started. I was about to
enter the tower door--Mademoiselle Simone's!--when I saw the Artist
put up his pencil. The service would last for some time, so I joined him,
and we continued to mount.
Above the church tower, steps led to the very top of the hill, which was
crowned by a château. Skirting its walls, we came to an open place. On
the side of the hill looking towards the Alps, a spacious terrace had
been built out far beyond the château wall. Along the parapet were a
number of primitive tables and benches. The tiny café from which they
were served was at the end of a group of nondescript buildings that had
probably grown up on a ruined bastion of the château. Seated at one of
these tables, you see the Mediterranean from Nice to Antibes, with an
occasional steamer and a frequent sailing-vessel, the Vintimille rapide
(noting its speed by the white engine smoke), one tramway climbing by
Villeneuve-Loubet towards Grasse and another by Saint-Paul-du-Var to
Vence, and more than a semi-circle of the horizon lost in the Alps.
The Sunday afternoon animation in the place was wholly masculine.
No woman was visible except the white-coiffed grandmother who
served the drinks. The war was not the only cause of the necessity of
Mademoiselle Simone's opposition to antiphonal Gregorian singing. I
fear that the lack of male voices in the vesper service is a chronic one,
and that Mademoiselle Simone's attempt to put life into the service
would have been equally justifiable before the tragic period of la
guerre. For the men of Cagnes were engrossed in the favorite sport of
the Midi, jeu aux boules. I have never seen a more serious group of
Tartarins. From Monsieur le Maire to cobbler and blacksmith, all were
working very hard. A little ball that could be covered in one's fist is
thrown out on the common by the winner of the last