AROUND Monte Carlo the mountains crowd down to the sea with such menace as to threaten to push the light-hearted town into the deep, for the sloping ledge to which it holds is narrow. Thus it is that hanging above Monte Carlo is a steep mountain side, half slope, half precipice, green wherever an olive tree or a pine can cling, grey where the rock lies bare or where the cliff soars upwards.
On the summit of this stupendous barrier and at a height of 1,574 feet is La Turbie. Gazing up from the streets of Monte Carlo the place can be located, although neither its walls, nor its houses nor any part of it are visible; but it is indicated by two remarkable objects which stand out clear on the sky line. They are strange and ill-assorted. One of the objects is a vast pillar or tower of stone, of the colour of a wheat stalk. From the Casino garden, half a mile below, it looks like a gigantic brick standing on end and turned edgeways. This is the Roman monument of Augustus erected over 1,900 years ago. The other object, placed by its side, is a coral pink hotel that may have sprung up in the night. Its outline is intentionally fantastic for it is built in “the Oriental style” in the belief that the simple might mistake it for a mosque or a palace of the caliphs. In spite of its appearance it is popular and well esteemed. It is a theatrical creation as gaudy as if it were flooded by a rose-tinted limelight and as out of place on the top of the stately cliff as a cheap Paris bonnet on the head of the Venus de Milo.
LA TURBIE: THE ROMAN MONUMENT.
There are many ways of reaching La Turbie from the lower ground. For carriages there is the Cemetery road. It is so called, not because it is dangerous to motorists, but because it passes a cemetery. It winds in and out among the prehistoric fortifications of Mont des Mules and Mont Justicier, but is so irresolute, so capricious, so inclined to go any way rather than up hill to La Turbie that the route is exasperating. The track of the road is like the track of a drunken man who has become obstinate and deaf to all persuasions to go straight home.
There are two mule-paths up to the town, one on either side of the Vallon des Gaumates, the Moneghetti path on the west and the Bordina on the east. These paths are at least direct and know where they are going. They are paved with cobble stones, are arranged in long steps, are as monotonous as a treadmill and probably as tiring. They are paths that might have climbed up the penitential heights in Dante’s “Purgatorio.” Still they pass by pleasant ways among the shadows of the olives and the slips of garden piled one above the other on green ledges. Moreover they are the old primitive roads of the country, the roads trod by the mediæval pedlar, by the wandering monk and by the errant knight. Of all works of man throughout the ages they are among the oldest and the least disturbed by change.
It is possible also to reach La Turbie from Monte Carlo by the rack-and-pinion railway. The traveller sits in a carriage that slopes like a roof and is pushed up hill from behind by an engine that puffs like an asthmatic person overpowered by rage. There are three stations to be passed on the way. Nothing happens at two of these stations except that the train stops. It is merely a ceremonial act. There would be anxiety and inquiries of the guard if anyone got in or got out. One station is in a drear rocky waste, far removed from the haunts of men. The only passenger that could be expected to alight here would be a scapegoat laden with the sins of Monte Carlo and eager to get away from the unquiet world and be lost in the wilderness.
La Turbie, or Turbia, was a Roman town. It stood on the famous road that led from Rome into Gaul. It was a busy and prosperous place that probably attained to its greatest importance about two thousand years ago, for the town goes back to a period before the time of Christ. When La Turbie was at the height of its vigour Monaco was a barren rock. Indeed when the first building appeared upon Monaco La Turbie was already more than twelve centuries old.
The ancient Roman road—the Aurelian Way as it was called—ran from the Forum at Rome to Arles on the banks of the Rhone. Its total length, according to Dr. George Müller, was 797 miles. It was commenced in the year B.C. 241 and its construction occupied many decades.
Starting from the Forum it followed the coast northwards. It passed through Pisa, Spezia and Genoa. Then turning westwards it came to Ventimiglia, where it followed the line of the present main street. It passed through Bordighera, along the Strada Romana of that town, and creeping under the foot of the Rochers Rouges it entered Mentone. It crossed the little torrent of St. Louis close to the beach and then began to mount upwards. Its course through Mentone is indicated by the Rue Longue. Thence it ascended to the Mont Justicier and so reached the crest of the hill at La Turbie. Between Mentone and La Turbie there are still to be found traces of this ancient highway which have been left undisturbed among the olive woods.
The road entered La Turbie by that gate which is still called the Portail Romain, made its way through the town with no little pomp and passed out by the Portail de Nice on the west. It now crossed the present Grand Corniche road, which it followed for a while, and then dipped pleasantly into the valley of Laghet. Leaving the convent on its right it turned to La Trinité-Victor and so moved onwards until it reached the great and important Roman city of Cimiez, then known as Cemenelum. Here we may take leave of it.
On this venerable highway La Turbie occupied a position of much interest. It marked the highest point attained by the Via Aureliana in its long journey. To the Romans it was the “Alpis summa.” It stands on the ridge or col which connects Mont Agel with the Tête de Chien and represents the summit of the pass between those heights. More than that—as a landmark visible for miles—it pointed out to the world the ancient frontier between Italy and Gaul and, in later years, the line that divided Provence from Liguria.
To the Roman traveller by the Aurelian Way La Turbie was a place of some significance. It was a goal to be attained. When once the weary man had passed through the gate of Turbia he could sit himself down on a cool bench in its shady street, wipe his brow, loosen his pack, let drop his staff and feel that the worst of the journey was over. He had crossed the frontier into Gaul and was almost within sight of the comforting city of Cemenelum of which old travellers, gossiping in the Forum, had told so much.
La Turbie was a posting town that marked a critical stage in the journey from the Eternal City. It was a place of great bustle and commotion in the spacious Roman days, for companies, large or small, were constantly arriving or leaving and whichever way they went they must halt at the col. How often children playing outside the gate would suddenly rush back to their mothers, with shrill cries, to say that they could see a party winding up the hill towards the town! How often the people would hurry out to see what kind of folk they were and to guess as to their means and their needs!
A CORNER IN LA TURBIE.
Sometimes it would be a body of Roman soldiers, marching in rigid column, under the command of a dignified centurion. At another time some great patrician, with his vast retinue, would mount up to the town. He would grumble, no doubt, at the steepness of the hill, but would be coaxed by the bowing governor to come to the edge of the cliff and look down upon Monaco Bay and upon the glorious line of coast spread out upon either side of it. The patrician lady, alighting from her litter, would thrill the little place with curiosity and excitement. The young women of La Turbie would note keenly the fashion of her dress—the last new mode of Rome—and the manner in which her hair was “done” in order to imitate both the one and the other when the grande dame had swept on to Arles. The suite at the patrician’s heels would be accosted by the gossips of La Turbie and by the young men about town eager to glean the latest news from the great city, news from the lips of men who but a month or so ago had strolled about the Forum or had viewed some amazing spectacle from the galleries of the Coliseum.
The slaves, who led the pack-horses and carried the litters, would chat with the local slaves in the stables and in the meaner wine shops and discuss the general trend of affairs in this outcast, deity-deserted country and compare the vices of their respective masters and the meanness or beauty of their respective ladies. Even the dogs in the cavalcade would excite the interest of the dogs on the hill. One may imagine the supercilious sniff with which the dog that had tramped all the way from Rome would regard the dog stranded on this bleak col and the snarl with which the La Turbie dog—more wolf than dog—would challenge the pampered intruder.
At another time a company of traders would pass through the town—strangely-garbed men speaking an unknown tongue and followed by a train of mules and donkeys laden with bales of rare stuffs and with panniers filled with mysterious and glittering things. One can see the pretty girl of La Turbie coaxing a grey-bearded merchant in a black burnous to open a pannier and let her have a peep and picture the staring eyes of the crowd that would hang over her shoulder.
On another day a troupe of Roman dancing girls would trip through the gate with a ripple of bright colour and with roguish glances, to the great disturbance of the young men of La Turbie who would be too shy to speak to them, too unready to reply to their city banter and too conscious of their own gaucherie.
On occasion, too, a party of gladiators would swagger along on their way to the arena of Cimiez, splendid men, perfect in form, firm of foot, alert in carriage they would swing down the street with a rhythmical step and would be followed by the children through the gate and far along the road, and followed, too, by the eyes of every young woman in La Turbie who could find a window or a gap on the wall that gave a view of the highway.
The main street of the town, along which the great road bustled, must have presented, on these days of coming or going, a scene of much animation. Here were the chief inns and the wine booths, the little local shops, the fruit stalls, the cobbler’s vaulted niche where sandals were repaired, the cutler’s store very bright with bronze, the houses of the dealers in corn and fodder and most assuredly some begrimed hut where an old crone sold curiosities and souvenirs of the place, native weapons and ornaments, a hillman’s head-dress, strange coins dug up outside the walls, bright pieces of ore found among the mountains, the local snake in a bottle, some wolf’s teeth and a shell or two from Monaco beach. In the lesser streets would be the stables for the pack-horses and the mules, the cellars for goods in transit, the hovels for the slaves, the moneylenders’ dens, the compounds for the soldiers and the huts of the wretched wild-eyed Ligurians who, under the lash of their masters, did the mean work of the town.
La Turbie was indeed in these times a great caravanserai, a halting place on the march of civilisation, a post by the side of the inscrutable road that led from the wonder-teeming East to the dull, unawakened land of the West, a road that carried with it the makings of a people who would dominate the world when the power and the glory of Rome had passed away.
OF Turbia of the Roman days practically no trace exists with the notable exception of the Great Monument which is very much more than a trace. After the Romans went away La Turbie—although well stricken in years—was subjected to that pitiless discipline which straitened and embittered the younger days of every town along the shores of the Mediterranean. Its history differs but in detail from the early history of Nice or Eze, or of Roquebrune. The Lombards and the Saracens in turn fell upon it like wild beasts and shook it nearly to death. It was burned to a mere heap of cinders and stones. It was looted with a thoroughness that not even a modern German could excel. It was besieged and taken over and over again. At one time the Guelphs held it and at another the Ghibellines. It was bought and sold and had as many successive masters as there were masters to have. It belonged now to Genoa and then to Ventimiglia, now to Monaco and then to Eze.
Throughout the restless Middle Ages it was a small fortified town of little military importance. It had its circuit of walls and its gates, its keep and its battlements; but, at its best, it was a place with more valour than strength. No doubt it looked sturdy enough on the top of the hill, a neat compact town as round as a jar with the great white Roman monument erect in its midst, like a dead lily in a stone pot.
During the intervals when it was not being looted or burned it was treated with some dignity; for when the Counts of Provence were the masters of La Turbie they nominated a châtelain or governor from among “the first gentlemen of Nice.” The distinction thus conferred was a little marred by the fact that the gentleman was not required to reside in the town. Gentlemen with very sonorous names and connected with “the best families” were, from time to time, nominated for this post; but they do not seem to have added much to the comfort of the place as a residence.[41]
The visitor to La Turbie, whether he arrives by the rack-and-pinion railway or by the mule-path, will assuredly make his way at once to the Belvedere to see that view which has moved the guide books to such unanimous rapture. He will probably be met on his way by a man—very foreign in appearance—who will wish to sell him an opera glass on one morning and a square of carpet on the next. He will also come upon a camera obscura, set up for the benefit of those who prefer to see through a glass darkly and who would sooner view a scene when reflected on a white table-cloth in a dark room than gaze upon it with the naked eye.
At the camera obscura kiosk postcards are sold together with articles which the vendor asserts are souvenirs and mementoes of La Turbie. These things for remembrance are hard to understand. One wonders why a polished slate inkstand from Paris, a mineral from (possibly) a Cornish mine, a sea-shell from the tropics or some beads from Cairo should call to mind a mediæval town in Provence and the wars of the Guelphs and the Ghibellines.
When the pilgrim in his progress has passed both the man with the carpet and the things that will keep green the memory of La Turbie he can enjoy the view that opens out on the edge of the cliff. It is a view that not even a camera obscura can enhance. There is the line of coast that sweeps from Bordighera on the east to the Esterels on the west; while below, as a bright splash of yellow, white and red, is Monte Carlo. The spectator looks directly down upon Monte Carlo as he would view a thing on the pavement from the top of a tower. It is not often that one can see at a glance an entire European state from frontier to frontier and from seaboard to hinterland; but here is laid out before the eye every foot of the principality of Monaco as complete as on a map.
Monte Carlo is largely a display of roofs among which it is possible to pick out those of familiar hotels and those of the villas of friends. There is an odd sense of indelicacy about the bold inspection of a friend’s roof. There is nothing indecent about a roof but there is an impression of spying, of looking down the chimneys and of taking advantage of an exceptional position, for a roof is not the best part of a house and in the case of friends it somehow comes into the category of things that you ought not to see.
A STREET IN LA TURBIE.
LA TURBIE: OLD WINDOWS IN RUE DROITE.
The most precious object in La Turbie is the Monument, although it is now in a state of woeful decay. It stands in a dismal waste where clothes are spread out to dry and where fowls wander about scratching, as if searching for Roman remains. It is surrounded by houses which appear to have contracted the leprous complaint which has attacked the great trophy. As a monument of melancholy it is not to be surpassed. As a place of dreariness the spot where it is found can hardly be exceeded in pathos. It needs only the solitary figure of Job, sitting on a broken column with his face buried in his hands, to complete the picture of its desolation.
The monument was erected, or was at least completed, in the year B.C. 6. It was raised by the Roman senate to commemorate the victories of the Emperor Augustus over the tribes of southern Gaul and to record the final conquest of that tract of country. It was a colossal structure of supreme magnificence that took the form of a lofty tower very richly ornamented. It stood upon a square base formed of massive blocks of stone which are still in place, for none but an uncommon power could ever move them. The tower itself was circular and encased in marble upon which, in letters of gold, was engraved an inscription, “IMPERATORI • CÆSARI • DIVI • FILIO • AUGUSTO • PONT • MAX • IMP • XIV • TRIB • POT • XVII • S.P.Q.R.” These words, which suggest a form of shorthand or a crude telegraphic code, were followed by an account of the Emperor’s triumph and the names of the forty-five Alpine tribes that he had conquered. Of this imposing inscription nothing now remains. It is replaced by the feeble initials of sundry shopboys from neighbouring towns, cut with penknives in the presence of their admiring ladies.
About this tower was a round colonnade and above it another circle of pillars with statues; while on the summit was a colossal effigy of the victorious emperor, eighteen feet or more in height. The whole was a stupendous work worthy of the amazing people who built it. It is now a shapeless pile as devoid of art as a crag on a mountain-top. But it is still impressive by its overwhelming height, by its massiveness, and its suggestion of determined strength. High up on one side are two columns recently put in place, which show how an arcade once circled around it; but, apart from this, the whole mass looks more rock-like and more supremely simple than any work of man. Everything that made it beautiful in substance and human in spirit is gone—the colonnades, the statues, the capitals, the friezes and the carved trophies of arms.[42]
The destruction of this exquisite fabric commenced early and was pursued through successive centuries with peculiar pertinacity. As has been already said La Turbie, throughout its long career, was the subject of many onslaughts. No matter what may have been the purpose of the attacking party or their nationality they did not leave the town until they had devoted some time to the annihilation of the tower of Augustus. To contribute something to the breaking up of this monument seems to have been an obligation, a rite imposed upon every invading force, a local custom that could not be ignored. The Lombards appear to have commenced the work with great spirit and heartiness but with limited means. Then the Saracens came and took bolder measures, but measures founded upon imperfect scientific knowledge, for they attempted to destroy this tower of victory with fire. The Guelphs and the Ghibellines, during their intermittent occupation of La Turbie, built a fort with stones obtained from the edifice. It was a strong fort in the making of which much material was employed and the trophy became a watch tower.
As the knowledge of destructive processes improved more powerful steps were taken to uproot the tower. It was undermined and attempts were made to blow it up. These efforts were attended with some results; but the monument still stands. Finally, about the beginning of the eighteenth century a very determined attempt was made by the French to clear this arrogant pile from off the face of the earth. The work of destruction was entrusted to the Maréchal de Villars and there is no doubt that he did his best; but the monument still stands.
Quite apart from these periodic assaults the monument was, from the earliest days, regarded as a quarry and was worked with regularity and persistence age after age. In the twelfth century by permission of the Lords of Eze the marble—or what remained of it—was stripped from the walls by the Genoese and was carried away to decorate their palaces and their shrines, to build cool courts, to form terraces in gardens, to furnish the pillars for a pergola or the basin for a well. The marble of the high altar in the old cathedral of Nice came from the Roman monument. The present town of La Turbie is built in great extent from the ruins of this tower of victory; while all over the country pieces of stone, worked by the Romans in the year B.C. 6, will be found in villas, in cottage walls, in motor garages, and in goat sheds. And yet the monument still stands. This is the feature about it that inspires the greatest wonder, this feature of determined immortality; for it would seem that so long as the world endures the pillar of victory will crown the everlasting hill.
It has been battered and worn by the wind, the hail and the rain of nearly two thousand years. It has been gnawed at by snow and bitten by frost. It has been slashed by lightning and shaken by earthquake. It has been shattered by hammers and picks, has been torn asunder by crowbars, cracked with fire and rent by gun-powder, but still it stands and still it will stand to the end of time.
That this ruinous old tower should have become, in early days, a thing of myths and mysteries can be no matter of surprise. That its colonnade was haunted, that its black hollows were the abode of a god and that its statues spoke in the local tongue was the belief of generations. That it was a place to fear and to be avoided at night was a maxim impressed upon every boy and girl as soon as they had ears to hear and feet that could flee.
The most remarkable quality of the trophy was the intimate knowledge of a certain kind that it was reputed to possess. Owing to this attribute it became an oracle. One of the statues—that of a god—could speak and was prepared (under conditions) to reply to appropriate questions. It must not be supposed that the tower of the Emperor Augustus became a mere inquiry office. It specialised in knowledge and the deity who presided would deal only with matters that came within the province of this particular phase of wisdom.
One might hazard the guess that the fullest information that the monument had acquired during its many years of life would relate to assault and battery, and, in a less exhaustive degree, to battle, murder and sudden death. On all questions relating to violence as displayed by man it could claim to speak as an expert. It is curious, however, that on this subject the speaking statue was silent. It professed to have a knowledge of one thing and one thing only and that was not violence but human love. But even in this branch of learning it specialised for it dealt exclusively with but a phase of the subject—the constancy and sincerity of women.
The broken colonnade was no doubt a favourite resort for lovers and a listening statue could learn much as to the value of vows and would gain, during a life of centuries, experience on the topic of women’s fidelity. It was upon this occult, most difficult and complex subject that the oracle had the courage to speak.
It thus came to pass that doubting husbands were in the habit of repairing to La Turbie in order to ask personal and searching questions about their wives. How the oracle was “worked” is not known. That it was susceptible to influences which still have a place in human affairs is very probable. Light is thrown upon the methods of the oracle by the writings of one Raymond Feraud, a troubadour, who in the thirteenth century composed a poem on this very subject.[43] The morality revealed by the writer—it may be said—belongs to that century, not to this.
It appears from the troubadour’s account that Count Aymes, a prince of Narbonne, was a jealous man and probably, as a husband, very tiresome. He had some doubts as to the fidelity of his wife Tiburge and one day alarmed this cheerful lady by announcing that he proposed to drag her to La Turbie and to ask the stone deity certain pertinent questions as to her recent behaviour. Tiburge was a lady of resource and before the inquiry at La Turbie took place she started for the Lerin Islands and sought an interview with no less a personage than St. Honorat. What exactly took place between the saint and the light-hearted lady, during the meeting, the troubadour does not say. Anyhow Tiburge made such confessions to St. Honorat as she thought fit, with the result that the saint absolved her, cheered her up, called her “chère fille” and assured her that all would be well. To make matters more certain St. Honorat gave her the lappet of his hood and told her to wear it on her head during the anxious inquiry at La Turbie. He assured her that with this piece of cloth on her pretty hair the “idole” would not dare to make any offensive observations. Furnished with this unfashionable head-dress the countess, cheerful to the extent of giggling, joined her morose husband and toiled up to La Turbie.
The Count Aymes asked the “idole” a number of most unpleasant questions which might have been very trying to the lady had she not been comforted by the brown rag on her head. The answers of the oracle—awaited with anxiety by the husband and with a smile by the lady—were very reassuring. Indeed the “idole” gave the lady a kind of testimonial and a certificate of character that was, under the circumstances, almost too florid. He said she was a dame de grand mérite and treated the count’s innuendoes as unworthy of a consort and as reprehensible when applied to a woman of blameless life. He added that a lady whose head was covered by a vestment belonging to so sainted a man as St. Honorat must be above reproach. His manner of dealing with this delicate affair suggests to the vulgar mind that there must have been some collusion between the recluse on the island and the “idole” in this dilapidated old tower.
Anyhow the count and the countess returned home in the best of spirits and one may assume that on the way she said more than once “I told you so.” When he asked “Why don’t you throw that beastly bit of old cloth away?” she would reply “Oh! I think I will keep it. I may want to use it again.”
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“Chorographie du Comté de Nice,” by Louis Durante, 1847. |
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A further account of the trophy is given in the chapter which follows. |
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“Mon Pays, etc.,” by D. Durandy. |
LA TURBIE is a little compact town of the Middle Ages. Its narrow streets are disposed as they have been for centuries. It is entered by five gates. It has no straggling suburbs. It is complete in its tiny way and captain of itself. It lies enveloped by its walls, a warm, living thing whose heart has beaten within these encircling arms for over 2,000 years. It is quiet, for the world has left it alone. It stands by the side of the Great Corniche Road, but those who pass by in an eddy of dust heed it not. One might walk through it many times, from gate to gate, without meeting a living creature.
Yet at the foot of the hill on which La Turbie stands is Monte Carlo, the most modern of modern abodes of men. A town without walls, lying scattered in all directions like a great drop of bright paint that has fallen on a rock and spattered it. Here are the hubbub of Vanity Fair, the frou-frou of silks, the flash of bold pigments, the scent-tainted air.
LA TURBIE: THE OLD BAKEHOUSE.
Let such as are tired of this Vanity Fair and of its make-believe palaces, climb up to the hill town. As they pass through the old gateway they enter into a world that was, into a town where the streets are silent and the houses homely and venerable. The blaze of clashing colours is forgotten, for all here is grey. The bold, imperious purple of the sea is changed for the tender forget-me-not blue of a strip of sky above the roofs. The dazzle of the sun is beyond the gate, but within are shadows as comforting as “the shadow of a rock in a weary land.” Such light as enters falls upon an old lichen-covered wall, upon the arch of a Gothic window and upon simple things on balconies—a garment hanging to dry, a bird-cage, a pot of lavender. To those who are surfeited with riot and unreality La Turbie is a cloister, a place of peace.
Outside the town, on the east, is the Cours St. Bernard, so named after an ancient chapel to St. Bernard which stood here. The town is entered by the gate called the Roman Gate, for it was by this way that the Roman road passed into La Turbie. The gate, which dates from the Middle Ages, has a plain, pointed arch and over it the remains of a tower. The old road passed through the town from east to west along the line of the present Rue Droite and left it by the Nice Gate which has also a pointed arch and a tower and which belongs to the same period as the Portail Romain. There are some fine old houses, strangely mutilated, in the Rue Droite and one elegant window of three arches supported by dainty columns. This pertains to a house at the corner of the Rue du Four.
The Rue du Four, or Bakehouse Street, enters the town from the Corniche Road by a modern gate passing under the houses. In this street is the ancient public bakehouse, a queer, little building, low and square, with a tiled roof and on the roof a very solid cross cut out of a block of stone. Within the building the ovens are still to be seen. M. Philippe Casimir, the learned mayor of La Turbie, in his very interesting monograph[44] states that in old days the inhabitants paid to the Lord of La Turbie un droit de fournage for the privilege of using the bakehouse. The impost took the form of one loaf out of every eighty. This mediæval four became in time the property of the town, but its use has now been long abandoned.
The Rue du Four leads to the Place Saint-Jean, the centre of the town. It is a very tiny place—little more than a courtyard—which derives its name from the chapel of St. Jean which stands here. The chapel has been recently rebuilt (1844) and is of no interest. In the place is a large and still imposing house which was the old Hôtel de Ville. Passing beneath it is a vaulted passage of some solemnity which leads to the gate known as the Portail du Recinto. The arch at the entrance of this vaulted way has a curious history. It was composed of blocks of marble taken from the monument and from that frieze of the trophy which bore the inscription. The great bulk of the inscribed stones had been removed to the museum at St.-Germain-en-Laye, but it was found that the wording was incomplete. Some letters from the list of the conquered tribes were missing. An archæologist chancing to visit La Turbie in 1867 noticed on the voussoirs of this arch the very letters that were wanting.
The pieces of marble were therefore removed to complete the inscription in the museum and their place was taken by common stones. To compensate La Turbie for this loss the Emperor, Napoleon III, presented to the church of St. Michael a copy of Raphael’s “St. Michael” from the Louvre in Paris. This picture now hangs on the left wall of the church near to the entrance.
LA TURBIE: LA PORTETTE.
LA TURBIE: THE FORTRESS WALL, SHOWING THE ROMAN STONES.
The vaulted passage under the old Hôtel de Ville leads to a square called the Place Mitto. This piazza is, I imagine, the smallest public square in existence, for it is no larger than the kitchen area of a London house. In it is the most beautiful gate of La Turbie. It has a pointed arch and above it a low tower with three machicolations. The gate is called the Portail du Recinto—a mixture of French and Italian—which signifies the gate in the enceinte or main wall. It opens directly upon the Roman monument.
In order to appreciate the significance of this gate it is necessary to refer once more to the history of the great trophy. Some time in the thirteenth or fourteenth century the site of the monument was converted into a fort. The trophy itself was stripped of all its original features and was built up in the form of a round and lofty watch tower. It was ornamented at its summit by two rows of arcading. These are still to be seen and on the parapet will be observed three upright pieces of stone which are the remains of the crenellations or battlements with which the tower was surmounted. These details, which belong to the centuries named, are shown in ancient prints. The ruin, therefore, now existing is the ruin rather of the mediæval tower than of the original Roman monument. The persistent attempts to destroy the tower of La Turbie were due, in the first place, to the fact that it represented oppression and an arrogant claim to victory, and, in later years, to the fact that it was part of a fortress.
About the base of the great watch tower was a square and solid keep, of which no trace remains and, beyond that, a great semicircular wall with its back to the town. This wall shut in the stronghold on the north and was terminated at the cliff’s edge by a pair of towers. Now the Portail du Recinto was the gateway that pierced this encircling wall or enceinte and through it, and through it alone, could access to the fort be attained.
To the right of the gate is a narrow street, the Rue Capouanne. It is curved because it follows the line of the enceinte and is, indeed, a passage between the actual fortress wall on one side and houses on the other. This mighty thirteenth century wall is one of the most interesting relics in La Turbie. It has been cut into, here and there, to make stables, but it is still a great wall presenting many huge blocks of stone which show that it was constructed from the fabric of the monument. The Rue Capouanne ends in a modest little gate with a pointed arch green with ferns. This gate, called La Portette, gave access to the old church which stood near the west corner of the present cemetery and, therefore, above the level of the existing church. La Portette is shown in the old prints of La Turbie. Beyond La Portette and a modern house which joins it the great enceinte or fortress wall is continued for a little way as a curved but isolated line of masonry. Between this isolated fragment and the main wall there is a wide gap. This was cut about 1764 in order to obtain direct access to the monument for the purpose of the building of the church, which was constructed out of stones derived from the monument.
LA TURBIE: THE NICE GATE.
M. Casimir gives an interesting explanation of the curious name, Rue Capouanne. It was originally Gapeani and it is easy to understand how the G has changed to a C. In 1332 La Turbie obtained local independence, was allowed to manage its own urban affairs and to appoint a bayle, governor or mayor. The first bayle was one Jacques Gapeani and it is in his honour that the street was named. Humble as the lane may be it can at least claim an ancestry of nearly six hundred years.
Between the Place St. Jean and the Portail du Recinto is a narrow and gloomy way called the Rue du Ghetto. The name serves to recall the fact that during the troublous times of the Middle Ages Jews sought refuge in this hill town and security in the shadow of its fortress. The street is of interest on another account. During the Terror the monks of the monastery of Laghet were in fear for the safety of their much revered image of the Madonna. So in the dead of night they carried it up to La Turbie and hid it in a house in the Rue du Ghetto. The house was occupied by a pious man named Denis Lazare.[45] It is the first house in the street on the left hand side and high up between the first and second floors is an empty niche by means of which the house can be identified. At the moment the house is unoccupied. It is very small. A narrow stone stair leads up to the living room which takes up the whole of the first story. It is a room that has probably been altered little since 1793. There are the ancient fireplace, the massive beams in the ceiling and, by the hearth, a curious trough or basin fashioned out of a block of stone. So cramped is the house that it is hard to imagine where the Madonna was hidden, unless in the stable which opens on the street and constitutes the ground floor of the humble little dwelling.
The church of La Turbie is very simple and modest, subdued in its decoration and in keeping with its place. It has a steeple whose summit is shaped like a bishop’s mitre and is covered with brilliant tiles which are very glorious in the sun. An inscription in the nave shows that the building was commenced in 1764 and completed in 1777, that it was constructed out of material from the monument and was erected by the hands of the people themselves.
There are in the town the remains of fine houses solidly built of stone but now turned into humble dwellings. One such house is conspicuous in the Rue de l’Eglise. The type of house that is most characteristic of La Turbie has the following features. It is narrow. Its ground floor is occupied by a deep recess in the shadow of a wide rounded arch upon which the front wall of the building is founded. Within the recess on one side is a door leading to a stable and on the other a stone stair which mounts up to the entry into the house.
There is one street with a name that always excites curiosity—the Rue Incalat. M. Casimir states that the term “incalat” indicates a paved way that is steep and it is to be noted that the Rue Incalat is the only street in La Turbie that can make any claim to be steep.
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“La Turbie et son Trophée Romain,” Nice, 1914. |
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“La Turbie,” by Philippe Casimir, Nice, 1914. |
FROM the old Roman town of La Turbie a road dips down into a lonely valley and is soon lost to view. It is an unfriendly highway that appears to turn its face from the world as if to hide among the ascetic hills. There are few signs of human life to make the road companionable, while a row of cypresses on either side seem to impose upon it a reverential silence.
At the end of the valley a great monastic building appears, with the figure of the Virgin raised aloft on its summit. It is an unexpected thing to come upon in this solitude; it is so immense, so aggressive looking, so modern, so like a great barrack. Its walls are of fawn-coloured plaster, its roof of rounded tiles of every gracious tint of brown. Its windows would appear to have been inserted as occasion required, without regard to any definite design. Some are in arched recesses; many are no more than the simple square windows of a cottage, while a few are like the lattice of a prison cell. It has a fine bell tower, with a clock, surmounted by a dome on the crest of which is the figure of Our Lady of Laghet. The building stands on a projecting rock and is approached by a bridge over a puny torrent.
Wedged uncomfortably in the gorge above the bridge is a dun hamlet that seems to be trying to efface itself. It is an apologetic little place, standing in apparent awe of the great monastery which it scarcely dares to approach. The huddled houses, hiding one behind the other, are like a cluster of shy children before a schoolmaster’s door.
Various bolder and immodest objects, however, have thrust themselves between the timid village and the monastery. These are certain self-confident restaurants, a stable of almost offensive size, together with many booths and stalls, all deserted it is true, but still very assertive and unseemly. In the little square before the convent door are a bazaar where postcards and souvenirs are sold, a café, and an old fountain in a niche of the wall. Looking down upon the water in the basin of stone is a graceful figure of the Virgin. The fountain, recently restored, is said to have been erected in 1706. Mr. Hare[46] gives the following translation of an inscription it bears:—
“Pilgrim, you find here two streams; one descends from heaven, the other from the top of the mountains. The first is a treasure which the Virgin distributes to the piety of the faithful, the second has been brought here by the people of Nice; drink of both, if you thirst for both.”