A hundred fascinating scenes of Spanish country life attracted our attention. Peasant women, evidently returning from market, bestraddled patient little donkeys, or walked, balancing on their heads burdens of various kinds. One of them carried a baby under one arm, a pail filled with wine bottles under the other, and all the time preserved with her head the equilibrium of a basket piled several stories high with household articles. We would not have been greatly surprised to see another baby tucked away somewhere in the top story. These peasant types looked bent and worn, their wrinkled faces old from drudging toil in the fields; they fitted in perfectly with the dilapidated farmhouses. The country was fertile, with vineyards and cornfields, but a prosperity in such contrast with the wretched homes of the people. Little donkeys strained in front of heavily loaded wagons that would have taxed the strength of a large horse. The ox carts were curious creations, the wheels being without spokes, as though made from a single piece of flat board. The small chimneys on the houses resembled those which we had seen in Italy. We did not see a single plow, not even a wooden one; the peasants of the Basque country use instead the _laga_, or digging fork, an implement shaped like the letter "h."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The ox-carts were curious creations_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

San Sebastian is a clean, fresh-looking city, a place essentially, almost exaggeratedly, Spanish, with all that gayety and vivid architecture which one naturally expects to see in a place patronized by the royal court. It was hopeless to think of finding a place for our car in any garage. They were all full. This was the day of the bull fight.

From different parts of Spain, as well as from France, motorists had swarmed in to see the _matadors_ show their skill and daring. In Spain the people divert themselves at the bull fight very much as we would go to see a baseball game. We saw motor cars stationed in long files in the streets.

Leaving our car to stand in the rear of one of these imposing lines, we strolled down a bright, picturesque street to the Concha. Just as La Grande Plage represents Biarritz, so the Concha represents San Sebastian. "Concha" suggests a bay shaped like a sh.e.l.l. The word exactly describes the beautiful body of water around which the city is built.

Through the narrow channel we could see the waves roll in, contracted at first, then widening as they sweep down the bay to break on the long, curving stretch of yellow sand. From the Concha we could see the white walls of the royal Villa Miramar. The fortress La Mota guarded from its high elevation the narrow entrance to the harbor. We walked along the Paseo de la Concha, in the dense shade of tamarisk trees which nearly encircled the bay. Sitting in chairs under the trees were Spanish girls, their dark eyes glowing through their black lace veils. The scene was full of color, completely Spanish, the green of the tamarisks shining between the golden sands and the white villas which edged the water. We watched the bathers, haughty dons from Madrid and peasants from Aragon, for the moment on a level in the joyous democracy of the surf.

After lunching at the Continental Hotel, fronting on the Concha, we turned our steps in the direction of the amphitheater, where the bull fight was to take place. The tickets cost twelve _pesetas_ (about $2.40) apiece. It was not with any antic.i.p.ation of pleasure that we decided to watch the Spaniards engage in their national sport. The bull fight is a combination of a scene from the Chicago stockyards and from an ancient Roman arena. It is a succession of shivers and thrills, from the first blast of the trumpet announcing the entry of the _toreadors_ to the final _estocade_, when the last bull falls dying upon the b.l.o.o.d.y sand.

Few of the _toreadors_ die a natural death. Connected with the large amphitheater is the operating room, where the wounded fighters can receive prompt treatment. We were told that it is customary for them to receive the sacrament before entering into the arena. Their coolness and dexterity in sidestepping the mad rushes of the bull are wonderful. But the moment comes when the bull is unexpectedly quick, when the foot slips just a little, or when the eye misjudges the precious fraction of an inch which may mean life or death. We noticed at regular intervals, around the arena, wooden barriers, placed just far enough from the main encircling barrier to let the hard-pressed _toreador_ slip in, when there was no time to vault.

These exhibitions take place all over Spain, and in San Sebastian at least once a week. There is keen rivalry between Spanish cities over the skill of their _toreadors_. Bull fighting is not on the decline. The city of Cordova has just started a school for the training of professional bull fighters.

When we arrived the amphitheater was crowded to the highest tier of seats. The vast crowd, impatient, whistled and shouted. Attendants pa.s.sed among the spectators, selling Spanish fans painted with bull-fight scenes. The large orchestra was playing. Suddenly, above the music and the noise of the crowds, sounded the piercing blast of a trumpet. The music ceased. The crowd became silent, then cheered and clapped as doors swung open and two hors.e.m.e.n dashed out and made the tour of the arena. They were followed by a procession of _toreadors_, _picadores_, and _banderilleros_, with their attendants. The _picadores_ were armed with long pikes with which to enrage the bull. They were mounted on wretched skeletons of so-called horses, with one eye blindfolded. Six bulls were to battle with their tormentors before finally falling, pierced by the _toreador's_ sword. Three or four horses are usually killed by each bull. The _banderilleros_ appear in the second phase of the struggle, after the horses have been killed. They are on foot. Their work is to face the bull, infuriated by the pikes of the _picadores_, and to plant in his neck several darts, each over two feet long and decorated with ribbons. The _toreador_ comes on the scene the last of all, when the bull, though tired, is still dangerous. It would be a mistake to imagine that the bulls are spiritless, or have been so starved that they are weak, without strength, energy, and courage. These animals that we saw leap into the arena were all specially bred Andalusian bulls, the very picture of strength and wild ferocity.

We have no desire to describe in detail the barbarous spectacle which followed. In front of us sat an American couple. It was the lady's first bull fight, and when the moment was critical, the scene a gory confusion of bull, horses, and _picadores_, she would scream and hide her face behind her fan. In contrast, were the Spanish girls seated around us.

Their faces were whitened more by powder than by emotion. They would languidly move embroidered fans, or wave them with gentle enthusiasm when the _banderillero_ planted a daring dart or the _toreador_ thrust home the death stroke.

There was one moment in that exhibition, however, when even their hardened indifference to suffering was touched. One of the _banderilleros_ planted his dart in the neck of the bull, but slipped while trying to get away from the enraged beast. There was a cry of horror, a groan of pity from the crowd as the great armed head lifted its victim and hurled him thirty feet through the air. The man struck heavily on the sand, moved a little, and then lay motionless. There was no shouting at that moment. An agony of suspense pervaded the amphitheater. But the bull was given no opportunity to follow up his attack; a _toreador_ waved a red cape before his eyes; another dart was planted in his neck. He turned savagely to face and charge on his new a.s.sailants, who nimbly avoided his rush. The wounded man was carried from the arena. The enthusiasm and cheers of the crowd were unbounded when he revived and struggled with the attendants to get back into the arena.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The death stroke_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

After all, human nature has changed but little under these southern skies, so that what the plebeian sought in the gladiatorial combats of the amphitheater, the Spaniard or Frenchman of to-day seeks and finds in the b.l.o.o.d.y scenes of the _course de tauraux_.

We left early to get a start of the rush of motor cars for the French frontier, but others had done the same thing, so that by the time the Spanish authorities had stamped our _sortie definitive_, we found the international bridge filled with cars, all impatiently waiting to take their turn at the French _douane_. Then amid a whirl of dust and a blowing of horns, car after car leaped for the homeward flight. Ahead of us and behind us, cars of every make, motor horns of every variety. The dust fog was continuous. Every one seemed racing to get out of it. It was a likely place for an accident. There was the wind-smothered shriek of a horn as a French racer shot by to lead the exciting procession.

Farther ahead, the road turned sharply, and we stopped to find thirty or forty cars held up at a railway crossing. One of them was the French racer; officers were taking her number. It was growing dark, and we lighted our lamps. Looking back from the summit of a long hill, we could see the lights of other cars swiftly ascending around the curves. The wind was rising. Through the twilight came the dull roaring of heavy surf. A revolving beacon light, appearing and then disappearing, announced that we were once more in Biarritz.

CHAPTER X

BIARRITZ TO MONT-DE-MARSAN

Our three days in Biarritz had grown to three short weeks before we were able to break the spell of the alluring Grande Plage and shape our course in a northeasterly direction, along the foothills of the Pyrenees, through the picturesque regions of Perigord and Limousin to Tours and the chateaux country. Bayonne, the fortress city, looked peaceful enough with its tapering cathedral spires rising above the great earthen ramparts, now gra.s.s-grown and long disused to war. Not far from Bayonne the road forked; we were in doubt whether to continue straight on or to turn to the left. A group of workingmen near by ceased their toil as we drew near to ask for information. The answer to our question was very different from what we expected. One of them approached the car, brandishing a scythe in a manner more hostile than friendly, and asked if we were Germans. This question concerning our nationality came with all the force of a threat. The restless scythe cut a nearer airy swath. He had recognized the German make of our car, and was convinced that we belonged to the hated _nation allemande_. A German motor car is not the safest kind of an introduction to these French peasants, especially when the _vin du pays_ has circulated freely. If appearances counted for anything, this particular peasant was quite inclined to use his scythe for more warlike purposes than those for which it was originally intended. But his companions, more peaceably disposed, seizing him, drew him back from the car and gave us, although reluctantly, the necessary information.

It was not our first experience of this kind. In France there is a strong sentiment against Germany. Our German car was often the target for unfriendly observation. This fierce ill feeling appears to be increasing. Never since the war of 1870 has there been such a period of military activity in the two countries. Germany is raising her army to a total of nearly nine hundred thousand men, at an initial cost of two hundred and fifty million dollars, and a subsequent annual cost of fifty million dollars. France has decided to meet these warlike preparations by keeping under the colors for another year the soldiers whose term of service would have expired last fall. This measure adds about two hundred thousand soldiers to the fighting strength of the French army.

This increase of armament involves necessarily the admission of the increase of suspicion and antagonism.

At such a time of tension and suspense it was for us a rare privilege to motor through the French provinces, to stop in the small towns and villages and to hear from the lips of the people themselves an expression of their att.i.tude toward Germany. Rural France is conservative; opinions and ideas form slowly, yet there can be no doubt but that their views represent the sentiment of the French nation which is so largely agricultural. No feature of our long tour through France was more instructive than this opportunity to study at first hand the influences at work to widen the gulf between the two nations. We conversed with soldiers, officers, peasants in the fields, and casual French acquaintances whom we met in the cafes and hotels. Every one admitted the gravity of the situation, and said that nothing short of the actual shadow of German invasion could have induced France to submit to the tremendous sacrifices incident to the large increase of the army.

The enthusiasm with which France has consented to the enormous sacrifices entailed by increasing the army on so large a scale shows how widespread is the impression of impending conflict. France realizes that there is only one way to prevent war, and that is to be so strong that Germany will hesitate to take the fatal step. There have been past menaces of invasion, and while it is true that Germany has not made war for over forty years, she has repeatedly threatened it. William I and Moltke wanted to attack France in 1874 and again in 1875, before she had recovered from the effects of 1870, to make it impossible for her again to become a power of the first rank. Russia and England supported France; Germany drew back to wait for another chance. Professor Lamprecht, the great German historian, regrets that Germany did not hurl her armies against France at that time. In the Delca.s.se crisis of 1905 France was again threatened. We know now that the Morocco negotiations between France and Germany in 1911 kept Europe on the verge of war for months.

This movement toward a more vigorous expression of French national spirit, while gathering strength for the last ten years, actually dates from the sending of the gunboat _Panther_ to Agadir in 1911. This was the igniting spark. It was in that moment that the French nation found itself. The generation that lived through and followed the disastrous war of 1870 was saddened and subdued. There was little of that spirit of national self-confidence; politics played a larger role than patriotism.

But now a new generation is to the front. Young France is coming into power, and the result is a rebirth of self-confidence and aggressiveness along patriotic lines. It will no longer be possible for Germany to be successful in a policy of intimidation against France, as she was in the Congress of Berlin in 1878. The new France is too patriotic, too proud, too conscious of her own strength, to concede to any unreasonable demand for economic compensation that Germany or Austria might make.

If there were no other reason for possibility of war, the internal situation in Germany itself would be enough to place France on her guard. In spite of Germany's industrial progress, the struggle of the ma.s.ses for bread is nowhere more bitter. The intense compet.i.tion in the markets of the world, the necessity of paying interest on borrowed capital, the fact of a vast and rapidly increasing population--all this spells low wages in a country where taxes are high and where the burdens of armament are fast becoming unbearable. Such conditions make for socialism. Already the socialists form the most powerful party in the Reichstag. The Kaiser wishes peace, but he is, above all, a believer in monarchical inst.i.tutions. If socialism continues to spread with its present rapidity, no one doubts that he would stake Germany's supremacy in a foreign war in order to unite the nation around him and to divert the people from their struggle for a more democratic form of government. A successful war with France would not only mean rich provinces, a big war indemnity, but it would also mean a new prestige for the Hohenzollern government, sufficient to carry it through the socialistic perils of another generation.

In view of these facts, it is not surprising that the French nation considers a conflict inevitable, and especially when they see the Kaiser appealing to his already overtaxed and discontented people to make a supreme sacrifice. With Germany the question is one of economic existence. She can feed her population for only a fraction of a year.

More and more she finds herself dependent upon rival nations for foodstuffs and raw materials. She has built up great steel and iron industries, but the supply of ore in the province of Silesia will be exhausted, at the present rate of consumption, in about twenty-five years. Germany will then be totally dependent upon France, Spain, and Sweden for iron ore. But France has an eighty per cent superiority over Spain and Sweden in her supply of this material. Her richest mines are situated in Ba.s.se-Lorraine, hardly more than a cannon shot from the German frontier. By the conquest of a few miles in Lorraine, she would secure enough iron ore to supply her iron and steel industries for centuries. A suggestive commentary upon Germany's aggressive plans may be noted in the German atlas of Steiler. It writes the names of different countries and their cities in the spelling of each country.

The French cities and provinces are written in French, with the exception of provinces of Ba.s.se-Lorraine, Franche-Comte, and Bourgogne.

These are written in German.

Another force in Germany making for war is the Pan-German League. This is the war party of the armor-plate factories of the officers of the army and navy, of a large part of the German press, of the Crown Prince, of many who have intimate relations with the Kaiser. The spectacular demonstrations of the Crown Prince in the Reichstag against the too peaceful policy of the Chancellor at the time of the Morocco negotiations, the sending of the _Panther_ to Agadir, the enormous increase of the army and navy in recent years, the arbitrary suppression of French influence in Alsace-Lorraine, have all been the fruits of its efforts. There can be no question of the tremendous power of this organization which is so close to the heart of the Crown Prince. If the Kaiser should die to-morrow, France might well have reason to distrust the warlike and impulsive young ruler who would ascend the Hohenzollern throne. The Crown Prince has recently written a book called _Germany in Arms_. Its warlike fervor shows how little he is in sympathy with the emperor's loyalty to peace. What makes the influence of the Crown Prince all the more dangerous is the great discontent to-day in Germany with the government's foreign policy "of spending hundreds of millions upon a fruitless and pacific imperialism."

Added to all these influences which are straining the relations between France and Germany, is the question of Alsace-Lorraine, for more than two centuries a French province and ceded to Germany after the Franco-Prussian War as a part of the price of peace. It is now a generation and more that Germany has tried to a.s.similate the province, but with so little success that to-day the people persist more than ever in their sympathy with French culture and their hostility toward Germany. There has been immigration; probably two fifths of the population are Germans, but the two peoples do not mix. The silent struggle between two civilizations goes on. The reason for the failure of German government in Alsace-Lorraine is due to its refusal to recognize this dual civilization. Alsace is largely French in sympathy; but instead of letting the people cling to their local customs, Germany has tried to make them think and speak German, and adopt the German ways. Instead of enjoying an equality with the other states in the regulation of local affairs, the province is treated as a va.s.sal state, the governor being responsible to the Kaiser. Naturally such a system of government means the continual clash of the two nationalities. The teaching of French and French history has been almost suppressed in the schools, and the younger generation compelled to learn German. "But they are French at heart, and after leaving school return again to the traditions of their family. After forty years, no music stirs them like the _Ma.r.s.eillaise_." It is said that the little Alsatian schoolboys, when on a trip to the frontier, decorate their hats and b.u.t.tonholes with the French colors. No one can be long in Stra.s.sburg without realizing the futility of Germany's campaign against French influence. It is true that there is a certain veneer of German civilization; the policemen wear the same uniform as the Berlin police; German names appear over the princ.i.p.al shops; but in the stores and cafes one hears the middle-cla.s.s Alsatians speaking French; French clothes, French customs prevail. In a word, the people, without French support, have gradually become more French in feeling and in culture than at the moment of annexation. One effect of this struggle against Germany's brutal and arbitrary policy has been to start a strong undercurrent of sympathy in France. In many of the French towns one sees Alsace postcards in the store windows. The picture on one card was a reproduction of a French painting. A soldier appears on the lookout in a forest. Not far away is a captive bound to a tree. He is watching with expectant joy the coming of the soldier. One can easily guess that the captive is Alsace, the soldier, France. We might also speak of the petty annoyances practiced by the German authorities in Alsace upon any one suspected of French sympathy.

Sporting clubs have been dissolved. One reads of French sportsmen who have been refused permission to rent "shootings." The most recent measure of oppression gives the governor of the province absolute power to suppress all French newspapers, as well as all societies supposed to favor French culture.

This is only a part of the evidence at hand, which gives the impartial observer reason to believe that the friction of nationalities in Alsace is the prelude to the larger and more terrible struggle to-day is regarded in France as inevitable. At the School of Political Science in the sorbonne at Paris, where the superiority of German methods used to be accepted without question, it is said the professors can now hardly mention them, for fear of hostile demonstrations.

This question of Franco-German relations has already overshadowed Europe. All attempts to promote a more friendly understanding have been fruitless. Even though the present tension be only temporary, it is very doubtful if there can be any approach to better relations until Germany has solved the question of Alsace-Lorraine, abandoning her policy of rough-shod a.s.similation, recognizing the existence of a dual civilization, granting autonomy of local affairs, and welcoming the province, on an equal footing with the other German states, to the brotherhood of the empire. With this source of discord removed, Alsace-Lorraine might become a bond instead of a barrier between France and Germany. Such a solution, however remote, would be an important step toward a more auspicious era of friendly feeling, of good faith.

Unfortunately, the Kaiser is opposed to this conciliatory policy. The fact that Alsace-Lorraine belongs to the empire as a whole, and is therefore a bond of unity between the German states, makes him unwilling to disturb the present arrangement and to recognize anything approaching a dual government in Alsace-Lorraine.

In the light of the above facts, our encounter with the French peasant was of deep significance. We could see behind it the forces--economic, political, and sentimental--that are at work to divide France and Germany. Naturally, we were on the lookout for any incident of this kind which would give us a clearer view of the great question which is placing such terrible burdens upon the two countries.

We shall not easily forget our experience in one French town. It was Sunday evening, and the street was crowded with peasants and artisans.

One of us had stuck in his hat a Swiss feather, such as is commonly worn in the Tyrol of southern Germany. He purchased a French newspaper, and after glancing through it, dropped it in the gutter. This harmless act very nearly involved us in serious trouble. A burly Frenchman, noticing the feather and taking him for a German, resented the apparently contemptuous way in which the journal had been thrown in the street.

"_Vous avez insulte la patrie_," he said in a loud voice. Like a flash the rumor spread in the street that three Germans had insulted France, and a threatening crowd surrounded us. A restaurant offering the nearest refuge, we stepped inside to order _une demi-ta.s.se_ and to wait until the excitement had subsided. The _garcon_ refused to serve us.

Outside, the crowd grew larger. Then a policeman appeared. Upon learning that we were Americans, he quickly appreciated the humor of the situation, and explained the misunderstanding to the crowd pressing around the door. The excitement abated as quickly as it arose, and we were allowed to continue our walk without further interruption.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

_A familiar village scene in provincial France_ _page 157_]

Mont-de-Marsan has little to relieve the monotony of its narrow village life. We b.u.mped over cobbled streets to the Hotel Richelieu, securing pleasant rooms which opened on an attractive little court, enlivened by a murmuring fountain. Dinner was hardly over when the silence of the country began to settle along the deserted streets. Such a soporific environment was sleep-compelling. An alarm clock was not necessary, for at early dawn the street resounded with a medley of noises, the varied repertoire of the barnyard,--a hundred of them, in fact. Geese, chickens, goats, and sheep were all tuning up for the village fair. It is a mystery how we motored through that maze of poultry and small wooden stands heaped with fruits, poultry, game, even dry goods--a kind of open-air department store. The clerks were grizzled peasant women, some of them eating their breakfast of grapes and dry bread, others displaying tempting fruit to entice us into a purchase.

CHAPTER XI

MONT-DE-MARSAN TO PeRIGUEUX

Motoring on to St. Justin, we plunged into an immense forest broken only now and then by small clearings and extending for nearly sixty miles to the lumber town of Casteljaloux. Woodland depths shut out the view. Mile followed mile of dark pines and somber perspective, an endless succession of dim forest glades. The sappers were at their work, peeling the bark from the long trunks and attaching small earthenware cups to catch the resinous gum. The road was so easy and smooth that we did not find it difficult to take notes. From the lumber yards of Casteljaloux was blown the fragrant odor of fresh-sawn pine. Bright sunshine flooded the wide-open country. The freedom of the fields was around us again.

Here and there a maple showed the first gorgeous colors of autumn.

In the enjoyment of these peaceful scenes we ran unexpectedly through an encampment of French soldiers. The army was getting ready for the autumn maneuvers. Rifles were stacked, and heavy accouterments deposited on the gra.s.s. There were three or four large Paris omnibuses transformed into kitchens, motor-propelled and equal to a speed of twenty miles an hour. Soldiers and officers watched us curiously, almost suspiciously.

Our notebooks were hastily put aside. To be detected taking notes from a German motor car in a French encampment might have had unpleasant consequences, or at least subjected us to serious inconvenience. One of the officers took our number; another "snapped" us with a camera, but there was no attempt to interfere with our progress.

The infantry wore long blue coats and red trousers. One wonders why the French army, otherwise so scientifically equipped, should have such showy uniforms. If France went to war to-morrow, her soldiers would be at a great disadvantage. These uniforms would be a conspicuous target at the farthest rifle range. All other modern armies, like those of Germany, England, or Italy, have adopted the "invisible" field dress.

But in France the colors have not changed from the blue and red of Napoleon's soldiers. A few years ago the War Minister Berteaux tried to introduce a uniform of green material. His efforts were without success; the old color tradition was too strong. A French officer commented as follows: "The French army is one of the most routine-bound in Europe. In some things, like flying, we have a lead, because civilians have done all the preliminary work, but in purely military matters, like uniforms, officialdom delays reform at every turn. It was not until 1883 that we gave up wearing the gaiters and shoes of Napoleon's time, and took to boots like other armies." Even the officers whom we saw from our motor car were dressed in scarlet and gold, red breeches, and sky-blue tunics with gold braid.