I hardly know what to say about the tone of Langeais,which,though I have left it to the end of my sketch,formed the objective point of the first excursion I made from Tours.Langeais is rather dark and gray;it is perhaps the simplest and most severe of all the castles of the Loire.I don't know why Ishould have gone to see it before any other,unless it be because I remembered the Duchesse de Langeais,who figures in several of Balzac's novels,and found this association very potent.The Duchesse de Langeais is a somewhat transparent fiction;but the castle from which Balzac borrowed the title of his heroine is an extremely solid fact.My doubt just above as to whether I should pronounce it exceptionally grey came from my having seen it under a sky which made most things look dark.I have,however,a very kindly memory of that moist and melancholy afternoon,which was much more autumnal than many of the days that followed it.Langeais lies down the Loire,near the river,on the opposite side from Tours,and to go to it you will spend half an hour in the train.You pass on the way the Chateau de Luynes,which,with its round towers catching the afternoon light,looks uncommonly well on a hill at a distance;you pass also the ruins of the castle of CinqMars,the ancestral dwelling of the young favorite of Louis XIII.,the victim,of Richelieu,the hero of Alfred de Vigny's novel,which is usually recommended to young ladies engaged in the study of French.Langeais is very imposing and decidedly sombre;it marks the transition from the architecture of defence to that of elegance.It rises,massive and perpendicular,out of the centre of the village to which it gives its name,and which it entirely dominates;so that,as you stand before it,in the crooked and empty street,there is no resource for you but to stare up at its heavy overhanging cornice and at the huge towers surmounted with extinguishers of slate.
If you follow this street to the end,however,you encounter in abundance the usual embellishments of a French village:little ponds or tanks,with women on their knees on the brink,pounding and thumping a lump of saturated linen;brown old crones,the tone of whose facial hide makes their nightcaps (worn by day)look dazzling;little alleys perforating the thickness of a row of cottages,and showing you behind,as a glimpse,the vividness of a green garden.In the rear of the castle rises a hill which must formerly have been occupied by some of its appurtenances,and which indeed is still partly enclosed within its court.You may walk round this eminence,which,with the small houses of the village at its base,shuts in the castle from behind.The enclosure is not defiantly guarded,however;for a small,rough path,which you presently reach,leads up to an open gate.
This gate admits you to a vague and rather limited parc,which covers the crest of the hill,and through which you may walk into the gardens of castle.
These gardens,of small extent,confront the dark walls with their brilliant parterres,and,covering the gradual slope of the hill,form,as it were,the fourth side of the court.This is the stateliest view of the chateau,which looks to you sufficiently grim and gray as,after asking leave of a neat young woman who sallies out to learn your errand,you sit there on a garden bench and take the measure of the three tall towers attached to this inner front and forming severally the cage of a staircase.The huge bracketed cornice (one of the features of Langeais)which is merely ornamental,as it is not machicolated,though it looks so,is continued on the inner face as well.The whole thing has a fine feudal air,though it was erected on the rains of feudalism.
The main event in the history of the castle is the marriage of Anne of Brittany to her first husband,Charles VIII.,which took place in its great hall in 1491.Into this great hall we were introduced by the neat young woman,into this great hall and into sundry other halls,winding staircases,galleries,chambers.The cicerone of Langeais is in too great a hurry;the fact is pointed out in the excellent GuideJoanne.This illdissimulated vice,however,is to be observed,in the country of the Loire,in every one who carries a key.It is true that at Langeais there is no great occasion to indulge in the tourist's weakness of dawdling;for the apartments,though they contain many curious odds and ends of,antiquity,are not of firstrate interest.They are cold and musty,indeed,with that touching smell of old furniture,as all apartments should be through which the insatiate American wanders in the rear of a bored domestic,pausing to stare at a faded tapestry or to read the name on the frame of some simpering portrait.
To return to Tours my companion and I had counted on a train which (as is not uncommon in France)existed only in the "Indicateur des Chemins de Fer;"and instead of waiting for another we engaged a vehicle to take us home.A sorry carriole or patache it proved to be,with the accessories of a lumbering white mare and a little wizened,ancient peasant,who had put on,in honor of the occasion,a new blouse of extraordinary stiffness and blueness.We hired the trap of an energetic woman who put it "to"with her own hands;women in Touraine and the B1esois appearing to have the best of it in the business of letting vehicles,as well as in many other industries.There is,in fact,no branch of human activity in which one is not liable,in France,to find a woman engaged.Women,indeed,are not priests;but priests are,more or less;women.They are not in the army,it may be said;but then they arethe army.They are very formidable.In France one must count with the women.The drive back from Langeais to Tours was long,slow,cold;we had an occasional spatter of rain.But the road passes most of the way close to the Loire,and there was something in our jogtrot through the darkening land,beside the flowing,river,which it was very possible to enjoy.
