adventure begot, as aids to amused
remembrance, a few informal notes.

[Illustration]

Chapter i

[Tours]

I am ashamed to begin with saying that Touraine is the garden of France;
that remark has long ago lost its bloom. The town of Tours, however, has
something sweet and bright, which suggests that it is surrounded by a
land of fruits. It is a very agreeable little city; few towns of its
size are more ripe, more complete, or, I should suppose, in better
humour with themselves and less disposed to envy the responsibilities of
bigger places. It is truly the capital of its smiling province; a region
of easy abundance, of good living, of genial, comfortable, optimistic,
rather indolent opinions. Balzac says in one of his tales that the real
Tourangeau will not make an effort, or displace himself even, to go in
search of a pleasure; and it is not difficult to understand the sources
of this amiable cynicism. He must have a vague conviction that he can
only lose by almost any change. Fortune has been kind to him: he lives
in a temperate, reasonable, sociable climate, on the banks of a river
which, it is true, sometimes floods the country around it, but of which
the ravages appear to be so easily repaired that its aggressions may
perhaps be regarded (in a region where so many good things are certain)
merely as an occasion for healthy suspense. He is surrounded by fine old
traditions, religious, social, architectural, culinary; and he may have
the satisfaction of feeling that he is French to the core. No part of
his admirable country is more characteristically national. Normandy is
Normandy, Burgundy is Burgundy, Provence is Provence; but Touraine is
essentially France. It is the land of Rabelais, of Descartes, of Balzac,
of good books and good company, as well as good dinners and good houses.
George Sand has somewhere a charming passage about the mildness, the
convenient quality, of the physical conditions of central France--"son
climat souple et chaud, ses pluies abondantes et courtes." In the autumn
of 1882 the rains perhaps were less short than abundant; but when the
days were fine it was impossible that anything in the way of weather
could be more charming. The vineyards and orchards looked rich in the
fresh, gay light; cultivation was everywhere, but everywhere it seemed
to be easy. There was no visible poverty; thrift and success presented
themselves as matters of good taste. The white caps of the women
glit