Day Forty: Restoration Dramas
Bright and early I bolted to Barbaste, home of the fortified mill of Henri IV, and crossed the old stone bridge over the old muddy river -- some aesthetically-minded soul has planted lots of yellow irises beside the water, but it's not working -- and discovered that the mill itself is closed for a very much needed restoration. Good enough. I set my sights northwards to the Chateau Duras -- what with one thing and another, all right, getting LOST again, I was just in time to purchase the last ticket before lunchtime. And of course had the place to myself.
If nothing else, the chateau is a testament to the great power of the Revolution in scouring noble edifices like this clean. They are, in bits and bobs, restoring -- one side of the courtyard sports gleaming new glass in new thick doors velvety with varnish and winking with pretty wrought iron locks -- and the alcove beside has a litter of old ladders and fruit crates and a smell of urine. In Madame Duras's particular chamber, the boiseries are silver with age, showing only the faintest spark of former glory, while a wax dummy of Madame gestures outward to us with regretful grace. On the lower levels, some archaeological brick a brack -- currently I'm classing flint arrow tips and cave bear jaws with carved Romanesque capitals, and hurry past with eyes averted -- then the arts of yesteryear section, not much that I haven't seen already except for an intruiging little gadget mayonnaise. A lot of self-important propaganda on the walls about the restoration, and how shamefully the castle had been allowed to decay, and how shamefully long it took the departmental government to buy it, and how important the work that they are doing now is. I wish they could relax a little.
By the time I toodled back to Nerac, lunch was almost over -- just enough time to stomp around the environs of the chateau a bit and take a gander at some very lovely 19th century stained glass in the nearby cathedral of St. Nicholas.
What survives of the castle at Nerac is actually only one wing of a square -- DAMN Richlieu anyway. It is really one of the prettiest bits of Renaissance chateau-ery I've seen, with its fairytale turrets and a cunning little loggia with twisted columns. Nerac on the whole is a flowery, charming little burg -- just teetering on the precipice of being too charming for its own good (don't tell me that those turtle doves floundering around the town square got there by accident).
The exhibit inside the castle couldn't be nicer -- though I don't know how much one would get out of it if one didn't already have a grounding in the royals of Navarre in the early 16th century (if, in a word, you aren't me). What I especially like about it is that they haven't tried to tart it up excessively -- they've stayed faithful to the period when they've had to make repairs (I'm betting the little gold, mauve and blue diamond-paned glass isn't original, but it goes perfectly with everything) -- a lick of mortar and a dab of whitewash, and if you can't get more Renaissance furnishings, don't pile in random 17th and 18th and 19th century stuff (pace Pau), but do the best with what you have. The walls are covered with handsome portraits in reproduction of all the principals at various points in their careers -- Jeanne d'Albret as a teenager, Antoine de Bourbon as a handsome devil in his prime, Margot as a little girl and a big girl and an old girl with many chins. And contemporary engravings of public scenes and representative figures.
And quotations, mostly snide remarks about one another. "Nothing of a woman except her sex," some Catholic League nabob's comment on Jeanne d'Albret, Aubigne's gloss on Margot involving the coils of a hungry serpent... Somebody with a real love of the period and a sense of humor arranged things here. In the room devoted to the time of Henri and Margot's marriage, there are two alcoves for portraits of illicit amours -- one for his, one for hers. And scrumptious Quesnel pastels, though I couldn't tell if they were originals or copies.
After the Albret family saga, the archeological doodads (yep, cave bear jaws again) were clearly not going to grip... So I walked back through the royal apartments slowly, enjoying every inch of good taste and sense and historical accuracy, and all the charm that a real Renaissance chateau (instead of one of Eugenie's remodeled abortions) could bestow.
I had rather an idea of walking down the river park, La Garenne, but found myself both overstimulated and droopy. The sight of a cafe called to me like deep calling deep. What Mademoiselle needed to perk her up was a little glass of kir.
And by the time I sipped my way through that, and caught up here, I didn't feel like rushing out to anything else, so made my decorous way back to my squalid digs.
Observation on French Life and Culture #24: I don't know what prompted Dean Martin to leave his record collection to Radio Bordelais, but they are making good use of it. Very stirring rendition of the theme from "Rawhide" a la Tijuana Brass. And I had never known the accordion to be an instrument of so many emotions! From the bold extroversion of "New York, New York" to the subtle plangency (I'm a professional writer -- I'm allowed to use phrases like "subtle plangency") of "Summertime," my hour with this station added up to a moving experience. (Notice I do not specify which parts of me were moving...)