I descended from the train,and ascended to the top of an omnibus which was to convey me into the recesses of the hills.It had not been among my previsions that I should be indebted to a vehicle of that kind for an opportunity to commune with the spirit of Petrarch;and I had to borrow what consolation Icould from the fact that at least I had the omnibus to myself.I was the only passenger;every one else was at Avignon,watching the Rhone.I lost no time in perceiving that I could not have come to Vaucluse at a better moment.The Sorgues was almost as full as the Rhone,and of a color much more romantic.Rushing along its narrowed channel under an avenue of fine platanes (it is confined between solid little embankments of stone),with the goodwives of the village,on the brink,washing their linen in its contemptuous flood,it gave promise of high entertainment further on.
The drive to Vaucluse is of about three quarters of an hour;and though the river,as I say,was promising,the big pale hills,as the road winds into them,did not look as if their slopes of stone and shrub were a nestlingplace for superior scenery.It is a part of the merit of Vaucluse,indeed,that it is as much as possible a surprise.The place has a right to its name,for the valley appears impenetrable until you get fairly into it.One perverse twist follows another,until the omnibus suddenly deposits you in front of the "cabinet"of Petrarch.After that you have only to walk along the left bank of the river.The cabinet of Petrarch is today a hideous little cafe,bedizened,like a signboard,with extracts from the ingenious "Rime."The poet and his lady are,of course,the stock in trade of the little village,which has had for several generations the privilege of attracting young couples engaged in their weddingtour,and other votaries of the tender passion.The place has long been familiar,on festal Sundays,to the swains of Avignon and their attendant nymphs.The little fish of the Sorgues are much esteemed,and,eaten on the spot,they constitute,for the children of the once Papal city,the classic suburban dinner.Vaucluse has been turned to account,however,not only by sentiment,but by industry;the banks of the stream being disfigured by a pair of hideous mills for the manufacture of paper and of wool.In an enterprising and economical age the waterpower of the Sorgues was too obvious a motive;and I must say that,as the torrent rushed past them,the wheels of the dirty little factories appeared to turn merrily enough.The footpath on the left bank,of which I just spoke,carries one,fortunately,quite out of sight of them,and out of sound as well,inasmuch as on the day of my visit the stream itself,which was in tremendous force,tended more and more,as one approached the fountain,to fill the valley with its own echoes.Its color was magnificent,and the whole spectacle more like a corner of Switzerland than a nook in Provence.The protrusions of the mountain shut it in,and you penetrate to the bottom of the recess which they form.The Sorgues rushes and rushes;it is almost like Niagara after the jump of the cataract.
