In getting around from place to place we have found ourselves stopping over night in towns which are miniature paradises for architects or archeologists. At Sancerre, where my “side kick’’ managed to clamp onto an American Army dentist long enough to cure his aching jaw, we could sit out on the old ramparts and see a whole department below us. The town, after the fashion of feudal days, is built on a good-sized hill, and if one could hang a swing from a tree on the neighboring slope, put
the properly attired boy in it, give him a push across the picture and look at Sancerre behind such a foreground, there would be no difficulty
in realizing that Maxfield Parrish was the municipal architect. We happened in there during the hottest days of the summer and expected to have cool nights, soft moon, gentle breezes and all that business, but instead the cool air manufactured in the valley stayed there and sent us only the accumulated warmth of noonday to remain at our higher strata. Every available billet for miles was taken by the division which had just moved in, and it took two days to get beds for the three of us. Just the other side of Clamecy, where our 3rd Corps School was located, and quite off the beaten path, is the splendid old abbey of Vezelay; we were obliged one day to climb over the hill on which it lies, and, passing at its very gate, could not resist an inspection. For once I was glad of my ignorance, as Vezelay was like a bolt from the blue. I had forgotten even
the name of the place, and to step, without warning, from the burning, dusty heat of midsummer into the vast, cool, dignified nave of the abbey church and feast my eyes on the beauties of its vaulting, the mellow tones of the masonry, the delicacies of the carving in capitals and tympana was reward enough for former hardships. The abbey and the town around it, like Sancerre, cut up into the sky and seemed to be sitting there that day, baking in the sun, left alone by the world and
perfectly contented. What is now hardly more than a village was once a town of 10,000 people, and it was here that Philippe Auguste and Richard the Lion Hearted met to make plans for their crusade.
For a short while we worked out from Auxerre, which, in spite of its location, had at that time only an occasional American.
the properly attired boy in it, give him a push across the picture and look at Sancerre behind such a foreground, there would be no difficulty
in realizing that Maxfield Parrish was the municipal architect. We happened in there during the hottest days of the summer and expected to have cool nights, soft moon, gentle breezes and all that business, but instead the cool air manufactured in the valley stayed there and sent us only the accumulated warmth of noonday to remain at our higher strata. Every available billet for miles was taken by the division which had just moved in, and it took two days to get beds for the three of us. Just the other side of Clamecy, where our 3rd Corps School was located, and quite off the beaten path, is the splendid old abbey of Vezelay; we were obliged one day to climb over the hill on which it lies, and, passing at its very gate, could not resist an inspection. For once I was glad of my ignorance, as Vezelay was like a bolt from the blue. I had forgotten even
the name of the place, and to step, without warning, from the burning, dusty heat of midsummer into the vast, cool, dignified nave of the abbey church and feast my eyes on the beauties of its vaulting, the mellow tones of the masonry, the delicacies of the carving in capitals and tympana was reward enough for former hardships. The abbey and the town around it, like Sancerre, cut up into the sky and seemed to be sitting there that day, baking in the sun, left alone by the world and
perfectly contented. What is now hardly more than a village was once a town of 10,000 people, and it was here that Philippe Auguste and Richard the Lion Hearted met to make plans for their crusade.
For a short while we worked out from Auxerre, which, in spite of its location, had at that time only an occasional American.