The history of Toulouse is detestable,saturated with blood and perfidy;and the ancient custom of the Floral Games,grafted upon all sorts of internecine traditions,seems,with its false pastoralism,its mock chivalry,its display of fine feelings,to set off rather than to mitigate these horrors.The society was founded in the fourteenth century,and it has held annual meetings ever since,meetings at which poems in the fine old langue d'oc are declaimed and a blushing laureate is chosen.This business takes place in the Capitol,before the chief magistrate of the town,who is known as the capitoul,and of all the pretty women as well,a class very numerous at Toulouse.
It was impossible to have a finer person than that of the portress who pretended to show me the apartments in which the Floral Games are held;a big,brown,expansive woman,still in the prime of life,with a speaking eye,an extraordinary assurance,and a pair of magenta stockings,which were inserted into the neatest and most polished little black sabots,and which,as she clattered up the stairs before me,lavishly displaying them,made her look like the heroine of an operabouffe.Her talk was all in n's,g's,and d's,and in mute e's strongly accented,as autre,theatre,splendide,the last being an epithet she applied to everything the Capitol contained,and especially to a horrible picture representing the famous Clemence Isaure,the reputed foundress of the poetical contest,presiding on one of these occasions.I wondered whether Clemence Isaure had been anything like this terrible Toulousaine of today,who would have been a capital figurehead for a floral game.
The lady in whose honor the picture I have just mentioned was painted is a somewhat mythical personage,and she is not to be found in the "Biographie Universelle."She is,however,a very graceful myth;and if she never existed,her statue does,at least,a shapeless effigy,transferred to the Capitol from the socalled tomb of Clemence in the old church of La Daurade.The great hall in which the Floral Games are held was encumbered with scaffoldings,and Iwas unable to admire the long series of busts of the bards who have won prizes and the portraits of all the capitouls of Toulouse.As a compensation I was introduced to a big bookcase,filled with the poems that have been crowned since the days of the troubadours (a portentous collection),and the big butcher's knife with which,according to the legend,Henry,Duke of Montmorency,who had conspired against the great cardinal with Gaston of Orleans and Mary de ?
Medici,was,in 1632,beheaded on this spot by the order of Richelieu.With these objects the interest of the Capitol was exhausted.The building,indeed,has not the grandeur of its name,which is a sort of promise that the visitor will find some sensible embodiment of the old Roman tradition that once flourished in this part of France.It is inferior in impressiveness to the other three famous Capitols of the modern world,that of Rome (if I may call the present structure modern)and those of Washington and Albany!
The only Roman remains at Toulouse are to be found in the museum,a very interesting establishment,which I was condemned to see as imperfectly as I had seen the Capitol.It was being rearranged;and the gallery of paintings,which is the least interesting feature,was the only part that was not upsidedown.The pictures are mainly of the modern French school,and I remember nothing but a powerful,though disagreeable specimen of Henner,who paints the human body,and paints it so well,with a brush dipped in blackness;and,placed among the paintings,a bronze replica of the charming young David of Mercie.These things have been set out in the church of an old monastery,long since suppressed,and the rest of the collection occupies the cloisters.
These are two in number,a small one,which you enter first from the street,and a very vast and elegant one beyond it,which with its light Gothic arches and slim columns (of the fourteenth century),its broad walk its little garden,with old tombs and statues in the centre,is by far the most picturesque,the most sketchable,spot in Toulouse.It must be doubly so when the Roman busts,inions,slabs and sarcophagi,are ranged along the walls;it must indeed (to compare small things with great,and as the judicious Murray remarks)bear a certain resemblance to the Campo Santo at Pisa.But these things are absent now;the cloister is a litter of confusion,and its treasures have been stowed away,confusedly,in sundry inaccessible rooms.The custodian attempted to console me by telling me that when they are exhibited again it will be on a scientific basis,and with an order and regularity of which they were formerly innocent.But I was not consoled.I wanted simply the spectacle,the picture,and I didn't care in the least for the classification.Old Roman fragments,exposed to light in the open air,under a southern sky,in a quadrangle round a garden,have an immortal charm simply in their general effect;and the charm is all the greater when the soil of the very place has yielded them up.
