The Henson Journals

[206]

Thursday, April 4th, 1929.

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Avignon

We arrived in the Hotel shortly after 9 a.m., and after dejeuner breakfast, went to our rooms, & unpacked our bags. Then I wrote a letter of condolence to Mrs Spooner on the death of her husband, which was announced in yesterday's Times.

Maxwell Spooner was a man of considerable practical ability, unrelieved by any touch of what is commonly called humour, and quite destitute of the qualities which secure popularity or command success. He could pass examinations with ease, but could handle no subject with ability distinction. In the pulpit, or on a platform, he was dullness incarnate. His natural defects were unquestionably intensified by his marriage with an able, ambitious, & masterful woman, who resented the insignificance which she emphasized. Had he not been a Spooner, he could hardly have become even an Archdeacon. He was kind, true [207] [Avignon] to his friends, conscious of his own mediocrity, and genuinely religious; but he was so completely eclipsed by his own cleverer relations that nobody heeded him much. I liked him, but he bored me, & when the garrulity of old age grew on him, I found his company tiresome.

After lunch we drove to Villeneuve in an open carriage. The wind was so keen that we were rendered uncomfortable, but we saw much that was interesting & impressive. The view of the Pope's Palace from the opposite bank of the Rhone is amazingly impressive. We visited Notre Dame, and were shown the curious & beautiful image of the Virgin & Child (14th century) carved out of a single elephant's tusk. The ruins of the Chartreuse are a sad spectacle, yet very dignified in their utter desolation. We returned to the Hotel for tea.

[208]

Avignon

In the same church of Notre Dame we were shown a medieval figure of the Madonna & Child carved Janus–wise with two faces, the one side sorrowful, the other joyous. There was a XVIth century Swiss halbert among the objects in the treasury.

The aspect of the country is given distinctiveness by the rows of cypresses everywhere planted as a shelter from the mistral which blows violently at certain times of the year.

The French roads are certainly very bad, & quite inadequate for the traffic which they have to carry. The dust is fearful, and, as this is a chalk country, it whitens everything. Cypresses & olive trees on either side of the road are surpliced in white dust.

The vineyards have a mean aspect; the vines being pruned almost to the roots. Pollarded trees, lining the roads, have a gaunt and strange appearance. There is no beauty in them.

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