The Train of Vivarais
A
Voyage by Steam Engine
Through
the Picturesque Mountains Northwest of
The
sun cast only a pale light onto the platform of the Tournon train station. It was fall and the leaves on the trees had
covered themselves with gold so as to be better protected against the coming
frost. There was quite some
commotion. Not less than two trains were
supposed to run this Sunday.
Gerhard
and George had arrived amid a crowd of tourists anxious to utilize such an antiquated
mode of transportation. Children were
running around and mothers attempted to keep their offspring under control –
while the fathers inspected the railroad equipment.
George
turned his eyes in all directions as if looking for some unknown object, but
not for the railroad.
“Hey,
George, what’s the matter?” asked Gerhard.
“I
look for the marchioness and I cannot find her.
It was you, after all, who told me that she would be at the
station. She is late and will miss the
train”
Gerhard
did not understand,
“But
of course”, continued George, “I would so much love to meet that lady and talk
to her. Imagine, returned to the
In
his head, he repeated the phrase by M. Jourdain “beautiful lady, your beautiful
eyes”, and so on. Or was it “your
beautiful eyes, beautiful lady”, and so on?
Those were his memories of the piece by Molière, “The Bourgeois
Gentleman”, in which he had acted when he was a student.
Gerhard
left with a big laugh. He understood his
friend’s confusion.
“The
marchioness is there! Don’t you see
her?” and saying this he pointed his finger in the direction of the awning in
front of the station, attached there for the protection of the travelers
against rain and sun. That’s also called
a marquise in French, a simple
protection of the platform, and you just misunderstood the French word as marchioness. George was overcome by uproarious laughter,
but then the train arrived already from the depot.
“The
Mallet” – #413, the red one –
entered the station slowly. (These locomotives obtained their name after Anatole MALLET, who invented a system permitting the use of
the steam in two successive cylinders, one in front and the other between the two
sets of wheels, providing greater economy while improving traction). Its push rods glistened with oil as they
moved in a fantastic dance while a light veil of steam drifted out of the
carefully polished cylinders. Up above,
the engineer’s team, proud as lords, contemplated the motley joyous crowd as
they watched out for the signal in front of which they had to stop
correctly. A string of cars of all
colors – blue, red, yellow – followed in a creaking sequence. That was a real “Parrot train”.
The
convoy came to a smooth halt and was quickly stormed by the tourists.
George
and Gerhard selected the lounge car where the seats were upholstered in
grey-blue velvet. They closed the door
of their compartment in order to gain tranquility. Then they opened the window and took some
pictures.
The
railroad agents bustled about on the platform:
“All on board, all on board, ready for departure”. The agent in charge of the train whistled,
the station chief raised the green and white paddle, and the controller barely
had time to jump on the running-board of a car as the train began to move.
A
cloud of smoke and steam mixed with some cinder particles filled their
compartment and the window was swiftly closed, especially since one quickly
arrived at the tunnel.
The
“Mastrou” (the local dialect name of this train) allowed itself a moment of top
speed while following the main line “Lyons-Nîmes” with which its metric track
overlapped. Then, as if exhausted, it
stopped to the right of the bifurcation in the middle of a curve and counter-curve
where its “own line” began. Carefully it
started moving again, the cars followed gingerly; the engineer, the man in
charge of the train, was leaning out on the right side, carefully watching the
maneuver. It had worked well!
The
“Mallet” whistled with joy and resumed its speed. Ah! So
little: 20 to 25 km/hr (15 to 17
m/hr). And there was St. Jean de Muzols
already. Yes, it was there, where the
vines of the famous “
The
“Mastrou” entered the green scenery and threaded itself through the Doux
valley. Now the serious part of the trip
began: the climb up the ramp, at 20%o inclination, in order to be hoisted from
the bottom of the gorges to the plateau above.
One could see the great bridge which had been built between 1470 and
1583 and had withstood all the floods in those years, then a viaduct, the
tunnel of Mordane, and finally the passage appropriately named the “Étroits”,
the “
The
engine gave all its power, the noise of the steam exhaust reverberated from the
rocky walls, accompanied by long whistles.
But the “Mallet” had seen more than this since the beginning of its
service in 1932, and its two sets of wheels provided it with astonishing
adaptability.
Arrival
at Boucieu le Roi, the old royal tribunal of 1291, where there would be a
stopover of 20 minutes to take on water for the engine and to provide a buffet
for the travelers.
George
and Gerhard used the time to leave the train, admire and photograph the
locomotive, and talk to the engineer and stoker.
But
that tall controller – Gerhard was sure he’d seen him before. He approached the young man.
“Aren’t
you Antoine?”
“No,
I am Raphael”, the man answered.
“Antoine was my grandfather. He
used to drive the motor coach on the St. Tropez line, in the South of
France. You know him, then?”
Gerhard
hesitated a moment, searching his memory.
“Yes”,
he said. “It was in June of 1947. I had gotten on the wrong train. Antoine kindly helped me along. We then talked about Diesel engines that were
installed in those new motor coaches.
What has happened to them?”
“What? You don’t know?” replied Raphael. “They were sold in
Gerhard
knew very well, but had his own thoughts about that question.
The
locomotive whistle blew. It was time to
depart. The travelers climbed back into
the cars and Raphael, who actually was the controller of the train, sat down
next to the two friends to continue the conversation. Gerhard whispered “Later” into his ear, while
pointing out his companion. Intrigued,
Raphael managed a smile of complicity and left.
The
Arlebosc viaduct appeared. Then came “La
Pierre qui Vire”, “The Rock-That-Turns”, according to legend, turning every
hundred years; but nobody had ever seen that.
Further along, the
The
convoy crossed the 45th degree latitude where the “
The
“Mastrou” made a triumphal entrance into the Lamastre station, by the sound of
a local bugle. The noisy crowd of
travelers dispersed in waves in a child-like mood, specifically since it was
market day.
The
two friends didn’t miss a beat. Video
recorder and camera in hand, they undertook to capture the market stands. The merchants found them so likable that they
offered them pieces of ham, of cheese, and something to drink. They also interrogated them, since it appeared
to them that, with their accent, they had to be “Esstrangèsse”, as one says in
the South to indicate the strangers, even if they are merely Frenchmen from
another region, or Parisians from
“Ah! You are Americans”, said a large butcher,
admiring and curious at the same time.
“You have taken the “Mastrou”?”
George
and Gerhard answered him in perfect French that left him stupefied: “Yes, we
came from the
The
butcher felt on “home ground” and told them the following story:
“Did
you know that this line was discontinued in 1968, but was revitalized by a
tourist association in 1969? In 1971, a
rich American with a large collection of trains purchased one “Mallet”, number
104; but, in the end, he did not take her home – to the USA – and that one
stayed at Tournon”.
By
this time, a small crowd of people had formed around them. One could hear questions like, “Is that him,
you think?”
“Yes,
I tell you, that’s him!”
“Who
do you mean by “him”?”
“It’s
an American actor”, answered a voice.
George
turned around. He was almost a perfect
double of the star. He knew it, and it
amused him very much to give autographs and to keep the confusion going.
Gerhard
took the opportunity to walk away – in the company of Raphael, who had followed
him, being somewhat intrigued. They had
a long conversation, with the necessary clarifications and shaking of
heads. All this turned exiting until the
moment when George had escaped the crowd of his admirers and arrived exhausted.
“Where
have you been?” he asked.
“Oh,
I was busy trying to find a restaurant and our friendly controller recommended
a famous one to me”
The
lunch turned out very pleasant, on a shaded terrace. The weather was wonderfully mild and
favorable for dreaming, more so since some fresh rosé wine began to have its
effect. A siesta offered itself in the
nearby reclining chairs. The tourists
calmed down and became less noisy, which permitted them to hear the concert of
the cicadas.
After
this intermezzo, it was time to reach the station again, more so, since the
ballet of the locomotives was to begin.
Number 413 directed itself toward the pile of coal to put in supplies,
then was turned around on the depot carrousel and left again, to move to the
head of its string of cars. A few instances
later, Number 403 – of green color – did the same. Being already
Raphael
joined them and said that in 1876 Mr. Freycinet, then Minister of Public Works,
had decided to provide France with a network of secondary lines, designated to
serve the small towns that had been left out by the powerful Compagnies de
Chemin de Fer, the French railway company.
The task was to open up the Haute-Loire, the so called
The
train had some famous travelers, such as:
Paul Valéry, Georges Courteline, and even Maurice Ravel. Time passed, enlivened by some small
incidents: an encounter with a cow or an
automobile, or some run-away railroad cars when improperly blocked.
The
war of 1939-1945 had left the network exhausted because of lacking
maintenance. The Public Administration
did not show any interest, the traffic of travelers and merchandise collapsed. The deficit accumulated and the new motor bus
companies using the roads became a formidable competition. Consequently, on
But
that did not take into account the courage and persistence of a small band of
railroad enthusiasts, who decided to save whatever could be saved. In this way the association “CFTM” was born,
the seat of which is in
One
had already passed St. Jean de Muzols, the train slowed down, then came to a
halt at the signal, which protects the main line with which it was now going to
engage. Green light! The “Mallet” gently began to move. The whole convoy screeched as it twisted
through the switches. Then came the last
sprint of speed before entry into the Tournon station – “All passengers descend
from the train” snuffled the loudspeaker.
Raphael
got up first. He invited the two new
friends to do the same and follow him.
They pushed their way through the crowd that filled the platform and
crossed the tracks in the direction of a large building.
The
young man opened a door. The three men
walked in. The light of the late day
entered through some small openings.
Their eyes adjusted slowly.
Then,
George turned around to George and, with a large theatrical movement of his
hand, announced: “I hereby present to
you the motor coach of the Little Train
of Provence story!”
Hey,
yes! That really was it, the blue and
grey motor coach, not at all faded; repurchased from the Company of Spain, it
was now entirely restored. George
recognized it. After the great turmoil
of 1944, he had traveled on it to Saint Tropez when he once had a short leave.
“Thank
you”, George stammered as he shook the hand of Gerhard and Raphael, his eyes
becoming misty from emotion. He then put
both hands on the chassis of the motor coach as if to tell it “I am so glad to
have found you again”.
“Let’s
go”, said the controller. We should
celebrate this event. They left the
building and turned toward the café of the station just at the moment when the
sun was setting behind the hills of the Ardèche.
Postscript
By
now, Gerhard and George are too old to travel.
They correspond with each other by internet and web-cameras – and with
Raphael, who is married by now – to a pretty traveler. On winter evenings or during vacations, they
tell their grandchildren the wonderful story of the “Voyage by Steam Engine”.
March
1, 2005
Pierre
Decey