In the Heart of the Vosges
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Matilda Betham Edwards >> In the Heart of the Vosges
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IN THE HEART OF THE VOSGES
[Illustration]
AND OTHER SKETCHES BY A "DEVIOUS TRAVELLER"
BY
MISS BETHAM-EDWARDS
OFFICIER DE L'INSTRUCTION PUBLIQUE DE FRANCE
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY SPECIAL PERMISSION_
1911
"I travel not to look for Gascons in Sicily. I have left them at home."
--Montaigne.
PREFATORY NOTE
Some of these sketches now appear for the first time, others have been
published serially, whilst certain portions, curtailed or enlarged
respectively, are reprinted from a former work long since out of print.
Yet again I might entitle this volume, "Scenes from Unfrequented France,"
many spots being here described by an English traveller for the first
time.
My warmest thanks are due to M. Maurice Barrès for permission to
reproduce two illustrations by M. Georges Conrad from his famous romance,
_Au Service de l'Allemagne_; also to M. André Hallays for the use of
two views from his _À Travers l'Alsace_; and to the publishers of
both authors, MM. Fayard and Perrin, for their serviceableness in the
matter.
Nor must I omit to acknowledge my indebtedness to Messrs. Sampson Low &
Co., to whom I owe the reproduction of Gustave Doré's infantine _tours
de force_; and to Messrs. Rivington, who have allowed large reprints
from the work published by them over twenty years ago.
And last but not least, I thank the Rev. Albert Cadier, the son of my old
friend, the much respected pastor of Osse, for the loan of his charming
photographs.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I GÉRARDMER AND ITS ENVIRONS
II THE CHARM OF ALSACE
III IN GUSTAVE DORÉ'S COUNTRY
IV FROM BARR TO STRASBURG
V THE "MARVELLOUS BOY" OF ALSACE
VI QUISSAC AND SAUVE
VII AN IMMORTALIZER
VIII TOULOUSE
IX MONTAUBAN, OR INGRES-VILLE
X MY PYRENEAN VALLEY AT LAST
XI AN OLIVE FARM IN THE VAR
XII PESSICARZ AND THE SUICIDES' CEMETERY
XIII GUEST OF FARMER AND MILLER
XIV LADY MERCHANTS AND SOCIALIST MAYORS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ST. ODILE
PROVINS, GENERAL VIEW
PROVINS, THE CAPITOL
PROVINS, THE CITY WALLS
GÉRARDMER
A VOSGIAN SCENE
CIRQUE DE RETOURNEMER
THE PINNACLE OF ODILE
ETTENHEIM
COLMAR
GUSTAVE DORÉ, INFANTINE SKETCH
GUSTAVE DORÉ, DO
OSSE
NEAR THE SPANISH FRONTIER
ORCUM
ARRAS, LA PETITE PLACE
I
GÉRARDMER AND ENVIRONS
[Illustration: PROVINS, GENERAL VIEW]
The traveller bound to eastern France has a choice of many routes, none
perhaps offering more attractions than the great Strasburg line by way of
Meaux, Châlons-sur-Marne, Nancy, and Épinal. But the journey must be made
leisurely. The country between Paris and Meaux is deservedly dear to
French artists, and although Champagne is a flat region, beautiful only
by virtue of fertility and highly developed agriculture, it is rich in
old churches and fine architectural remains. By the Troyes-Belfort route,
Provins may be visited. This is, perhaps, the most perfect specimen of
the mediaeval walled-in town in France. To my thinking, neither
Carcassonne, Semur nor Guérande surpass Hégésippe Moreau's little
birthplace in beauty and picturesqueness. The acropolis of Brie also
possesses a long and poetic history, being the seat of an art-loving
prince, and the haunt of troubadours. A word to the epicure as well as
the archaeologist. The bit of railway from Châlons-sur-Marne to Nancy
affords a series of gastronomic delectations. At Épernay travellers are
just allowed time to drink a glass of champagne at the buffet, half a
franc only being charged. At Bar-le-Duc little neatly-packed jars of the
raspberry jam for which the town is famous are brought to the doors of
the railway carriage. Further on at Commercy, you are enticed to regale
upon unrivalled cakes called "Madeleines de Commercy," and not a town, I
believe, of this favoured district is without its speciality in the shape
of delicate cates or drinks.
Châlons-sur-Marne, moreover, possesses one of the very best hotels in
provincial France--the hotel with the queer name--another inducement for
us to idle on the way. The town itself is in no way remarkable, but it
abounds in magnificent old churches of various epochs--some falling into
decay, others restored, one and all deserving attention. St. Jean is
especially noteworthy, its beautiful interior showing much exquisite
tracery and almost a fanciful arrangement of transepts. It is very rich
in good modern glass. But the gem of gems is not to be found in Châlons
itself; more interesting and beautiful than its massive cathedral and
church of Notre Dame, than St. Jean even, is the exquisite church of
Notre Dame de l'Épine, situated in a poor hamlet a few miles beyond the
octroi gates. We have here, indeed, a veritable cathedral in a
wilderness, nothing to be imagined more graceful than the airy open
colonnades of its two spires, light as a handful of wheat ears loosely
bound together. The colour of the grey stone gives solemnity to the rest
of the exterior, which is massive and astonishingly rich in the grotesque
element. We carefully studied the gargoyles round the roof, and, in spite
of defacements, made out most of them--here a grinning demon with a
struggling human being in its clutch--there an odd beast, part human,
part pig, clothed in a kind of jacket, playing a harp--dozens of comic,
hideous, heterogeneous figures in various attitudes and travesties.
[Illustration: Provins, The Capitol]
Notre Dame de l'Épine--originally commemorative of a famous shrine--has
been restored, and purists in architecture will pass it by as an
achievement of Gothic art in the period of its decline, but it is
extremely beautiful nevertheless. On the way from Châlons-sur-Marne to
Nancy we catch glimpses of other noble churches that stand out from the
flat landscape as imposingly as Ely Cathedral. These are Notre Dame of
Vitry le François and St. Étienne of Toul, formerly a cathedral, both
places to be stopped at by leisurely tourists.
The fair, the _triste_ city of Nancy! There is an indescribable charm
in the sad yet stately capital of ancient Lorraine. No life in its
quiet streets, no movement in its handsome squares, nevertheless Nancy
is one of the wealthiest, most elegant cities in France! Hither
flocked rich Alsatian families after the annexation of Alsace-Lorraine,
and perhaps its proximity to the lost provinces in part accounts for the
subdued, dreamy aspect of the place as a whole. A strikingly beautiful
city it is, with its splendid monuments of the house of Lorraine, and
handsome modern streets bearing evidence of much prosperity in these
days. In half-an-hour you may get an unforgettable glimpse of the Place
Stanislas, with its bronze gates, fountains, and statue, worthy of a great
capital; of the beautiful figure of Duke Antonio of Lorraine, on
horseback, under an archway of flamboyant Gothic; of the Ducal Palace and
its airy colonnade; lastly, of the picturesque old city gate, the Porte
de la Craffe, one of the most striking monuments of the kind in France.
All these things may be glanced at in an hour, but in order to enjoy
Nancy thoroughly a day or two should be devoted to it, and here, as at
Châlons-sur-Marne, creature comforts are to be had in the hotels. In the
Ducal Palace are shown the rich tapestries found in the tent of Charles
le Téméraire after his defeat before Nancy, and other relics of that
Haroun-al-Raschid of his epoch, who bivouacked off gold and silver plate,
and wore on the battlefield diamonds worth half a million. In a little
church outside the town, commemorative of this victory, are collected the
cenotaphs of the Dukes of Lorraine--the _chapelle ronde_, as the
splendid little mausoleum is designated--with its imposing monuments in
black marble, and richly-decorated octagonal dome, making up a solemn and
beautiful whole. Graceful and beautiful also are the monuments in the
church itself, and those of another church, Des Cordeliers, close to the
Ducal Palace.
[Illustration: PROVINS, THE CITY WALLS]
Nancy is especially rich in monumental sculpture, but it is in the
cathedral that we are to be fairly enchanted by the marble statues of the
four doctors of the church--St. Augustine, St. Grégoire, St. Léon, and
St. Jerome. These are the work of Nicolas Drouin, a native of Nancy, and
formerly ornamented a tomb in the church of the Cordeliers just
mentioned. The physiognomy, expression, and pose of St. Augustine are
well worthy of a sculptor's closest study, but it is rather as a whole
than in detail that this exquisite statue delights the ordinary observer.
All four sculptures are noble works of art; the fine, dignified figure of
St. Augustine somehow takes strongest hold of the imagination. We would
fain return to it again and again, as indeed we would fain return to all
else we have seen in the fascinating city of Nancy. From Nancy by way of
Épinal we may easily reach the heart of the Vosges.
[Illustration: GÉRARDMER]
How sweet and pastoral are these cool resting-places in the heart of the
Vosges! Gérardmer and many another as yet unfrequented by the tourist
world, and unsophisticated in spite of railways and bathing seasons. The
Vosges has long been a favourite playground of our French neighbours,
although ignored by the devotees of Cook and Gaze, and within late years,
not a rustic spot possessed of a mineral spring but has become
metamorphosed into a second Plombières. Gérardmer--"_Sans Gérardmer et
un peu Nancy, que serait la Lorraine?_" says the proverb--is resorted
to, however, rather for its rusticity and beauty than for any curative
properties of its sparkling waters. Also in some degree for the sake of
urban distraction. The French mind when bent on holiday-making is social
in the extreme, and the day spent amid the forest nooks and murmuring
streams of Gérardmer winds up with music and dancing. One of the chief
attractions of the big hotel in which we are so wholesomely housed is
evidently the enormous salon given up after dinner to the waltz, country
dance, and quadrille. Our hostess with much ease and tact looks in,
paying her respects, to one visitor after another, and all is enjoyment
and mirth till eleven o'clock, when the large family party, for so our
French fellowship may be called, breaks up. These socialities, giving as
they do the amiable aspect of French character, will not perhaps
constitute an extra charm of Gérardmer in the eyes of the more morose
English tourist. After many hours spent in the open air most of us prefer
the quiet of our own rooms. The country, too, is so fresh and delicious
that we want nothing in the shape of social distraction. Drawing-room
amenities seem a waste of time under such circumstances. Nevertheless the
glimpses of French life thus obtained are pleasant, and make us realize
the fact that we are off the beaten track, living among French folks, for
the time separated from insular ways and modes of thought. Our fellowship
is a very varied and animated one. We number among the guests a member of
the French ministry--a writer on the staff of Figaro--a grandson of one
of the most devoted and unfortunate generals of the first Napoleon, known
as "the bravest of the brave," with his elegant wife--the head of one of
the largest commercial houses in eastern France--deputies, diplomats,
artists, with many family parties belonging to the middle and upper ranks
of society, a very strong Alsatian element predominating. Needless to add
that people make themselves agreeable to each other without any
introduction. For the time being at least distinctions are set aside, and
fraternity is the order of the day.
I do not aver that my country-people have never heard of Gérardmer, but
certainly those who stray hither are few and far between. Fortunately for
the lover of nature no English writer has as yet popularized the Vosges.
An Eden-like freshness pervades its valleys and forests, made ever
musical with cascades, a pastoral simplicity characterizes its
inhabitants. Surely in no corner of beautiful France can any one worn out
in body or in brain find more refreshment and tranquil pleasure!
It is only of late years that the fair broad valley of Gérardmer and its
lovely little lake have been made accessible by railway. Indeed, the
popularity of the Vosges and its watering-places dates from the late
Franco-German war. Rich French valetudinarians, and tourists generally,
have given up Wiesbaden and Ems from patriotic motives, and now spend
their holidays and their money on French soil. Thus enterprise has been
stimulated in various quarters, and we find really good accommodation in
out-of-the-way spots not mentioned in guide-books of a few years' date.
Gérardmer is now reached by rail in two hours from Épinal, on the great
Strasburg line, but those who prefer a drive across country may approach
it from Plombières, Remiremont, Colmar and Münster, and other attractive
routes. Once arrived at Gérardmer, the traveller will certainly not care
to hurry away. No site in the Vosges is better suited for excursionizing
in all directions, and the place itself is full of quiet charm. There is
wonderful sweetness and solace in these undulating hill-sides, clothed
with brightest green, their little tossing rivers and sunny glades all
framed by solemn hills--I should rather say mountains--pitchy black with
the solemn pine. You may search far and wide for a picture so engaging as
Gérardmer when the sun shines, its gold-green slopes sprinkled with white
châlets, its red-roofed village clustered about a rustic church tower,
and at its feet the loveliest little lake in the world, from which rise
gently the fir-clad heights.
And no monotony! You climb the inviting hills and woods day by day, week
after week, ever to find fresh enchantment. Not a bend of road or winding
mountain-path but discloses a new scene--here a fairy glen, with graceful
birch or alder breaking the expanse of dimpled green; there a spinny of
larch or of Scotch fir cresting a verdant monticule; now we come upon a
little Arcadian home nestled on the hill-side, the spinning-wheel hushed
whilst the housewife turns her hay or cuts her patch of rye or wheat
growing just outside her door. Now we follow the musical little river
Vologne as it tosses over its stony bed amid banks golden with yellow
loosestrife, or gently ripples amid fair stretches of pasture starred
with the grass of Parnassus. The perpetual music of rushing, tumbling,
trickling water is delightful, and even in hot weather, if it is ever
indeed hot here, the mossy banks and babbling streams must give a sense
of coolness. Deep down, entombed amid smiling green hills and frowning
forest peaks, lies the pearl of Gérardmer, its sweet lake, a sheet of
turquoise in early morn, silvery bright when the noon-day sun flashes
upon it, and on grey, sunless days gloomy as Acheron itself.
[Illustration: A VOSGIAN SCENE]
Travellers stinted for time cannot properly enjoy the pastoral scenes,
not the least charm of which is the frank, pleasant character of the
people. Wherever we go we make friends and hear confidences. To these
peasant folks, who live so secluded from the outer world, the annual
influx of visitors from July to September is a positive boon, moral as
well as material. The women are especially confidential, inviting us into
their homely yet not poverty-stricken kitchens, keeping us as long as
they can whilst they chat about their own lives or ask us questions. The
beauty, politeness, and clear direct speech of the children, are
remarkable. Life here is laborious, but downright want I should say rare.
As in the Jura, the forest gorges and park-like solitudes are disturbed
by the sound of hammer and wheel, and a tall factory chimney not
infrequently spoils a wild landscape. The greater part of the people
gain, their livelihood in the manufactories, very little land here being
suitable for tillage.
Gérardmer is famous for its cheeses; another local industry is turnery
and the weaving of linen, the linen manufactories employing many hands,
whilst not a mountain cottage is without its handloom for winter use.
Weaving at home is chiefly resorted to as a means of livelihood in
winter, when the country is covered with snow and no out-door occupations
are possible. Embroidery is also a special fabric of the Vosges, but its
real wealth lies in mines of salt and iron, and mineral waters.
One chief feature in Gérardmer is the congeries of handsome buildings
bearing the inscription _"École Communale"_ and how stringently the
new educational law is enforced throughout France may be gathered from
the spectacle of schoolboys at drill. We saw three squadrons, each under
the charge of a separate master, evidently made up from all classes of
the community. Some of the boys were poorly, nay, miserably, clad,
others wore good homely clothes, a few were really well dressed.
Our first week at Gérardmer was wet and chilly. Fires and winter clothes
would have been acceptable, but at last came warmth and sunshine, and we
set off for the Col de la Schlucht, the grandest feature of the Vosges,
and the goal of every traveller in these regions.
[Illustration: CIRQUE DE RETOURNEMER]
There is a strange contrast between the calm valley of Gérardmer, a
little haven of tranquil loveliness and repose, and the awful solitude
and austerity of the Schlucht, from which it is separated by a few hours
only. Not even a cold grey day can turn Gérardmer into a dreary place,
but in the most brilliant sunshine this mountain pass is none the less
majestic and solemn. One obtains the sense of contrast by slow degrees,
so that the mind is prepared for it and in the mood for it. The acme, the
culminating point of Vosges scenery is thus reached by a gradually
ascending scale of beauty and grandeur from the moment we quit Gérardmer,
till we stand on the loftiest summit of the Vosges chain, dominating the
Schlucht. For the first half-hour we skirt the alder-fringed banks of the
tossing, foaming little river Vologne, as it winds amid lawny spaces, on
either side the fir-clad ridges rising like ramparts. Here all is
gentleness and golden calm, but soon we quit this warm, sunny region, and
enter the dark forest road curling upwards to the airy pinnacle to which
we are bound. More than once we have to halt on our way. One must stop to
look at the cascade made by the Vologne, never surely fuller than now,
one of the prettiest cascades in the world, masses of snow-white foam
tumbling over a long, uneven stair of granite through the midst of a
fairy glen. The sound of these rushing waters is long in our ears as we
continue to climb the splendid mountain road that leads to the Schlucht,
and nowhere else. From a giddy terrace cut in the sides of the shelving
forest ridge we now get a prospect of the little lakes of Longuemer and
Retournemer, twin gems of superlative loveliness in the wildest
environment. Deep down they lie, the two silvery sheets of water with
their verdant holms, making a little world of peace and beauty, a toy
dropped amid Titanic awfulness and splendour. The vantage ground is on
the edge of a dizzy precipice, but the picture thus sternly framed is too
exquisite to be easily abandoned. We gaze and gaze in spite of the vast
height from which we contemplate it; and when at last we tear ourselves
away from the engaging scene, we are in a region all ruggedness and
sublimity, on either side rocky scarps and gloomy forests, with reminders
by the wayside that we are approaching an Alpine flora. Nothing can be
wilder or more solitary than the scene. For the greater part, the forests
through which our road is cut are unfrequented, except by the wild boar,
deer, and wild cat, and in winter time the fine mountain roads are
rendered impenetrable by the accumulation of snow.
This approach to the Col is by a tunnel cut in the granite, fit entrance
to one of the wildest regions in France. The road now makes a sudden bend
towards the châlet cresting the Col, and we are able in a moment to
realize its tremendous position.
From our little châlet we look upon what seems no mere cleft in a
mountain chain, but in the vast globe itself. This huge hollow, brought
about by some strange geological perturbation, is the valley of Münster,
no longer a part of French territory, but of Prussian Elsass. The road we
have come by lies behind us, but another as formidable winds under the
upper mountain ridge towards Münster, whilst the pedestrian may follow a
tiny green footpath that will lead him thither, right through the heart
of the pass. Looking deep down we discern here and there scattered
châlets amid green spaces far away. These are the homesteads or
_chaumes_ of the herdsmen, all smiling cheerfulness now, but
deserted in winter. Except for such little dwellings, barely
discernible, so distant are they, there is no break in the solitary
scene, no sign of life at all.
The châlet is a fair hostelry for unfastidious travellers, its chief
drawback being the propensity of tourists to get up at three o'clock in
the morning in order to behold the sunrise from the Hoheneck. Good beds,
good food, and from the windows, one of the finest prospects in the
world, might well tempt many to linger here in spite of the disturbance
above mentioned. For the lover of flowers this halting-place would be
delightful.
Next morning the day dawned fair, and by eight o'clock we set off with a
guide for the ascent of the Hoheneck, rather, I should say, for a long
ramble over gently undulating green and flowery ways. After climbing a
little beechwood, all was smoothness under our feet, and the long
_détour_ we had to make in order to reach the summit was a series of
the gentlest ascents, a wandering over fair meadow-land several thousand
feet above the sea-level. Here we found the large yellow gentian, used in
the fabrication of absinthe, and the bright yellow arnica, whilst instead
of the snow-white flower of the Alpine anemone, the ground was now
silvery with its feathery seed; the dark purple pansy of the Vosges was
also rare. We were a month too late for the season of flowers, but the
foxglove and the bright pink Epilobium still bloomed in great luxuriance.
It was a walk to remember. The air was brisk and genial, the blue sky
lightly flecked with clouds, the turf fragrant with wild thyme, and
before our eyes we had a panorama every moment gaining in extent and
grandeur. As yet indeed the scene, the features of which we tried to make
out, looked more like cloudland than solid reality. On clear days are
discerned here, far beyond the rounded summits of the Vosges chain, the
Rhine Valley, the Black Forest, the Jura range, and the snow-capped Alps.
To-day we saw grand masses of mountains piled one above the other, and
higher still a pageantry of azure and gold that seemed to belong to the
clouds.
No morning could promise fairer, but hardly had we reached the goal of
our walk when from far below came an ominous sound of thunder, and we saw
heavy rain-clouds dropping upon the heights we had left behind.
All hope of a fine prospect was now at an end, but instead we had a
compensating spectacle. For thick and fast the clouds came pouring into
one chasm after another, drifting in all directions, here a mere
transparent veil drawn across the violet hills, there a golden splendour
as of some smaller sun shining on a green little world. At one moment the
whole vast scene was blurred and blotted with chill winter mist; soon a
break was visible, and far away we gazed on a span of serene amethystine
sky, barred with lines of bright gold. Not one, but a dozen, horizons--a
dozen heavens--seemed there, whilst the thunder that reached us from
below seemed too remote to threaten. But at last the clouds gathered in
form and volume, hiding the little firmaments of violet and amber; the
bright blue sky, bending over the green oasis--all vanished as if by
magic. We could see no more, and nothing remained but to go back, and the
quicker the better. The storm, our guide said, was too far off to reach
us yet, and we might reach the châlet without being drenched to the skin,
as we fortunately did. No sooner, however, were we fairly under shelter
than the rain poured down in torrents and the thunder pealed overhead. In
no part of France are thunderstorms so frequent and so destructive as
here, nowhere is the climate less to be depended on. A big umbrella,
stout shoes, and a waterproof are as necessary in the Vosges as in our
own Lake district.
We had, however, a fine afternoon for our drive back, a quick downhill
journey along the edge of a tremendous precipice, clothed with
beech-trees and brushwood. A most beautiful road it is, and the two
little lakes looked lovely in the sunshine, encircled by gold-green
swards and a delicate screen of alder branches. Through pastures white
with meadow-sweet the turbulent, crystal-clear little river Vologne
flowed merrily, making dozens of tiny cascades, turning a dozen
mill-wheels in its course. All the air was fragrant with newly-turned
hay, and never, we thought, had Gérardmer and its lake made a more
captivating picture.