In the Heart of the Vosges
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Matilda Betham Edwards >> In the Heart of the Vosges
Excursions innumerable may be made from Gérardmer. We may drive across
country to Remiremont, to Plombières, to Wesserling, to Colmar, to St.
Dié, whilst these places in turn make very good centres for excursions.
On no account must a visit to La Bresse be omitted. This is one of the
most ancient towns in the Vosges. Like some of the villages in the Morvan
and in the department of La Nièvre, La Bresse remained till the
Revolution an independent commune, a republic in miniature. The heads of
families of both sexes took part in the election of magistrates, and from
this patriarchal legislation there was seldom any appeal to the higher
court--namely, that of Nancy. La Bresse is still a rich commune by
reason of its forests and industries. The sound of the mill-wheel and
hammer now disturbs these mountain solitudes, and although so isolated by
natural position, this little town is no longer cut off from cosmopolitan
influence. The little tavern is developing into a very fair inn. In the
summer tourists from all parts of France pass through it, in carriages,
on foot, occasionally on horseback. Most likely it now possesses a
railway station, a newspaper kiosk, and a big hotel, as at Gérardmer!
As we drop down upon La Bresse after our climb of two hours and more, we
seem to be at the world's end. Our road has led us higher and higher by
dense forests and wild granite parapets, tasselled with fern and
foxglove, till we suddenly wheel round upon a little straggling town
marvellously placed. Deep down it lies, amid fairy-like greenery and
silvery streams, whilst high above tower the rugged forest peaks and
far-off blue mountains, in striking contrast.
The sloping green banks, starred with the grass of Parnassus, and musical
with a dozen streams, the pastoral dwellings, each with its patch of
flower garden and croft; the glades, dells and natural terraces are all
sunny and gracious as can be; but round about and high above frown
inaccessible granite peaks, and pitchy-black forest summits, impenetrable
even at this time of the year. As we look down we see that roads have
been cut round the mountain sides, and that tiny homesteads are perched
wherever vantage ground is to be had, yet the impression is one of
isolation and wildness. The town lies in no narrow cleft, as is the case
with many little manufacturing towns in the Jura, but in a vast opening
and falling back of the meeting hills and mountain tops, so that it is
seen from far and wide, and long before it is approached. We had made the
first part of our journey at a snail's pace. No sooner were we on the
verge of the hills looking down upon La Bresse, than we set off at a
desperate rate, spinning breathlessly round one mountain spur after
another, till we were suddenly landed in the village street, dropped, as
it seemed, from a balloon.
A curious feature to be noted in all the places I have mentioned is the
outer wooden casing of the houses. This is done as a protection against
the cold, the Vosges possessing, with the Auvergne and the Limousin, the
severest climate in France. La Bresse, like Gérardmer and other sweet
valleys of these regions, is disfigured by huge factories, yet none can
regret the fact, seeing what well-being these industries bring to the
people. Beggars are numerous, but we are told they are strangers, who
merely invade these regions during the tourist season.
Remiremont, our next halting-place, may be reached by a pleasant carriage
drive, but the railway is more convenient to travellers encumbered with
half-a-dozen trunks. The railway, moreover, cuts right through the
beautiful valley of the Moselle--a prospect which is missed by road.
Remiremont is charming. We do not get the creature comforts of Gérardmer,
but by way of compensation we find a softer and more genial climate. The
engaging little town is indeed one of nature's sanatoriums. The streets
are kept clean by swift rivulets, and all the air is fragrant with
encircling fir-woods. Like Gérardmer and La Bresse, however, Remiremont
lies open to the sun. A belt of flowery dells, terraced orchards, and
wide pastures, amid which meanders the clear blue Moselle, girds it round
about, and no matter which path you take, it is sure to lead to inviting
prospects. The arcades lend a Spanish look to the town, and recall the
street architecture of Lons-le-Saunier and Arbois in the Jura. Flower
gardens abound, and the general atmosphere is one of prosperity and
cheerfulness.
The historic interest of this now dead-alive little town centres around
its lady abbesses, who for centuries held sovereign rule and state in
their abbatial palace, at the present time the Hôtel de Ville. These
high-born dames, like certain temporal rulers of the sex, loved battle,
and more than one _chanoinesse_, when defied by feudal neighbours,
mounted the breach and directed her people. One and all were of noble
birth, and many doubtless possessed the intellectual distinction and
personal charm of Renan's _Abbesse de Jouarre_.
There are beautiful walks about Remiremont, and one especial path amid
the fragrant fir-woods leads to a curious relic of ancient time--a little
chapel formerly attached to a Lazar-house. It now belongs to the
adjoining farm close by, a pleasant place, with flower-garden and
orchard. High up in the woods dominating the broad valley in which
Remiremont is placed are some curious prehistoric stones. But more
inviting than the steep climb under a burning sun--for the weather has
changed on a sudden--is the drive to the Vallée d'Hérival, a drive so
cool, so soothing, so delicious, that we fancy we can never feel heated,
languid, or irritated any more.
The isolated dwellings of the dalesfolk in the midst of tremendous
solitudes--little pastoral scenes such as Corot loved to paint--and
hemmed round by the sternest, most rugged nature, are one of the
characteristics of Vosges scenery. We also find beside tossing rivers and
glittering cascades a solitary linen factory or saw-mill, with the
modern-looking villa of the employer, and clustered round it the cottages
of the work-people. No sooner does the road curl again than we are once
more in a solitude as complete as if we were in some primeval forest of
the new world. We come suddenly upon the Vallée d'Hérival, but the deep
close gorge we gaze upon is only the beginning of the valley within
valley we have come to see. Our road makes a loop round the valley so
that we see it from two levels, and under two aspects. As we return,
winding upwards on higher ground, we get glimpses of sunny dimpled sward
through the dark stems of the majestic fir-trees towering over our head.
There is every gradation of form and colour in the picture, from the ripe
warm gold barring the branches of the firs, to the pale silveriness of
their upper foliage; from the gigantic trees rising from the gorge below,
each seeming to fill a chasm, to the airy, graceful birch, a mere toy
beside it. Rare butterflies abound, but we see few birds.
The hardy pedestrian is an enviable person here, for although excellent
carriages are to be had, some of the most interesting excursions must be
made on foot.
I do not suppose that matters are very greatly changed in hotels here
since my visit so many years ago. In certain respects travellers fare
well. They may feast like Lucullus on fresh trout and on the dainty
aniseed cakes which are a local speciality. But hygienic arrangements
were almost prehistoric, and although politeness itself, mine host and
hostess showed strange nonchalance towards their guests. Thus, when
ringing and ringing again for our tea and bread and butter between seven
and eight o'clock, the chamber--not maid, but man--informed us that
Madame had gone to mass, and everything was locked up till her return.
Even the fastidious tourist, however, will hardly care to exchange his
somewhat rough and noisy quarters at Remiremont for the cosmopolitan
comforts of Plombières within such easy reach. It is a pretty drive of an
hour and a half to Plombières, and all is prettiness there--its little
park, its tiny lake, its toy town.
It is surely one of the hottest places in the world, and like Spa, of
which it reminds me, must be one of the most wearisome. Just such a
promenade, with a sleepy band, just such a casino, just such a routine.
This favourite resort of the third Napoleon has of late years seen many
rivals springing up. Vittel, Bains, Bussang--all in the Vosges--yet it
continues to hold up its head. The site is really charming, but so close
is the valley in which the town lies, that it is a veritable hothouse,
and the reverse, we should think, of what an invalid wants. Plombières
has always had illustrious visitors--Montaigne, who upon several
occasions took the waters here--Maupertuis, Voltaire, Beaumarchais, the
Empress Josephine, and a host of historic personages. But the emperor may
be called the creator of Plombières. The park, the fine road to
Remiremont, the handsome Bain Napoleon (now National), the church, all
these owe their existence to him, and during the imperial visits the
remote spot suffered a strange transformation. The pretty country road
along which we met a couple of carriages yesterday became as brilliant
and animated as the Bois de Boulogne. It was a perpetual coming and going
of fashionable personages. The emperor used to drive over to Remiremont
and dine at the little dingy commercial hotel, the best in the place,
making himself agreeable to everybody. But all this is past, and nowhere
throughout France is patriotism more ardent or the democratic spirit
more alert than in the Vosges. The reasons are obvious. We are here on
the borders of the lost provinces, the two fair and rich departments of
Haut-Rhin and Bas-Rhin, now effaced from the map of France. Reminders of
that painful severance of a vast population from its nationality are too
vivid for a moment to be lost sight of. Many towns of the Vosges and of
the ancient portion of Lorraine not annexed, such as Nancy, have been
enriched by the immigration of large commercial firms from the other side
of the new frontier. The great majority of Alsatians, by force of
circumstances and family ties, were compelled to remain--French at
heart, German according to law. The bitterness and intensity of this
feeling, reined-in yet apparent, constitutes the one painful feature of
Vosges travel. Of course there is a wide difference between the
supporters of retaliation, such journals as _L'Alsacien-Lorrain_,
and quiet folks who hate war, even more than a foreign domination. But
the yearning towards the parent country is too strong to be overcome. No
wonder that as soon as the holidays begin there is a rush of French
tourists across the Vosges. From Strasburg, Metz, St. Marie aux Mines,
they flock to Gérardmer and other family resorts. And if some
Frenchwoman--maybe, sober matron--dons the pretty Alsatian dress, and
dances the Alsatian dance with an exile like herself, the enthusiasm is
too great to be described. Lookers-on weep, shake hands, embrace each
other. For a brief moment the calmest are carried away by intensity of
patriotic feeling. The social aspect of Vosges travel is one of its chief
charms. You must here live with French people, whether you will or no.
Insular reserve cannot resist the prevailing friendliness and
good-fellowship. How long such a state of things will exist, who can say?
Fortunately for the lover of nature, most of the places I have mentioned
are too unobtrusive ever to become popular. "Nothing to see here, and
nothing to do," would surely be the verdict of most globe-trotters even
on sweet Gérardmer itself!
II
THE CHARM OF ALSACE
The notion of here reprinting my notes of Alsatian travel was suggested
by a recent French work--_À travers l'Alsace en flânant_, from the
pen of M. André Hallays. This delightful writer had already published
several volumes dealing with various French provinces, more especially
from an archaeological point of view. In his latest and not least
fascinating _flânerie_ he gives the experiences of several holiday
tours in Germanized France.
My own sojourns, made at intervals among French friends, _annexés_
both of Alsace and Lorraine, were chiefly undertaken in order to realize
the condition of the German Emperor's French subjects. But I naturally
visited many picturesque sites and historic monuments in both, the
forfeited territories being especially rich. Whilst volume after volume
of late years have appeared devoted to French travel, holiday tourists
innumerable jotting their brief experiences of well-known regions,
strangely enough no English writer has followed my own example. No work
has here appeared upon Alsace and Lorraine. On the other side of the
Channel a vast literature on the subject has sprung up. Novels, travels,
reminiscences, pamphlets on political and economic questions, one and all
breathing the same spirit, continue to appear in undiminished numbers.
Ardent spirits still fan the flame of revolt. The burning thirst for
re-integration remains unquenched. Garbed in crape, the marble figure of
Strasburg still holds her place on the Place de la Concorde. The French
language, although rigidly prohibited throughout Germanized France, is
studied and upheld more sedulously than before Sedan. And after the lapse
of forty years a German minister lately averred that French Alsatians
were more French than ever. _Les Noëllets_ of René Bazin, M. Maurice
Barrès' impassioned series, _Les Bastions de l'Est_, enjoy immense
popularity, and within the last few months have appeared two volumes
which fully confirm the views of their forerunners--M. Hallays'
impressions of many wayfarings and _Après quarante ans_ by M. Jules
Claretie, the versatile, brilliant and much respected administrator-general
of the Comédie Française.
Whilst in these days of peace and arbitration propaganda the crime of
enforced denationalization seems more heinous than ever, there appears
little likelihood of the country conquered by Louis XIV., and re-conquered
by German arms a century and a half later, again waving the Tricolour.
Let us hope, however, that some _via media_ may be found, and that
if not recovering its lost privilege, the passionately coveted French
name, as a federal state Alsace and Lorraine may become independent and
prosperous.
For a comprehensive study of Alsace and its characteristics, alike
social, artistic and intellectual, readers must go to M. Hallays' volume.
In every development this writer shows that a special stamp may be found.
Neither Teutonic nor Gallic, art and handicrafts reveal indigenous
growth, and the same feature may be studied in town and village, in
palace, cathedral and cottage.
We must remember that we are here dealing with a region of very ancient
civilization. Taste has been slowly developed, artistic culture is of no
mushroom growth. Alsace formed the highroad between Italy and Flanders.
In M. Hallays' words, already during the Renaissance, aesthetic Alsace
blended the lessons of north and south, her genius was a product of good
sense, experience and a feeling of proportion. And he points out how in
the eighteenth century French taste influenced Alsatian faïence, woven
stuffs, ironwork, sculpture, wood-carving and furniture, even peasant
interiors being thereby modified. "Alsace," he writes, "holds us
spell-bound by the originality of culture and temperament found among her
inhabitants. It has generally been taken for granted that native genius
is here a mere blend of French and German character, that Alsatian
sentiment appertains to the latter stock, intellectual development to the
former, that the inhabitants think in French and imagine in German. There
is a certain leaven of truth in these assumptions, but when we hold
continued intercourse with all classes, listen to their speech,
familiarize ourselves with their modes of life and mental outlook, we
arrive again and again at one conclusion: we say to ourselves, here is an
element which is neither Teutonic nor Gallic. I cannot undertake to
particularize, I only note in my pages those instances that occur by the
way. And the conviction that we are here penetrating a little world
hitherto unknown to us, such novelty being revealed in every stroll and
chat, lends extraordinary interest to our peregrination."
It is especially an artistic Alsace that M. Hallays reveals to us.
Instead of visiting battlefields, he shows us that English travellers may
find ample interest of other kind. The artist, the ecclesiologist, the
art-loving have here a storehouse of unrevealed treasure. A little-read
but weighty writer, Mme. de Staël, has truly averred that the most
beautiful lands in the world, if devoid of famous memories and if bearing
no impress of great events, cannot be compared in interest to historic
regions. Hardly a spot of the annexed provinces but is stamped with
indelible and, alas! blood-stained, records. From the tenth century until
the peace of Westphalia, these territories belonged to the German empire,
being ruled by sovereign dukes and princes. In 1648 portions of both
provinces were ceded to France, and a few years later, in times of peace,
Strasburg was ruthlessly seized and appropriated by the arch-despot and
militarist, Louis XIV. By the treaty of Ryswick, that of Westphalia was
ratified, and thenceforward Alsace and Lorraine remained radically and
passionately French. In 1871 was witnessed an awful historic retribution,
a political crime paralleling its predecessor committed by the French
king two centuries before. Alsace-Lorraine still awaits the fulfilment of
her destiny. Meantime, as Rachel mourning for her children, she weeps
sore and will not be comforted.
Historically speaking, therefore, the annexed provinces present a
strangely complex patchwork and oft-repeated palimpsest, civilization
after civilization overlapping each other. If Alsace-Lorraine has
produced no Titan either in literature or art, she yet shows a goodly
roll-call.
The name heading the list stands for France herself. It was a young
soldier of Strasburg--not, however, Alsatian born--who, in April, 1792,
composed a song that saved France from the fate of Poland and changed the
current of civilization. By an irony of destiny the Tricolour no longer
waves over the cradle of the Marseillaise!
That witty writer, Edmond About, as well as the "Heavenly Twins" of
Alsatian fiction, was born in Lorraine, but all three so thoroughly
identified themselves with this province that they must be regarded as
her sons. Those travellers who, like myself, have visited Edmond About's
woodland retreat in Saverne can understand the bitterness with which he
penned his volume--_Alsace 1870-1_--and the concluding lines of the
preface--
"If I have here uttered an untrue syllable, I give M. de Bismarck
permission to treat my modest dwelling as if it were a villa of Saint
Cloud."
The literary brethren whose pictures of Alsatian peasant life, both in
war and peace, have become world-wide classics, suffered no less than
their brilliant contemporary, and their works written after annexation
breathe equal bitterness. The celebrated partnership which began in 1848
and lasted for a quarter of a century, has been thus described by Edmond
About: "The two friends see each other very rarely, whether in Paris or
in the Vosges. When they do meet, they together elaborate the scheme of
a new work. Then Erckmann writes it. Chatrian corrects it--and sometimes
puts it in the fire!" One at least of their plays enjoys equal
popularity with the novel from which it is drawn. To have witnessed
_L'Ami Fritz_ at Molière's house in the last decade of the nineteenth
century was an experience to remember. That consummate artist, Got, was
at his very best--if the superlative in such a case is applicable--as
the good old Rabbi. No less enchanting was Mlle. Reichenbach, the
_doyenne_ of the Comédie Française, as Suzel. Of this charming artist
Sarcey wrote that, having attained her sixteenth year, there she made
the long-stop, never oldening with others. _L'Ami Fritz_ is, in reality,
a German bucolic, the scene being laid in Bavaria. But it has long been
accepted as a classic, and on the stage it becomes thoroughly French.
This delightful story was written in 1864, that is to say, before any
war-cloud had arisen over the eastern frontier, and before the evocation
of a fiend as terrible, the anti-Jewish crusade culminating in the
Dreyfus crime.
It is painful to reflect that whilst twenty years ago the engaging old
Jew of this piece was vociferously acclaimed on the first French stage,
the drama of a gifted Jewish writer has this year been banned in Paris!
Edmond About and Erckmann and Chatrian belong to the same period as
another native, and more famous, genius, the precocious, superabundantly
endowed Gustave Doré. Of this "admirable Crichton" I give a sketch.
For mere holiday-makers in search of exhilaration and beauty, Alsace
offers attractions innumerable, sites grandiose and idyllic, picturesque
ruins, superb forests, old churches of rare interest and many a splendid
historic pile.
There are naturally drawbacks to intense lovers of France. Throughout M.
Hallays' volume he acknowledges the courtesy of German officials, a fact
to which I had borne testimony when first journalizing my own
experiences. Certain aspects of enforced Germanization can but afflict
all outsiders. There is firstly that obtrusive militarism from which we
cannot for a moment escape. Again, a no less false note strikes us in
matters aesthetic. Modern German taste in art, architecture and
decoration do not harmonize with the ancientness and historic severity of
Alsace. The restoration of Hohkönigsburg and the new quarters of
Strasburg are instances in point. All who visited the German art section
of the Paris Exhibition in 1900 will understand this dis-harmony.
The reminiscences of my second and third journeys in Alsace and Lorraine
having already appeared in volume form, still in print (_East of
Paris_), are therefore omitted here. For the benefit of English
travellers in the annexed portion of the last-named province I cite a
passage from M. Maurice Barrès' beautiful story, _Colette Baudoche_.
His hero is German and his heroine French, a charming _Messine_ or
native of Metz. In company of Colette's mother and a friend or two, the
_fiancés_ take part in a little festival held at Gorze, a village
near the blood-stained fields of Gravelotte and Mars-la-Tour--
"At Gorze, church, lime-trees, dwellings and folks belong to the olden
time, that is to say, all are very French.... In crossing the square the
five holiday-makers halted before the Hôtel de Ville and read with
interest a commemorative inscription on the walls. A tablet records
English generosity in 1870, when, after the carnage and devastation of
successive battles, money, roots and seeds were distributed among the
peasants by a relief committee. The inspection over, the little party
gaily sat down to dinner in an inn close by, regaling themselves with
fried English potatoes, descendants of those sent across the Manche forty
years before."
As I re-read this passage I think sadly how the tribute from such a pen
would have rejoiced the two moving spirits of that famous relief
committee--Sir John Robinson and Mr. Bullock Hall, both long since
passed, away. To the whilom editor of the _Daily News_ both
initiative and realization were mainly owing, the latter being the
laborious and devoted agent of distribution.
But an omission caused bitterness. Whilst Mr. Bullock Hall most
deservedly received the Red Ribbon, his leader was overlooked. The tens
of thousands of pounds collected by Sir John Robinson which may be said
to have kept alive starving people and vivified deserts, were gratefully
acknowledged by the French Government. By some unaccountable
misconception, the decoration here only gratified one good friend of
France.
"I should much have liked the Legion of Honour," sighed the kindly old
editor to me, a year or two before he died.
I add that my second sojourn in Alsace-Lorraine was made at Sir John's
suggestion, the series of papers dealing with Metz, Strasburg, and its
neighbourhood appearing from day to day in the _Daily News_.
English tourists must step aside and read the tablet on the Hôtel de
Ville of Gorze, reminder, by the way, of the Entente Cordiale!
III
IN GUSTAVE DORÉ'S COUNTRY
The Vosges and Alsace-Lorraine must be taken together, as the tourist is
constantly compelled to zigzag across the new frontier. Many of the most
interesting points of departure for excursionizing in the Vosges lie in
Alsace-Lorraine, while few travellers who have got so far as Gérardmer
or St. Dié will not be tempted to continue their journey, at least as far
as the beautiful valleys of Munster and St. Marie-aux-Mines, both
peopled by French people under German domination. Arrived at either of
these places, the tourist will be at a loss which route to take of the
many open to him. On the one hand are the austere sites of the Vosges,
impenetrable forests darkening the rounded mountain tops, granite
precipices silvered with perpetual cascades, awful ravines hardly less
gloomy in the noonday sun than in wintry storms, and as a relief to these
sombre features, the sunniest little homesteads perched on airy terraces
of gold-green; crystal streams making vocal the flowery meadow and the
mossy dell, and lovely little lakes shut in by rounded hills, made double
in their mirror. In Alsace-Lorraine we find a wholly different landscape,
and are at once reminded that we are in one of the fairest and most
productive districts of Europe. All the vast Alsatian plain in September
is a-bloom with fruit garden and orchard, vineyard and cornfield, whilst
as a gracious framework, a romantic background to the picture, are the
vineclad heights crested with ruined castles and fortresses worthy to be
compared to Heidelberg and Ehrenbreitstein. We had made a leisurely
journey from Gérardmer to St. Dié, bishopric and _chef-lieu_ of the
department of the Vosges, without feeling sure of our next move.
Fortunately a French acquaintance advised us to drive to
St. Marie-aux-Mines, one of the most wonderful little spots in these
regions, of which we had never before heard. A word or two, however,
concerning St. Dié itself, one of the most ancient monastic foundations
in France. The town is pleasant enough, and the big hotel not bad, as
French hotels go. But in the Vosges, the tourist gets somewhat spoiled
in the matter of hotels. Wherever we go our hosts are so much interested
in us, and make so much of us, that we feel aggrieved at sinking into
mere numbers three or four. Many of these little inns offer homely
accommodation, but the landlord and landlady themselves wait upon the
guests, unless, which often happens, the host is cook, no piece of
ill-fortune for the traveller! These good people have none of the false
shame often conspicuous among the same class in England. At Remiremont,
our hostess came bustling down at the last moment saying how she had
hurried to change her dress in order to bid us good-bye. Here the
son-in-law, a fine handsome fellow, was the cook, and when dinner was
served he used to emerge from his kitchen and chat with the guests or
play with his children in the cool evening hour. There is none of that
differentiation of labour witnessed in England, and on the whole the
stranger fares none the worse. With regard to French hotels generally
the absence of competition in large towns strikes an English mind. At
St. Dié, as in many other places, there was at the time of my visit but
one hotel, which had doubtless been handed down from generation to
generation, simply because no rival aroused a spirit of emulation.