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In the Heart of the Vosges and Other Sketches by a "Devious Traveller"

by Matilda Betham-Edwards · English · Gutenberg #9480 · 383,151 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: In the Heart of the Vosges and Other Sketches by a "Devious Traveller"

Author: Matilda Betham-Edwards


        
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9480]
                Most recently updated: March 29, 2014

Language: English

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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.

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.

St. Dié has a pleasant environment in the valley of the Meurthe, and may
be made the centre of many excursions. Its picturesque old Romanesque
cathedral of red sandstone, about which are grouped noble elms, grows
upon the eye; more interesting and beautiful by far are the Gothic
cloisters leading from within to the smaller church adjoining. These
delicate arcades, in part restored, form a quadrangle. Greenery fills the
open space, and wild antirrhinum and harebell brighten the grey walls.
Springing from one side is an out-of-door pulpit carved in stone, a
striking and suggestive object in the midst of the quiet scene. We should
like to know what was preached from that stone pulpit, and what manner of
man was the preacher. The bright green space, the delicate arcades of
soft grey, the bits of foliage here and there, with the two silent
churches blocking in all, make up an impressive scene.

We wanted the country, however, rather than the towns, so after a few
days at St. Dié, hired a carriage to take us to St. Marie-aux-Mines or
Markirch, on the German side of the frontier, and not accessible from
this side by rail. We enter Alsace, indeed, by a needle's eye, so narrow
the pass in which St. Marie lies. Here a word of warning to the tourist.
Be sure to examine your carriage and horses well before starting. We were
provided for our difficult drive with what Spenser calls "two unequal
beasts," namely, a trotting horse and a horse that could only canter,
with a very uncomfortable carriage, the turnout costing over a
pound--pretty well, that, for a three hours' drive. However, in spite of
discomfort, we would not have missed the journey on any account. The
site of this little cotton-spinning town is one of the most extraordinary
in the world. We first traverse a fruitful, well cultivated plain,
watered by the sluggish Meurthe, then begin to ascend a spur of the
western chain of the Vosges, formerly dividing the two French
departments of Vosges and Haut Rhin, now marking the boundaries of
France and German Elsass. Down below, amid the hanging orchards,
flower-gardens and hayfields, we were on French soil, but the flagstaff,
just discernible on yonder green pinnacles, marks the line of
demarcation between France and the conquered territory of the German
empire. For the matter of that, the Prussian helmet makes the fact
patent. As surely as we have set foot in the Reich, we see one of these
gleaming casques, so hateful still in French eyes. They seem to spring
from the ground like Jason's warriors from the dragon's teeth. This new
frontier divided in olden times the dominions of Alsace and Lorraine,
when it was the custom to say of many villages that the bread was
kneaded in one country and baked in the other.

Nothing could be more lovely than the dim violet hills far away, and the
virginal freshness of the pastoral scenery around. But only a
stout-hearted pedestrian can properly enjoy this beautiful region. We
had followed the example of another party of tourists in front of us,
and accomplished a fair climb on foot, and when we had wound and wound
our way up the lofty green mountain to the flagstaff before mentioned,
we wanted to do the rest of our journey on foot also. But alike
compassion for the beasts and energy had gone far enough, we were only
too glad to reseat ourselves, and drive, or rather be whirled, down to
St. Marie-aux-Mines in the vehicle. Do what we would there was no
persuading our driver to slacken pace enough so as to admit of a full
enjoyment of the prospect that unfolded before us.

The wonderful little town! Black pearl set in the richest casket! This
commonplace, flourishing centre of cotton spinning, woollen, and
cretonne manufacture, built in red brick, lies in the narrow, beautiful
valley of the Lièpvrette, as it is called from the babbling river of
that name. But there is really no valley at all. The congeries of
red-roofed houses, factory chimneys and church towers, Catholic and
Protestant, is hemmed round by a narrow gorge, wedged in between the
hills which are just parted so as to admit of such an intrusion, no
more. The green convolutions of the mountain sides are literally folded
round the town, a pile of green velvet spread fan-like in a draper's
window has not softer, neater folds! As we enter it from the St. Dié side
we find just room for a carriage to wind along the little river and the
narrow street. But at the other end the valley opens, and St.
Marie-aux-mines spreads itself out. Here are factories, handsome country
houses, and walks up-hill and down-hill in abundance. Just above the
town, over the widening gorge, is a deliciously cool pine-wood which
commands a vast prospect--the busy little town caught in the toils of
the green hills; the fertile valley of the Meurthe as we gaze in the
direction from which we have come; the no less fertile plains of
Lorraine before us; close under and around us, many a dell and woodland
covert with scattered homes of dalesfolk in sunny places and slanting
hills covered with pines. It is curious to reflect that St.
Marie-aux-Mines, mentioned as Markirch in ancient charts, did not become
entirely French till the eighteenth century. Originally the inhabitants
on the left bank of the Lièpvrette were subjects of the Dukes of
Lorraine, spoke French, and belonged to the Catholic persuasion, whilst
those dwelling on the right bank of the river, adhered to the seigneury
of Ribeaupaire, and formed a Protestant German-speaking community.
Alsace, as everybody knows, was annexed to France by right--rather
wrong--of conquest under Louis XIV., but it was not till a century later
that Lorraine became a part of French territory, and the fusion of
races, a task so slowly accomplished, has now to be undone, if, indeed,
such undoing is possible!

The hotel here is a mere _auberge_ adapted to the needs of the
_commis-voyageur_, but our host and hostess are charming. As is the
fashion in these parts, they serve their guests and take the greatest
possible interest in their movements and comfort. We would willingly have
spent some days at Marie-aux-Mines--no better headquarters for
excursionizing in these regions!--but too much remained for us to do and
to see in Alsace. We dared not loiter on the way.

Everywhere we find plenty of French tourists, many of them doing their
holiday travel in the most economical fashion. We are in the habit of
regarding the French as a stay-at-home nation, and it is easy to see how
such a mistake arises. English people seldom travel in out-of-the-way
France, and our neighbours seldom travel elsewhere. Thus holiday-makers
of the two nations do not come in contact. Wherever we go we encounter
bands of pedestrians or family parties thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Nothing ruffles a French mind when bent on holiday-making. The good-nature,
_bonhomie_, and accommodating spirit displayed under trying
circumstances might be imitated by certain insular tourists with advantage.

From St. Marie-aux-Mines we journeyed to Gustave Doré's favourite resort,
Barr, a close, unsavoury little town enough, but in the midst of
bewitching scenery. "An ounce of sweet is worth a pound of sour," sings
Spenser, and at Barr we get the sweet and the sour strangely mixed. The
narrow streets smell of tanneries and less wholesome nuisances, not a
breath of fresh pure air is to be had from one end of the town to the
other. But our pretty, gracious landlady, an Alsacienne, and her husband,
the master of the house and _chef de cuisine_ as well, equally
handsome and courteous, took so much pains to make us comfortable that
we stayed on and on. Not a thousand bad smells could drive us away! Yet
there is accommodation for the traveller among the vineyards outside the
town, and also near the railway station, so Barr need not be avoided on
account of its unsavouriness. No sooner are you beyond the dingy streets
than all is beauty, pastoralness and romance. Every green peak is crested
with ruined keep or tower, at the foot of the meeting hills lie peaceful
little villages, each with its lofty church spire, whilst all the air is
fragrant with pine-woods and newly turned hay.

These pine-woods and frowning ruins set like sentinels on every green
hill or rocky eminence, recall many of Doré's happiest efforts. "_Le
pauvre garçon_," our hostess said. "_Comme il était content chez
nous_!" I can fancy how Doré would enjoy the family life of our little
old-fashioned hotel, how he would play with the children, chat with
master and mistress, and make himself agreeable all round. One can also
fancy how animated conversation would become if it chanced to take a
patriotic turn. For people speak their thoughts in Alsace,--nowhere more
freely. In season and out of season, the same sentiment comes to the
surface. "_Nous sommes plus Français que les Français_." This is the
universal expression of feeling that greeted our ears throughout our
wanderings. Such, at least, was formerly the case. The men, women and
children, rich and poor, learned and simple, gave utterance to the same
expression of feeling. Barr is a town of between six and seven thousand
souls, about twenty of whom are Prussians. A pleasant position, truly,
for the twenty officials! And what we see at Barr is the case throughout
the newly acquired German dominion. Alike the highest as well as the
humblest functionary of the imperial government is completely shut off
from intercourse with his French neighbours.

Barr lies near so much romantic scenery that the tourist in these parts
had better try the little hotel amid the mines. For, in spite of the
picturesque stork's nest close by, an excellent ordinary and the most
delightful host and hostess in the world, I cannot recommend a sojourn in
the heart of the town. The best plan of all were to halt here simply for
the sake of the excursion to St. Odile--St. Odile leads nowhither--then
hire a carriage, and make leisurely way across country by the Hohwald,
and the Champ de Feu to Rothau, Oberlin's country, thence to Strasburg.
In our own case, the fascinations of our hosts overcame our repugnance to
Barr itself, so we stayed on, every day making long drives into the
fresh, quiet, beautiful country. One of the sweet spots we discovered for
the benefit of any English folks who may chance to stray in that region
is the Hohwald, a _ville giatura_ long in vogue with the inhabitants
of Strasburg and neighbouring towns, but not mentioned in any English
guide-book at the time of my visit.

We are reminded all the way of Rhineland. The same terraced vineyards,
the same limestone crags, each with its feudal tower, the same fertility
and richness everywhere. Our road winds for miles amid avenues of
fruit-trees, laden with pear and plum, whilst on every side are
stretches of flax and corn, tobacco and hemp. What plenty and
fruitfulness are suggested at every turn! Well might Goethe extol "this
magnificent Alsace." We soon reach Andlau, a picturesque, but, it must
be confessed, somewhat dirty village, lying amid vineyards and chestnut
woods, with mediaeval gables, archways, wells, dormers. All these are
to be found at Andlau, also one of the finest churches in these parts.
I followed the _curé_ and sacristan as they took a path that wound high
above the village and the little river amid the vineyards, and obtained
a beautiful picture; hill and dale, clustered village and lofty spire,
and imposingly, confronting us at every turn, the fine façade of the
castle of Andlau, built of grey granite, and flanked at either end with
massive towers. More picturesque, but less majestic are the
neighbouring ruins of Spesburg, mere tumbling walls wreathed with
greenery, and many another castled crag we see on our way. We are
indeed in the land of old romance. Nothing imaginable more weird,
fantastic and sombre, than these spectral castles and crumbling towers
past counting! The wide landscape is peopled with these. They seem to
rise as if by magic from the level landscape, and we fancy that they
will disappear magically as they have come. And here again one wild
visionary scene after another reminds us that we are in the land of
Doré's most original inspiration. There are bits of broken pine-wood,
jagged peaks and ghostly ruins that have been already made quite
familiar to us in the pages of his _Dante_ and _Don Quixote._

The pretty rivulet Andlau accompanies us far on our way, and beautiful is
the road; high above, beech- and pine-woods, and sloping down to the road
green banks starred with large blue and white campanula, with, darkling
amid the alders, the noisy little river.

The Hohwald is the creation of a woman; that is to say, the Hohwald of
holiday-makers, tourists and tired brain-workers. "Can you imagine,"
wrote M. Edmond About, forty years ago, "an inn at the world's end that
cost a hundred thousand francs in the building? I assure you the owner
will soon have recouped her outlay. She had not a centime to begin with,
this courageous lady, left a widow without resources, and a son to bring
up. The happy thought occurred to her of a summer resort in the heart of
these glorious woods, within easy reach of Strasburg." There are gardens
and reception-rooms in common, and here as at Gérardmer croquet, music
and the dance offer an extra attraction. It must be admitted that these
big family hotels, in attractive country places with prices adapted to
all travellers, have many advantages over our own seaside lodgings.
People get much more for their money, better food, better accommodation,
with agreeable society into the bargain, and a relief from the harass of
housekeeping. The children, too, find companionship, to the great relief
of parents and nursemaids.

The Hohwald proper is a tiny village numbering a few hundred souls,
situated in the midst of magnificent forests at the foot of the famous
Champ de Feu. This is a plateau on one of the loftiest summits of the
Vosges, and very curious from a geological point of view. To explore it
properly you must be a good pedestrian. Much, indeed, of the finest
scenery of these regions is beyond reach of travellers who cannot walk
five or six hours a day.

Any one, however, may drive to St. Odile, and St. Odile is the great
excursion of Alsace. Who cares a straw for the saint and her story now?
But all tourists must be grateful to the Bishop of Strasburg, who keeps a
comfortable little inn at the top of the mountain, and, beyond the
prohibition of meat on fast-days, smoking, noise and levity of manner on
all days, makes you very comfortable for next to nothing.

The fact is, this noble plateau, commanding as splendid a natural
panorama as any in Europe, at the time I write of the property of
Monseigneur of Strasburg, was once a famous shrine and a convent of
cloistered men and women vowed to sanctity and prayer. The convent was
closed at the time of the French Revolution, and the entire property,
convent, mountain and prospect, remained in the hands of private
possessors till 1853, when the prelate of that day repurchased the whole,
restored the conventual building, put in some lay brethren to cultivate
the soil, and some lay sisters, who wear the garb of nuns, but have taken
no vows upon them except of piety, to keep the little inn and make
tourists comfortable. No arrangement could be better, and I advise any
one in want of pure air, superb scenery, and complete quiet, to betake
himself to St. Odile.

Here again I must intercalate. Since these lines were jotted down, many
changes, and apparently none for the better, have taken place here.
Intending tourists must take both M. Hallays' volume and Maurice Barrès'
_Au Service d'Allemagne_ for recent accounts of this holiday resort.
The splendid natural features remain intact.

The way from Barr lies through prosperous villages, enriched by
manufactories, yet abounding in pastoral graces. There are English-like
parks and fine châteaux of rich manufacturers; but contrasted with these
nothing like abject poverty. The houses of working-folk are clean, each
with its flower-garden, the children are neatly dressed, no squalor or
look of discontent to be seen anywhere. Every hamlet has its beautiful
spire, whilst the country is the fairest, richest conceivable; in the
woods is seen every variety of fir and pine, mingled with the lighter
foliage of chestnut and acacia, whilst every orchard has its walnut and
mulberry trees, not to speak of pear and plum. One of the chief
manufactures of these parts is that of paints and colours: there are also
ribbon and cotton factories. Rich as is the country naturally, its chief
wealth arises from these industries. In every village you hear the hum of
machinery.

You may lessen the distance from Barr to St. Odile by one-half if you
make the journey on foot, winding upwards amid the vine-clad hills, at
every turn coming upon one of those grand old ruins, as plentiful here as
in Rhineland, and quite as romantic and beautiful. The drive is a slow
and toilsome ascent of three hours and a half. As soon as we quit the
villages and climb the mountain road cut amid the pines, we are in a
superb and solitary scene. No sound of millwheels or steam-hammers is
heard here, only the summer breeze stirring the lofty pine branches, the
hum of insects, and the trickling of mountain streams. The dark-leaved
henbane is in brilliant yellow flower, and the purple foxglove in
striking contrast; but the wealth of summer flowers is over.

Who would choose to live on Ararat? Yet it is something to reach a
pinnacle from whence you may survey more than one kingdom. The prospect
from St. Odile is one to gaze on for a day, and to make us dizzy in
dreams ever after. From the umbrageous terrace in front of the
convent--cool and breezy on this, one of the hottest days of a hot
season--we see, as from a balloon, a wonderful bit of the world spread
out like a map at our feet. The vast plain of Alsace, the valley of the
Rhine, the Swiss mountains, the Black Forest, Bâle, and Strasburg--all
these we dominate from our airy pinnacle close, at it seems, under the
blue vault of heaven. But though they were there, we did not see them:
for the day, as so often happens on such occasions, was misty. We had
none the less a novel and wonderful prospect. As we sit on this cool
terrace, under the shady mulberry trees, and look far beyond the
richly-wooded mountain we have scaled on our way, we gradually make
out some details of the fast panorama, one feature after another
becoming visible as stars shining faintly in a misty heaven. Villages
and little towns past counting, each with its conspicuous spire, break
the monotony of the enormous plain. Here and there, miles away, a curl
of white vapour indicates the passage of some railway train, whilst in
this upper stillness sweet sounds of church bells reach us from
hamlets close underneath the convent. Nothing can be more solid,
fresher, or more brilliant than the rich beech- and pine-woods running
sheer from our airy eminence to the level world below, nothing more
visionary, slumberous, or dimmer than that wide expanse teeming, as we
know, with busy human life, yet flat and motionless as a picture.

[Illustration]

On clear nights the electric lights of the railway station at Strasburg
are seen from this point; but far more attractive than the prospects from
St. Odile is its prehistoric wall. Before the wall, however, came the
dinner, which deserves mention. It was Friday, so in company of priests,
nuns, monks and divers pious pilgrims, with a sprinkling of fashionable
ladies from Strasburg, and tourists generally, we sat down to a very fair
_menu_ for a fast-day, to wit: rice-soup, turnips and potatoes,
eggs, perch, macaroni-cheese, custard pudding, gruyère cheese, and fair
vin ordinaire. Two shillings was charged per head, and I must say people
got their money's worth, for appetites seem keen in these parts. The
mother-superior, a kindly old woman, evidently belonging to the working
class, bustled about and shook hands with each of her guests. After
dinner we were shown the bedrooms, which are very clean; for board and
lodging you pay six francs a day, out of which, judging from the hunger
of the company, the profit arising would be small except to clerical
hotel-keepers. We must bear in mind that nuns work without pay, and that
all the fish, game, dairy and garden produce the bishop gets for nothing.
However, all tourists must be glad of such a hostelry, and the nuns are
very obliging. One sister made us some afternoon tea very nicely (we
always carry tea and teapot on these excursions), and everybody made us
welcome. We found a delightful old Frenchman of Strasburg to conduct us
to the Pagan Wall, as, for want of a better name, people designate this
famous relic of prehistoric times. Fragments of stone fortifications
similarly constructed have been found on other points of the Vosges not
far from the promontory on which the convent stands, but none to be
compared to this one in colossal proportions and completeness.

We dip deep down into the woods on quitting the convent gates, then climb
for a little space and come suddenly upon the edge of the plateau, which
the wall was evidently raised to defend. Never did a spot more easily
lend itself to such rude defence by virtue of natural position, although
where the construction begins the summit of the promontory is
inaccessible from below. We are skirting dizzy precipices, feathered
with light greenery and brightened with flowers, but awful
notwithstanding, and in many places the stones have evidently been piled
together rather for the sake of symmetry than from a sense of danger. The
points thus protected were already impregnable. When we look more nearly
we see that however much Nature may have aided these primitive
constructors, the wall is mainly due to the agency of man. There is no
doubt that in many places the stupendous masses of conglomerate have been
hurled to their places by earthquake, but the entire girdle of stone, of
pyramidal size and strength, shows much symmetrical arrangement and
dexterity. The blocks have been selected according to size and shape, and
in many places mortised together. We find no trace of cement, a fact
disproving the hypothesis that the wall may have been of Roman origin. We
must doubtless go much farther back, and associate these primitive
builders with such relics of prehistoric times as the stones of Carnac
and Lokmariaker. And not to seek so wide for analogies, do we not see
here the handiwork of the same rude architects I have before alluded to
in my Vosges travels, who flung a stone bridge across the forest gorge
above Remiremont and raised in close proximity the stupendous monolith of
Kirlinkin? The prehistoric stone monuments scattered about these regions
are as yet new to the English archaeologist, and form one of the most
interesting features of Vosges and Alsatian travel.

We may follow these lightly superimposed blocks of stone for miles, and
the _enceinte_ has been traced round the entire plateau, which was
thus defended from enemies on all sides. As we continue our walk on the
inner side of the wall we get lovely views of the dim violet hills, the
vast golden plain, and, close underneath, luxuriant forests. Eagles are
flying hither and thither, and except for an occasional tourist or two,
the scene is perfectly solitary. An hour's walk brings us to the
Menelstein, a vast and lofty platform of stone, ascended by a stair, both
untouched by the hand of man. Never was a more formidable redoubt raised
by engineering skill. Nature here helped her primitive builders well.
From a terrace due to the natural formation of the rock, we obtain
another of those grand and varied panoramas so numerous in this part of
the world, but the beauty nearer at hand is more enticing. Nothing can
exceed the freshness and charm of our homeward walk. We are now no longer
following the wall, but free to enjoy the breezy, heather-scented
plateau, and the broken, romantic outline of St. Odile, the Wartburg of
Alsace, as the saint herself was its Holy Elizabeth, and with as romantic
a story for those with a taste for such legends.

Here and there on the remoter wooded peaks are stately ruins of feudal
castles, whilst all the way our path lies amid bright foliage of young
forest trees, chestnut and oak, pine and acacia, and the ground is purple
with heather. Blocks of the conglomerate used in the construction of the
so-called Pagan Wall meet us at every turn, and as we gaze down the steep
sides of the promontory we can trace its massive outline. A scene not
soon to be forgotten! The still, solitary field of Carnac, with its
avenues of monoliths, is not more impressive than these Cyclopean walls,
thrown as a girdle round the green slopes of St. Odile.

We would fain have stayed here some time, but much more still remained to
be seen and accomplished in Alsace. Rothau, the district known as the Ban
de la Roche, where Oberlin laboured for sixty years, Thann, Wesserling,
with a sojourn among French subjects of the German Empire at
Mulhouse--all these things had to be done, and the bright summer days
were drawing to an end.



IV

FROM BARR TO STRASBURG, MULHOUSE AND BELFORT

The opening sentences of this chapter, written many years ago, are no
longer applicable. Were I to revisit Alsace-Lorraine at the present time,
I should only hear French speech among intimate friends and in private,
so strictly of late years has the law of lèse-majesté been, and is still,
enforced.

Nothing strikes the sojourner in Alsace-Lorraine more forcibly than the
outspokenness of its inhabitants regarding Prussian rule. Young and old,
rich and poor, wise and simple alike unburden themselves to their
chance-made English acquaintance with a candour that is at the same time
amusing and pathetic. For the most part no heed whatever is paid to
possible German listeners. At the ordinaries of country hotels, by the
shop door, in the railway carriage, Alsatians will pour out their
hearts, especially the women, who, as two pretty sisters assured us, are
not interfered with, be their conversation of the most treasonable kind.
We travelled with these two charming girls from Barr to Rothau, and they
corroborated what we had already heard at Barr and other places. The
Prussian inhabitants of Alsace-Lorraine--for the most part Government
officials--are completely shut off from all social intercourse with the
French population, the latter, of course, still forming the vast
majority. Thus at Barr, a town consisting of over six thousand
inhabitants, only a score or two are Prussians, who are employed in the
railway and postal service, the police, the survey of forests, etc. The
position of these officials is far from agreeable, although, on the
other hand, there is compensation in the shape of higher pay, and much
more material comfort, even luxury, than are to be had in the
Fatherland. Alsace-Lorraine, especially by comparison with Prussia, may
be called a land of Goshen, overflowing with milk and honey. The vine
ripens on these warm hill-sides and rocky terraces, the plain produces
abundant variety of fruit and vegetables, the streams abound with trout
and the forests with game. No wonder, therefore, that whilst thousands
of patriotic Alsatians have already quitted the country, thousands of
Prussians are ready to fill their places. But the Alsatian exodus is far
from finished. At first, as was only natural, the inhabitants could not
realize the annexation. They refused to believe that the Prussian
occupation was final, so, for the most part, stayed on, hoping against
hope. The time of illusion is past. French parents of children born
since the war had to decide whether their sons are to become Prussian or
French citizens. After the age of sixteen a lad's fate is no longer in
their hands; he must don the uniform so odious in French eyes, and
renounce the cherished _patrie_ and _tricolor_ for ever.


The enforced military service, necessitated, perhaps, by the new order of
things, is the bitterest drop in the cup of the Alsatians. Only the
poorest, and those who are too much hampered by circumstances to evade
it, resign themselves to the enrolment of their sons in the German army.
For this reason well-to-do parents, and even many in the humbler ranks of
life, are quitting the country in much larger numbers than is taken
account of, whilst all who can possibly afford it send their young sons
across the frontier for the purpose of giving them a French education.
The prohibition of French in the public schools and colleges is another
grievous condition of annexation. Alsatians of all ranks are therefore
under the necessity of providing private masters for their children,
unless they would let them grow up in ignorance of their mother tongue.
And here a word of explanation may be necessary. Let no strangers in
Alsace take it for granted that because a great part of the rural
population speak a _patois_ made up of bad German and equally bad
French, they are any more German at heart for all that. Some of the most
patriotic French inhabitants of Alsace can only express themselves in
this dialect, a fact that should not surprise us, seeing the amalgamation
of races that has been going on for many generations.

Physically speaking, so far the result has been satisfactory. In
Alsace-Lorraine no one can help being struck with the fine appearance of
the people. The men are tall, handsome, and well made, the women
graceful and often exceedingly lovely, French piquancy and symmetrical
proportions combined with Teutonic fairness of complexion, blonde hair,
and blue eyes.

I will now continue my journey from Barr to Strasburg by way of the Ban
de la Roche, Oberlin's country. A railway connects Barr with Rothau, a
very pleasant halting-place in the midst of sweet pastoral scenery. It is
another of those resorts in Alsace whither holiday folks flock from
Strasburg and other towns during the long vacation, in quest of health,
recreation and society.

Rothau is a very prosperous little town, with large factories, handsome
châteaux of mill-owners, and trim little cottages, having flowers in all
the windows and a trellised vine in every garden. Pomegranates and
oleanders are in full bloom here and there, and the general aspect is
bright and cheerful. At Rothau are several _blanchisseries_ or
laundries, on a large scale, employing many hands, besides dye-works and
saw-mills. Through the town runs the little river Bruche, and the whole
district, known as the Ban de la Roche, a hundred years ago one of the
dreariest regions in France, is now all smiling fertility. The principal
building is its handsome Protestant church--for here we are among
Protestants, although of a less zealous temper than their fore-fathers,
the fervid Anabaptists. I attended morning service, and although an
eloquent preacher from Paris officiated, the audience was small, and the
general impression that of coldness and want of animation.

From the sweet, fragrant valley of Rothau a road winds amid green hills
and by the tumbling river to the little old-world village of Foudai,
where Oberlin lies buried. The tiny church and shady churchyard lie above
the village, and a more out-of-the-way spot than Foudai itself can hardly
be imagined. Yet many a pious pilgrim finds it out and comes hither to
pay a tribute to the memory of "Papa Oberlin," as he was artlessly
called by the country folk. This is the inscription at the head of the
plain stone slab marking his resting-place; and very suggestive it is of
the relation between the pastor and his flock. Oberlin's career of sixty
years among the primitive people of the Ban de la Roche was rather that
of a missionary among an uncivilized race than of a country priest among
his parishioners. How he toiled, and how he induced others to toil, in
order to raise the material as well as moral and spiritual conditions of
his charges, is pretty well known. His story reads like the German
narrative, _Des Goldmachers Dorf_. Nor does it require any lively
fancy to picture what this region must have been like before Oberlin and
his fellow-workers made the wilderness to blossom as the rose. The soil
is rocky and barren, the hill-sides whitened with mountain streams, the
more fertile spots isolated and difficult of access. An elaborate system
of irrigation has now clothed the valleys with rich pastures, the river
turns a dozen wheels, and every available inch of soil has been turned to
account. The cottages with orchards and flower-gardens are trim and
comfortable. The place in verity is a veritable little Arcadia. No less
so is Waldersbach, which was Oberlin's home. The little river winding
amid hayfields and fruit-trees leads us thither from Foudai in
half-an-hour. It is Sunday afternoon, and a fête day. Young and old in
Sunday garb are keeping holiday, the lads and lasses waltzing, the
children enjoying swings and peep-shows. No acerbity has lingered among
these descendants of the austere parishioners of Oberlin. Here, as at
Foudai, the entire population is Protestant. The church and parsonage
lie at the back of the village, and we were warmly welcomed by the
pastor and his wife, a great-great-granddaughter of Oberlin. Their six
pretty children were playing in the garden with two young girls in the
costume of Alsace, forming a pleasant domestic picture. Our hosts
showed us many relics of Oberlin, the handsome cabinets and presses of
carved oak, in which were stored the family wardrobe and other
treasures, and in the study the table on which he habitually wrote.
This is a charming upper room with wide views over the green hills and
sunny, peaceful valley.

We were offered hospitality for days, nay, weeks, if we chose to stay,
and even the use of Oberlin's study to sit and write in! A summer might
be pleasantly spent here, with quiet mornings in this cheerful chamber,
full of pious memories, and in the afternoon long rambles with the
children over the peaceful hills. From Foudai, too, you may climb the
wild rocky plateau known as the Champ de Feu--no spot in the Vosges chain
is more interesting from a geological point of view.

After much pleasant talk we took leave of our kind hosts, not going away,
however, without visiting the church. A tablet with medallion portrait of
Oberlin bears the touching inscription that for fifty-nine years he was
"the father of this parish." Then we drove back as we had come, stopping
at Foudai to rest the horse and drink tea. We were served in a cool
little parlour opening on to a garden, and, so tempting looked the tiny
inn that we regretted we could not stay there a week. A pleasant pastoral
country rather than romantic or picturesque is the Ban de la Roche, but
close at hand is the lofty Donon, which may be climbed from Rothau or
Foudai, and there are many other excursions within reach.

Here, for the present, the romance of Alsace travel ends, and all is
prose of a somewhat painful kind. The first object that attracted our
attention on reaching Strasburg was the new railway station, of which we
had already heard so much. This handsome structure, erected by the German
Government at an enormous cost, had only been recently opened, and so
great was the soreness of feeling excited by certain allegorical
bas-reliefs decorating the façade that for many days after the opening
of the station police-officers in plain clothes carefully watched the
crowd of spectators, carrying off the more seditious to prison. To say
the least of it, these mural decorations are not in the best of taste,
and at any rate it would have been better to have withheld them for a
time. The two small bas-reliefs in question bear respectively the
inscription, "_Im alten, und im neuen Reich_" ("In the old and new
Empire"), improved by a stander-by, to the great relish of others, thus,
"_Im alten, reich, im neuen, arm_" ("In the old, rich, in the new,
poor"). They give a somewhat ideal representation of the surrender of
Strasburg to the German Emperor. But the bombardment of their city, the
destruction of public monuments and the loss of life and property
thereby occasioned, were as yet fresh in the memories of the
inhabitants, and they needed no such reminder of the new state of
things. Their better feelings towards Germany had been bombarded out of
them, as an Alsacienne wittily observed to the Duchess of Baden after
the surrender. The duchess, daughter to the Emperor William, made the
round of the hospitals, and not a single Alsatian soldier but turned his
face to the wall, whereupon she expressed her astonishment at not
finding a better sentiment. Nor can the lover of art help drawing a
painful contrast between the Strasburg of the old and the new _régime_.
There was very little to see at Strasburg except the cathedral at this
time. The Library, with its 300,000 volumes and 1,500 manuscripts--the
priceless _Hortus Deliciarium_ of the twelfth century, richly
illuminated and ornamented with miniatures invaluable to the student of
men and manners of the Middle Ages, the missal of Louis XII., bearing
his arms, the _Recueil de Prières_ of the eighth century--all these had
been completely destroyed by the ruthless Prussian bombardment. The
Museum, rich in _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the French school, both of sculpture
and painting, the handsome Protestant church, the theatre, the Palais de
Justice, all shared the same fate, not to speak of buildings of lesser
importance, including four hundred private dwellings, and of the fifteen
hundred civilians, men, women and children, killed and wounded by the
shells. The fine church of St. Thomas suffered greatly. Nor was the
cathedral spared, and it would doubtless have perished altogether, too,
but for the enforced surrender of the heroic city. On my second visit
ten years later I found immense changes, new German architecture to be
seen everywhere.


Strasburg is said to contain a much larger German element than any other
city of Alsace-Lorraine, but the most casual observer soon finds out how
it stands with the bulk of the people. The first thing that attracted our
notice in a shop window was a coloured illustration representing the
funeral procession of Gambetta, as it wound slowly past the veiled statue
of Strasburg on the Place de la Concorde. These displays of patriotic
feeling are forbidden, but they come to the fore all the same. Here, as
elsewhere, the clinging to the old country is pathetically--sometimes
comically--apparent. A rough peasant girl, employed as chambermaid in the
hotel at which we stayed, amused me not a little by her tirades against
the Prussians, spoken in a language that was neither German nor French,
but a mixture of both--the delectable tongue of Alsace!

Strasburg is now a vast camp, with that perpetual noisy military parade
so wearisome in Berlin and other German cities, and, as I have said,
there was very little to see. It was a relief to get to Mulhouse, the
comparatively quiet and thoroughly French city of Mulhouse, in spite of
all attempts to make it German. But for the imperial eagle placed over
public offices and the sprinkling of Prussian helmets and Prussian
physiognomies, we could hardly suppose ourselves outside the French
border. The shops are French. French is the language of the better
classes, and French and Jews make up the bulk of the population. The Jews
from time immemorial have swarmed in Alsace, where, I am sorry to say,
they seemed to be little liked.

This thoroughly French appearance of Mulhouse, to be accounted for,
moreover, by an intensely patriotic clinging to the mother country,
naturally occasions great vexation to the German authorities. It is,
perhaps, hardly to be wondered at that undignified provocations and
reprisals should be the consequence. Thus the law forbids the putting up
of French signboards or names over shop doors in any but the German
language. This is evaded by withholding all else except the surname of
the individual, which is of course the same in both languages.

One instance more I give of the small annoyances to which the French
residents of Mulhouse are subject, a trifling one, yet sufficient to
irritate. Eight months after the annexation, orders were sent round to
the pastors and clergy generally to offer up prayers for the Emperor
William every Sunday. The order was obeyed, for refusal would have been
assuredly followed by dismissal, but the prayer is ungraciously
performed. The French pastors invoke the blessing of Heaven on
"_l'Empereur qui nous gouverne_". The pastors who perform the
service in German, pray not for "our Emperor," as is the apparently loyal
fashion in the Fatherland, but for "the Emperor." These things are
trifling grievances, but, on the other hand, the Prussians have theirs
also. Not even the officials of highest rank are received into any kind
of society whatever. Mulhouse possesses a charming zoological garden,
free to subscribers only, who have to be balloted for. Twenty years after
the annexation not a single Prussian has ever been able to obtain access
to this garden.

Even the very poorest contrive to show their intense patriotism. It is
the rule of the German government to give twenty-five marks to any poor
woman giving birth to twins. The wife of a French workman during my
sojourn at Mulhouse had three sons at a birth, but though in very poor
circumstances, refused to claim the donation. "My sons shall never be
Prussian," she said, "and that gift would make them so."

The real thorn in the flesh of the annexed Alsatians is, however, as I
have before pointed out, military service, and the enforced German
education. All who have read Alphonse Daudet's charming little story,
_La dernière leçon de Français_, will be able to realize the
painfulness of the truth, somewhat rudely brought home to French parents.
Their children must henceforth receive a German education, or none at
all, for this is what the law amounts to in the great majority of cases.
Rich people, of course, and those who are only well-to-do, can send their
sons to the Lycée, opened at Belfort since the annexation, but the rest
have to submit, or, by dint of great sacrifice, obtain private French
teaching. And, whilst even Alsatians are quite ready to render justice to
the forbearance and tact often shown by officials, an inquisitorial and
prying system is pursued, as vexatious to the patriotic as enforced
vaccination to the Peculiar People or school attendance to the poor. One
lady was visited at seven o'clock in the morning by the functionary
charged with the unpleasant mission of finding out where her boy was
educated. "Tell those who sent you," said the indignant mother, "that my
son shall never belong to you. We will give up our home, our prospects,
everything; but our children shall never be Prussians." True enough, the
family have since emigrated. No one who has not stayed in Alsace among
Alsatians can realize the intense clinging to France among the people,
nor the sacrifices made to retain their nationality. And it is well the
true state of feeling throughout the annexed territory should be known
outside its limits. With a considerable knowledge of French life and
character, I confess I went to Mulhouse little prepared to find there a
ferment of feeling which years have not sufficed to calm down.

[Illustration: ETTENHEIM]

"Nous ne sommes pas heureux à Mulhouse" were almost the first words
addressed to me by that veteran patriot and true philanthropist, Jean
Dollfus.

And how could it be otherwise? M. Dollfus, as well as other
representatives of the French subjects of Prussia in the Reichstag, had
protested against the annexation of Alsace in vain. They pointed out the
heavy cost to the German empire of these provinces, in consequence of the
vast military force required to maintain them, the undying bitterness
aroused, the moral, intellectual, and material interests at stake. I use
the word intellectual advisedly, for, amongst other instances in point, I
was assured that the book trade in Mulhouse had greatly declined since
the annexation. The student class has diminished, many reading people
have gone, and those who remain feel too uncertain about the future to
accumulate libraries. Moreover, the ordeal that all have gone through has
depressed intellectual as well as social life. Mulhouse has been too much
saddened to recover herself as yet, although eminently a literary place,
and a sociable one in the old happy French days. The balls, soirées and
reunions, that formerly made Mulhouse one of the friendliest as well as
the busiest towns in the world, have almost ceased. People take their
pleasures very soberly.

It is hardly possible to write of Mulhouse without consecrating a page
or two to M. Jean Dollfus, a name already familiar to some English
readers. The career of such a man forms part of contemporary history,
and for sixty years the great cotton-printer of Mulhouse, the
indefatigable philanthropist--the fellow-worker with Cobden,
Arles-Dufour, and others in the cause of Free Trade--and the ardent
patriot, had been before the world.

The year before my visit was celebrated, with a splendour that would be
ridiculed in a novel, the diamond wedding of the head of the numerous
house of Dollfus, the silver and the golden having been already kept in
due form.

Mulhouse might well be proud of such a fête, for it was unique, and the
first gala-day since the annexation. When M. Dollfus looked out of his
window in the morning, he found the familiar street transformed as if by
magic into a bright green avenue abundantly adorned with flowers. The
change had been effected in the night by means of young fir-trees
transplanted from the forest. The day was kept as a general holiday.
From an early hour the improvised avenue was thronged with visitors of
all ranks bearing cards, letters of congratulation or flowers. The great
Dollfus works were closed, and the five thousand workmen with their
wives, children and superannuated parents, were not only feasted but
enriched. After the banquet every man, woman and child received a present
in money, the oldest and those who had remained longest in the employ of
M. Dollfus being presented with forty francs. But the crowning sight of
the day was the board spread for the Dollfus family and the gathering of
the clan, as it may indeed be called. There was the head of the house,
firm as a rock still, in spite of his eighty-two years; beside him the
partner of sixty of those years, his devoted wife; next according to age,
their numerous sons and daughters, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law; duly
following came the grandsons and grand-daughters, then the
great-grandsons and great-granddaughters, and lastly, the babies of their
fifth generation, all accompanied by their nurses in the picturesque
costume of Alsace and Lorraine. This patriarchal assemblage numbered
between one and two hundred guests. On the table were represented, in the
artistic confectionery for which Mulhouse is famous, some of the leading
events of M. Dollfus's busy life. Here in sugar was a model of the
achievement which will ever do honour to the name of Jean Dollfus,
namely, the _cités ouvrières_, and what was no less a triumph of the
confectioner's skill, a group representing the romantic ride of M. and
Mme. Dollfus on camels towards the Algerian Sahara when visiting the
African colony some twenty years before.

This patriarchal festival is said to have cost M. Dollfus half a million
of francs, a bagatelle in a career devoted to giving! The bare conception
of what this good man has bestowed takes one's breath away! Not that he
was alone; never was a city more prolific of generous men than Mulhouse,
but Jean Dollfus, _"Le Père Jean,"_ as he is called, stood at the
head. He received with one hand to bestow with the other, and not only on
behalf of the national, intellectual and spiritual wants of his own
workmen and his own community--the Dollfus family are Protestant--but
indiscriminately benefiting Protestant, Catholic, Jew; founding schools,
hospitals, libraries, refuges, churches, for all.

We see at a glance after what fashion the great manufacturers set to work
here to solve the problem before them. The life of ease and the life of
toil are seen side by side, and all the brighter influences of the one
brought to bear on the other. The tall factory chimneys are unsightly
here as elsewhere, and nothing can be uglier than the steam tramways,
noisily running through the streets. But close to the factories and
workshops are the cheerful villas and gardens of their owners, whilst
near at hand the workmen's dwellings offer an exterior equally
attractive. These _cités ouvrières_ form indeed a suburb in
themselves, and a very pleasant suburb too. Many middle-class families in
England might be glad to own such a home, a semi-detached cottage or
villa standing in a pretty garden with flowers and trees and plots of
turf. Some of the cottages are models of trimness and taste, others of
course are less well kept, a few have a neglected appearance. The general
aspect, however, is one of thrift and prosperity, and it must be borne in
mind that each dwelling and plot of ground are the property of the owner,
gradually acquired by him out of his earnings, thanks to the initiative
of M. Dollfus and his fellow-workers. "It is by such means as these that
we have combated Socialism," said M. Dollfus to me; and the gradual
transformation of the workman into an owner of property, is but one of
the numerous efforts made at Mulhouse to lighten, in so far as is
practicable, the burden of toil.

These pleasant avenues are very animated on Sundays, especially when a
universal christening of babies is going on. The workmen at Mulhouse are
paid once a fortnight, in some cases monthly, and it is usually after
pay-day that such celebrations occur. We saw one Sunday afternoon quite
a procession of carriages returning from the church to the _cité
ouvrière_, for upon these occasions nobody goes on foot. There were
certainly a dozen christening parties, all well dressed, and the babies
in the finest white muslin and embroidery. A very large proportion of the
artisans here are Catholics, and as one instance among others of the
liberality prevailing here, I mention that one of the latest donations of
M. Dollfus is the piece of ground, close to the _cité ouvrière_, on
which now stands the new, florid Catholic church.

There are free libraries for all, and a very handsome museum has been
opened within the last few years, containing some fine modern French
pictures, all gifts of the Dollfrees, Engels, and Köchlins, to their
native town. The museum, like everything else at Mulhouse, is as French
as French can be, no German element visible anywhere. Conspicuous among
the pictures are portraits of Thiers and Gambetta, and a fine subject of
De Neuville, representing one of those desperate battle-scenes of 1870-71
that still have such a painful hold on the minds of French people. It was
withheld for some time, and had only been recently exhibited. The
bombardment of Strasburg is also a popular subject in Mulhouse.

I have mentioned the flower-gardens of the city, but the real
pleasure-ground of both rich and poor lies outside the suburbs, and a
charming one it is, and full of animation on Sundays. This is the
Tannenwald, a fine bit of forest on high ground above the vineyards and
suburban gardens of the richer citizens. A garden is a necessity of
existence here, and all who are without one in the town hire or purchase
a plot of suburban ground. Here is also the beautiful subscription garden
I have before alluded to, with fine views over the Rhine valley and the
Black Forest.

Nor is Mulhouse without its excursions. Colmar and the romantic site of
Notre Dame des Trois Épis may be visited in a day. Then there is Thann,
with its perfect Gothic church, a veritable cathedral in miniature, and
the charming, prosperous valley of Wesserling. From Thann the ascent of
the Ballon d'Alsace may be made, but the place itself must on no account
be missed. No more exquisite church in the region, and most beautifully
is it placed amid sloping green hills! It may be said to consist of nave
and apse only. There are but two lateral, chapels, evidently of a later
period than the rest of the building. The interior is of great beauty,
and no less so the façade and side porch, both very richly decorated.
One's first feeling is of amazement to find such a church in such a
place; but this dingy, sleepy little town was once of some importance
and still does a good deal of trade. There is a very large Jewish
community here, as in many other towns of Alsace. Whether they deserve
their unpopularity is a painful question not lightly to be taken up.

[Illustration: COLMAR]

Leisurely travellers bound homeward from Mulhouse will do well to diverge
from the direct Paris line and join it at Dijon, by way of Belfort--the
heroic city of Belfort, with its colossal lion, hewn out of the solid
rock--the little Protestant town of Montbéliard, and Besançon. Belfort is
well worth seeing, and the "Territoire de Belfort" is to all intents and
purposes a new department, formed from that remnant of the Haut Rhin
saved to France after the war of 1870-71. The "Territoire de Belfort"
comprises upwards of sixty thousand hectares, and a population, chiefly
industrial, of nearly seventy thousand inhabitants, spread over many
communes and hamlets. There is a picturesque and romantic bit of country
between Montbéliard and Besançon, well worth seeing, if only from the
railway windows. But the tourist who wants to make no friendly calls on
the way, whose chief aim is to get over the ground quickly, must avoid
the _détour_ by all means, as the trains are slow and the stoppages
many.

[Illustration: SKETCH BY GUSTAVE DORÉ, AETAT EIGHT YEARS]



V

THE 'MARVELLOUS BOY' OF ALSACE

I

It is especially at Strasburg that travellers are reminded of another
"marvellous boy," who, if he did not "perish in his pride," certainly
shortened his days by overreaching ambition and the brooding bitterness
waiting upon shattered hopes.

Gustave Doré was born and reared under the shadow of Strasburg
Cathedral. The majestic spire, a world in itself, became indeed a world
to this imaginative prodigy. He may be said to have learned the minster
of minsters by heart, as before him Victor Hugo had familiarized himself
with Notre Dame. The unbreeched artist of four summers never tired of
scrutinizing the statues, monsters, gargoyles and other outer
ornamentations, while the story of the pious architect Erwin and of his
inspirer, Sabine, was equally dear. Never did genius more clearly
exhibit the influence of early environment. True child of Alsace, he
revelled in local folklore and legend. The eerie and the fantastic had
the same fascination for him as sacred story, and the lives of the
saints, gnomes, elves, werewolves and sorcerers bewitched no less than
martyrs, miracle-workers and angels.

His play-hours would be spent within the precincts of the cathedral,
whilst the long winter evenings were beguiled with fairy-tales and
fables, his mother and nurse reading or reciting these, their little
listener being always busy with pen or pencil. Something much more than
mere precocity is shown in these almost infantine sketches. Exorbitant
fancy is here much less striking than sureness of touch, outlined
figures drawn between the age of five and ten displaying remarkable
precision and point, each line of the silhouette telling. At six he
celebrated his first school prize with an illustrated letter, two
portraits and a mannikin surmounting the text.

[Footnote: See his life by Blanch Roosevelt, Sampson Low & Co. 1885;
also the French translation of the same, 1886.]

His groups of peasants and portraits, made three or four years later,
possess almost a Rembrandt strength, unfortunately passion for the
grotesque and the fanciful often lending a touch of caricature.
Downright ugliness must have had an especial charm for the future
illustrator of the _Inferno_, his unconscious models sketched by the
way being uncomely as the immortal Pickwick and his fellows of Phiz. A
devotee of Gothic art, he reproduced the mediæval monstrosities adorning
cornice and pinnacle in human types. Equally devoted to nature out of
doors, the same taste predominated. What he loved and sought was ever
the savage, the legend-haunted, the ghoulish, seats and ambuscades of
kelpie, hobgoblin, brownie and their kind.

[Illustration: SKETCH BY GUSTAVE DORÉ, ÆTAT EIGHT YEARS]

From the nursery upwards, if the term can be applied to French children,
his life was a succession of artistic abnormalities and _tours de
force_. The bantling in petticoats who could astound his elders with
wonderfully accurate silhouettes, continued to surprise them in other
ways. His memory was no less amazing than his draughtsmanship. When
seven years of age, he was taken to the opera and witnessed _Robert le
Diable_. On returning home he accurately narrated every scene.

At eight he broke his right arm, but became as if by magic ambidextrous,
whilst confined to bed, cheerily drawing all day long with the left
hand. At ten he witnessed a grand public ceremony. In 1840 Strasburg
celebrated the inauguration of a monument to Gutenberg, the festival
being one of extraordinary splendour. Fifteen cars represented the
industrial corporations of the city, each symbolically adorned, and in
each riding figures suitably travestied and occupied, men, women and
children wearing the costumes of the period represented. Among the
corporations figured the _Peintres-verriers_, or painters on stained
glass, their car proving especially attractive to one small looker-on.

Intoxicated by the colour and movement of the fête, garlanded and
beflagged streets, the symbolic carriages, the bands, civic and
military, and the prevailing enthusiasm, the child determined to get up
an apotheosis of his own: in other words, to repeat the performance on a
smaller scale. Which he did. Cars, costumes, banners and decorations
were all designed by this imp of ten. With the approval of his
professors and the collaboration of his school-fellows, the Doré
procession, consisting of four highly decorated cars, drawn by boys,
defiled before the college authorities and made the round of the
cathedral, the youthful impresario at its head. The car of the painters
on glass was conspicuously elaborate, a star copied from a Cathedral
window showing the superscription, _G. Doré, fecit_. Small wonder is it
that the adoring mother of an equally adoring son should have believed
in him from the first, and seen in these beginnings the dawn of genius,
the advent, indeed, of a second Michael Angelo or Titian.

The more practical father might chide such overreaching vaticinations,
might reiterate--

"Do not fill the boy's head with nonsense."

The answer would be--

"I know it. Our son is a genius."

And Doré _père_ gave way, under circumstances curious enough.


II


In 1847 the family visited Paris, there to Gustave's delight spending
four months. Loitering one day in the neighbourhood of the Bourse, his
eye lighted upon comic papers with cuts published by MM. Auber and
Philipon. Their shop windows were full of caricatures, and after a long
and intent gaze the boy returned home, in two or three days presenting
himself before the proprietors with half-a-dozen drawings much in the
style of those witnessed. The benevolent but businesslike M. Philipon
examined the sketches attentively, put several questions to his young
visitor, and, finding that the step had been taken surreptitiously,
immediately sat down and wrote to M. and Mme. Doré. He urged them with
all the inducements he could command to allow their son the free choice
of a career, assuring them of his future.

A few days later an agreement was signed by father and publisher to this
effect: During three years the latter was to receive upon certain terms
a weekly cartoon from the sixteen-year-old artist, who, on his side,
bound himself to offer no sketches elsewhere.

[Footnote: This document was reproduced in _Le Figaro_ of
December 4, 1848.]

Meanwhile, Gustave would pursue his studies at the Lycée Charlemagne,
his patron promising to look after his health and well-being. The
arrangement answered, and in _Le Journal pour rire_ the weekly
caricature signed by Doré soon noised his fame abroad. Ugly, even
hideous, as were many of these caricatures, they did double duty, paying
the lad's school expenses, and paving the way to better things. Of
caricature Doré soon tired, and after this early period never returned
to it. Is it any wonder that facile success and excessive laudation
should turn the stripling's head? Professionally, if not artistically
speaking, Doré passed straight from child to man; in one sense of the
word he had no boyhood, the term tyro remained inapplicable. This
undersized, fragile lad, looking years younger than he really was, soon
found himself on what must have appeared a pinnacle of fame and fortune.

Shortly after his agreement with Philipon, his father died, and Mme.
Doré with her family removed to Paris, settling in a picturesque and
historic hôtel of the Rue St. Dominique. Here Doré lived for the rest of
his too short life.

The house had belonged to the family of Saint Simon, that terrible
observer under whose gaze even Louis XIV. is said to have quailed. So
aver historians of the period. The associations of his home immediately
quickened Doré's inventive faculties. He at once set to work and
organized a brilliant set of _tableaux vivants_, illustrating scenes
from the immortal Mémoires. The undertaking proved a great social
success, and henceforth we hear of galas, soirées, theatricals and other
entertainments increasing in splendour with the young artist's
vogue--and means.

The history of the next twenty years reads like a page from the _Arabian
Nights_. Although dazzling is the record from first to last, and despite
the millions of francs earned during those two decades, the artist's
ambition was never satisfied. We are always conscious of bitterness and
disillusion. As an illustrator, no longer of cheap comic papers but of
literary masterpieces brought out in costly fashion, Doré reached the
first rank at twenty, his _Rabelais_ setting the seal on his renown. So
immense was the success of this truly colossal undertaking and of its
successors, the _Don Quixote_, the _Contes de fées_ of Perrault
and the rest, that he meditated nothing less than the illustration of
cosmopolitan _chefs 'd' oeuvre, en bloc_, a series which should include
every great imaginative work of the Western world! Thus in 1855 we find
him noting the following projects, to be carried out in ten years'
time:--illustrations of Æschylus, Lucan, Ovid, Shakespeare, Goethe
_(Faust)_, Lamartine _(Méditations)_, Racine, Corneille, Schiller,
Boccaccio, Montaigne, Plutarch's Lives--these names among others. The
jottings in question were written for a friend who had undertaken to
write the artist's biography.


The _Rabelais, Don Quixote, The Inferno_, and several more of these
sumptuous volumes were brought out in England. Forty years ago Doré's
bold and richly imaginative work was in great favour here; indeed,
throughout his life he was much more appreciated by ourselves than by
his countrymen. All the drawings were done straight upon wood. Lavish in
daily life, generous of the generous, Doré showed the same lavishness in
his procedure. Some curious particulars are given upon this head.
Fabulous sums were spent upon his blocks, even small ones costing as
much as four pounds apiece. He must always have the very best wood, no
matter the cost, and it was only the whitest, smoothest and glossiest
boxwood that satisfied him. Enormous sums were spent upon this material,
and to his honour be it recorded, that no matter the destination of a
block, the same cost, thought and minute manipulation were expended upon
a trifling commission as upon one involving thousands of pounds. The
penny paper was treated precisely the same as the volume to be brought
out at two guineas. In the zenith of his fame as an illustrator, at a
time when tip-top authors and editors were all clamouring for his
drawings, he did not despise humbler admirers and clients. His delight
in his work was only equalled by quite abnormal physical and mental
powers. Sleep, food, fresh air, everything was forgotten in the
engrossment of work. At this time he would often give himself three
hours of sleep only.

Doré's ambition--rather, one of his ambitions--was to perfect wood
engraving as an art, hence his indifference to the cost of production.
Hence, doubtless, his persistence in drawing on wood without preliminary
sketch or copy.

Perhaps such obsession was natural. How could he foresee the variety of
new methods that were so soon to transform book illustration? Anyhow,
herein partly lies the explanation of the following notice in a
second-hand book catalogue, 1911--

"No. 355. Gustave Doré: _Dante's Inferno_, with 76 full-page
illustrations by Doré. 4to, gilt top, binding soiled, but otherwise good
copy. _42s._ for _3s. 6d._ London, n.d."

A leading London publisher consulted by me on the subject, writes
as follows--

"Doré's works are no longer in vogue. One of the reasons lies in the
fact that his pictures were done by the old engraved process. He drew
them straight on wood, and there are, accordingly, no original drawings
to be reproduced by modern methods."

The words "fatal facility" cannot be applied to so consummate a
draughtsman as the illustrator of Dante, Cervantes and Victor Hugo. But
Doré's almost superhuman memory was no less of a pitfall than manual
dexterity. The following story will partly explain his dislike of
facsimile and duplication.

An intimate friend, named Bourdelin, relates how one day during the
siege of Paris, the pair found themselves by the Courbevoie bridge. One
side of this bridge was guarded by French gendarmes, the other by
German officers, Prussians, Saxons, Bavarians, a dozen in all. For a
quarter of an hour the two Frenchmen lingered, Doré intently gazing on
the group opposite. On returning home some hours later he produced a
sketch-book and in Bourdelin's presence swiftly outlined the twelve
figures, exactly reproducing not only physiognomic divergences but
every detail of costume! Poor Doré! In those ardently patriotic days he
entirely relied upon victory and drew an anticipatory picture of France
triumphant, entitled, "Le Passage du Rhin." But the French never
crossed the Rhine, and the drawing was given to this friend with the
words: "My sketch has no longer any _raison d'être_. Keep it in memory
of our fallacious hopes."


III


In an evil hour for his peace of mind and his fame, Doré decided to
leave illustration and become a historic painter. He evidently regarded
genius as a Pandora's gift, an all-embracing finality, an endowment that
could neither be worsened nor bettered, being complete in itself.

A reader of Ariosto, he had not taken to heart one of his most memorable
verses, those mellifluous lines in which the poet dwells upon the
laboriousness of intellectual achievement. Nor when illustrating the
_Arabian Nights_ had the wonderful story of Hasan of El-Basrah
evidently brought home to him the same moral.

Between a Doré and his object--so he deemed--existed neither "seven
valleys nor seven seas, nor seven mountains of vast magnitude." A Doré
needed no assistance of the flying Jinn and the wandering stars on his
way, no flying horse, "which when he went along flew, and when he flew
the dust overtook him not."

Without the equipment of training, without recognition of such a
handicap, he entered upon his new career.

In 1854 for the first time two pictures signed by Doré appeared on the
walls of the Salon. But the canvases passed unnoticed. The Parisians
would not take the would-be painter seriously, and the following year's
experience proved hardly less disheartening. Of four pictures sent in,
three were accepted, one of these being a historic subject, the other
two being landscapes. The first, "La Bataille de l'Alma," evoked
considerable criticism. The rural scenes were hung, as Edmond About
expressed it, so high as to need a telescope.

Both About and Th. Gautier believed in their friend's newly-developed
talent, but art-critics and the public held aloof. No medal was decreed
by the jury, and, accustomed as he had been to triumph after triumph,
his fondest hopes for the second time deceived, Doré grew bitter and
acrimonious. That his failure had anything to do with the real question
at issue, namely, his genius as a historic painter, he would never for a
moment admit. Jealousy, cabals, prejudice only were accountable.

The half dozen years following were divided between delightfully gay and
varied sociabilities, feverishly prolonged working hours and foreign
travel. The millions of francs earned by his illustrations gave him
everything he wanted but one, that one, in his eyes, worth all the rest.

Travel, a splendid studio, largesses--he was generosity itself--all
these were within his reach. The craved-for renown remained ungraspable.

Even visits to his favourite resort, Barr, brought disenchantment. He
found old acquaintances and the country folks generally wanting in
appreciation. With greater and lesser men, he subacidly said to himself
that a man was no prophet in his own country.

Ten years after the fiasco of his first canvases in the Salon came an
invitation to England and the alluring project of a Doré gallery. The
Doré Bible and Tennyson, with other works, had paved the way for a right
royal reception. The streets of London, as he could well believe, were
paved with gold. But many were the _contra_. "I feel the presentiment,"
he wrote to a friend, "that if I betake myself to England, I shall break
with my own country and lose prestige and influence in France. I cannot
exist without my friends, my habits and my _pot-au-feu_. Folks tell me
that England is a land of fogs, that the sun never shines there, that
the inhabitants are cold, and that I should most likely suffer from
sea-sickness in crossing the Manche. To sum up, England is a long way
off, and I have a great mind to give up the project."

Friendly persuasion, self-interest, wounded self-love carried the day.
Reluctantly he decided upon the redoubtable sea-voyage. Whether he
suffered from sea-sickness or no we are not told. In any case the visit
was repeated, John Bull according the great Alsatian, as he was called,
what France had so persistently withheld.

Doré was here accorded the first rank among historic painters. His
gallery in Bond Street became one of the London sights; in fashionable
society, if not in the close ring of the great Victorian artists, he
made a leading figure. Royalty patronized and welcomed him. The Queen
bought one of his pictures ("Le Psalterion," now at Windsor), and invited
him to Balmoral. The heir-apparent, the late King, admired his talent
and relished his society. By the clerical world he was especially
esteemed, being looked upon as a second Leonardo da Vinci. And, in fine,
Doré must be regarded as an anticipator of the Entente cordiale.
"Gustave Doré," his compatriots would say, "he is half an Englishman!"
Forty years ago our popular favourite might indeed have believed in the
fulfilment of his dream. The Thorwaldsen Gallery of Copenhagen had ever
dazzled his imagination. Bond Street was not Paris, certainly, but in
the greatest metropolis of the world his memory would be for ever
perpetuated. Turning to the dithyrambic utterances of the London Press
at the time we can hardly wonder at the hallucination.

Here are one or two passages culled from leading dailies and weeklies--

"In gravity and magnitude of purpose, no less than in the scope and
power of his imagination, he towers like a Colossus among his
contemporaries. Compared with such a work as 'Christ leaving the
Prætorium,' the pictures in Burlington House look like the production of
a race of dwarfs whose mental faculties are as diminutive as their
stature. And it is not alone the efforts of the English School of
Painting that appear puny in presence of so great and gigantic an
undertaking; the work of all the existing schools of Europe sinks into
equal insignificance, and we must go back to the Italian painters of the
sixteenth century to find a picture worthy of being classed with this
latest and most stupendous achievement of the great French master."

Elsewhere we read--

"The most marvellous picture of the present age is to be seen at 35, New
Bond Street. The subject is 'Christ leaving the Prætorium,' The painter
is the world-renowned Gustave Doré."

A journal devoted to art-criticism wrote--

"In 'The Christian Martyrs' we have a striking, thrilling and
ennobling picture."

And so on, and so on. Yet at this time among "the dwarfs" of Burlington
House then exhibiting was Millais, and contemporaneously with Doré in
our midst, 1870-1, was Daubigny, whose tiniest canvases now fetch their
thousands!

It was during Doré's apogee in England that a well-known French amateur,
also visiting our shores, was thus addressed by an English friend: "Come
with me to Bond Street, you will there see the work of your greatest
living painter."

"_Our_ greatest painter!" exclaimed the other. "You mean your own. Doré
is our first draughtsman of France, yes, but painter, never, neither the
greatest nor great; at least we were ignorant of the fact till informed
of it by yourself and your country-people."

Doré knew well how matters stood, and bitterly resented the attitude of
his own nation. Accorded a princely welcome across the Manche, his work
worth its weight in gold on the other side of the Atlantic, in France he
was looked at askance, even as a painter ignored. He regarded himself as
shut out from his rightful heritage, and the victim, if not of a
conspiracy, of a cabal. His school playmates and close friends, Taine,
Edmond About and Th. Gautier, might be on his side; perhaps, with
reservations, Rossini and a few other eminent associates also. But the
prescient, unerring verdict of the collective "man in the street"--

"The people's voice, the proof and echo of all human fame"--

he missed; resentment preyed upon his spirits, undermined his vitality,
and doubtless had something to do with his premature breakdown.

The Doré gallery indeed proved his Capua, the long-stop to his fame.


IV


As a personality the would-be Titian, Dürer, Thorwaldsen and Benvenuto
Cellini in one presents an engaging figure. His domestic life makes very
pleasant reading. We find no dark holes and corners in the career of one
who may be said to have remained a boy to the end, at fifty as at five
full of freak and initiative, clingingly attached to a devoted and
richly-endowed mother, and the ebullient spirit of a happy home. With
his rapidly increasing fortune, the historic house in the Rue Dominique
became an artistic, musical and dramatic centre. His fêtes were worthy
of a millionaire, and, alike in those private theatricals, _tableaux
vivants_ or concerts, he ever took a leading part. An accomplished
violinist, Doré found in music a never-failing stimulant and
refreshment. Rossini was one of his circle, among others were the two
Gautiers, the two Dumas, Carolus Duran, Liszt, Gounod, Patti, Alboni and
Nilsson, Mme. Doré, still handsome and alert in her old age, proudly
doing the honours of what was now called the Hôtel Doré. By his literary
and artistic brethren the many-faceted genius and exhilarating host was
fully appreciated. Generosities he ever freely indulged in, the wealth
of such rapid attainment being dispensed with an ungrudgeful hand. To
works of charity the great illustrator gave largely, but we hear of no
untoward misreckonings, nor bills drawn upon time, health or talents.
With him, as with the average Frenchman, solvency was an eleventh
commandment.

Meantime, as the years wore on, again and again he bid desperately for
the suffrages withheld, his legitimately won renown held by him of small
account. To his American biographer he said, on showing her some of his
pictures: "I illustrate books in order to pay for my colours and
paint-brushes. I was born a painter."

On the lady's companion, an American officer, naively asking if
certain canvases were designed for London or Paris, he answered with
bitter irony--

"Paris, forsooth! I do not paint well enough for Paris." As he spoke his
face became clouded. The gay, jovial host of a few minutes before sighed
deeply, and during their visit could not shake off depression.

Two crowning humiliations came before the one real sorrow of his life,
the loss of that gifted mother who was alike his boon companion, closest
confidante and enthusiastic Egeria. Perpetually seeking laurels in new
fields, in 1877 he made his _début_ as a sculptor. The marble group, "La
Parque et l'Amour," signed G. Doré, won a _succès d'estime_, no more.
In the following year was opened the great international exhibition on the
Champ de Mars, Doré's enormous monumental vase being conspicuously
placed over one of the porticoes. This astounding achievement in bronze,
appropriately named the "Poème de la Vigne," created quite a sensation
at the time. Reproductions appeared in papers of all countries
containing a printing press or photographic machine. But for the
artist's name, doubtless his work would have attained the gold medal and
other honours. The Brobdingnagian vase, so wonderfully decorated with
flowers, animals and arabesques, was passed over by the jury.

Equally mortifying was the fate of his marble group in the same year's
Salon. This subject, "La Gloire," had a place of honour in the sculpture
gallery and won universal suffrages. The critics echoed popular
approval. The jury remained passive. It was in the midst of these
unnecessarily crushing defeats--for why, indeed, should any mortal have
craved more than mortal success?--that Mme. Doré's forces gave way. From
that time till her death, which occurred two years later, her son's
place was by her side, floutings, projects, health and pleasure,
forgotten, his entire thoughts being given to the invalid. No more
beautiful picture of filial devotion could suggest itself to the painter
of domestic subjects than this, Doré with table and sketching materials
seated in his mother's sick-room, or at night ministering to her in
wakeful moments. At dawn he would snatch a few hours' sleep, but that
was all. No wonder that his own health should give way so soon after the
death-blow of her loss.

"My friend," he wrote to an English boon companion, on March 16, 1881,
"she is no more. I am alone. You are a clergyman, I entreat you to pray
for the repose of her beloved soul and the preservation of my reason."

A few days later he wrote to the same friend of his "frightful
solitude," adding his regret at not having anticipated such a blank and
made for himself a home--in other words, taken a wife.

Some kind matchmaking friends set to work and found, so at least they
fancied, a bride exactly calculated to render him happy.

But on January 23, 1883, Doré died, prematurely aged and broken
down by grief, corroding disappointment and quite frenzied overwork
and ambition.

He never attained recognition as a historic painter among his
country-folks. One canvas, however, "Tobit and the Angel," is placed in
the Luxembourg, and his monument to Dumas ornaments the capital. His
renown as an illustrator remains high as ever in France. And one, that
one, the passionately desired prize of every Frenchman, became his: in
1861 he was decorated with the Red Ribbon. Six of Doré's great religious
subjects retain their place in the Bond Street Gallery, but for reasons
given above his wonderfully imaginative illustrations are here
forgotten.

The superb edition of the _Enid_ (Moxon, 1868), a folio bound in royal
purple and gold, and printed on paper thick as vellum, the volume
weighing four pounds, awakens melancholy reflections. What would have
been poor Doré's feelings had he lived to see such a guinea's worth, and
cheap at the price, gladly sold, rather got rid of, for three shillings!

Doré's last work, the unconventional monument to the elder Dumas, was
left unfinished.

Completed by another hand, the group now forms a conspicuous object in
the Avenue Villiers, Paris.

The striking figure of the great quadroon, with his short crisped
locks, suggests a closer relationship to the race thus apostrophized by
Walt Whitman--

     "You, dim descended, black, divine souled African...."

He surmounts a lofty pedestal, on the base being seated a homely group,
three working folks, a mob-capped woman reading a Dumas novel to two
companions, evidently her father and husband, sons of the soil, drinking
in every word, their attitude of the most complete absorption.
Classicists and purists in art doubtless look askance at a work which
would certainly have enchanted the sovereign romancer.

"Will folks read my stories when I am gone, doctor?" he asked as he lay
a-dying. The good physician easily reassured his patient. "When we have
patients awaiting some much-dreaded operation in hospital," he replied,
"we have only to give them one of your novels. Straightway they forget
everything else." And Dumas--"the great, the humane," as a charming poet
has called him--died happy. As well he might, in so far as his fame was
concerned. _La Tulipe Noire_ would alone have assured his future.



VI

QUISSAC AND SAUVE

One should always go round the sun to meet the moon in France, that is
to say, one should ever circumambulate, never make straight for the
lodestar ahead. The way to almost any place of renown, natural, historic
or artistic, is sure to teem with as much interest as that to which we
are bound. So rich a palimpsest is French civilization, so varied is
French scenery, so multifarious the points of view called up at every
town, that hurry and scurry leave us hardly better informed than when we
set out. Thus it has ever been my rule to indulge in the most
preposterous peregrination, taking no account whatever of days, seasons
or possible cons, hearkening only to the pros, and never so much as
glancing at the calendar. Such protracted zigzaggeries have been made
easy to the "devious traveller" by one unusual advantage. Just as
pioneers in Australasia find Salvation Army shelters scattered
throughout remotest regions, so, fortunately, have I ever been able to
count upon "harbour and good company" during my thirty-five years of
French sojourn and travel.

To reach a certain Pyrenean valley in which I was to spend a holiday
would only have meant a night's dash by express from Paris. Instead, I
followed the south-eastern route, halting at--Heaven knows how
many!--already familiar and delightful places between Paris and Dijon,
Dijon and Lyons, Lyons and Nîmes; from the latter city being bound for
almost as many more before reaching my destination.

Quite naturally I would often find myself on the track of that "wise and
honest traveller," so John Morley calls Arthur Young.

Half-way between Nîmes and Le Vigan lies the little town of Sauve, at
which the Suffolk farmer halted in July 1787. "Pass six leagues of a
disagreeable country," he wrote. "Vines and olives."

But why a disagreeable country? Beautiful I thought the landscape as I
went over the same ground on a warm September afternoon a century and
odd years later, on alighting to be greeted with a cheery--

"Here I am!"

As a rule I am entirely of Montaigne's opinion. "When I travel in
Sicily," said the philosopher of Gascony, "it is not to find Gascons."
Dearly as we love home and home-folk, the gist of travel lies in
oppositeness and surprises. We do not visit the uttermost ends of the
globe in search of next-door neighbours. That cordial "Here I am!"
however, had an unmistakable accent, just a delightful suspicion of
French. My host was a gallant naval officer long since retired from
service, with his English wife and two daughters, spending the long
vacation in his country home.

High above the little village of Quissac rises the residence of
beneficent owners, master and mistress, alas! long since gone to their
rest. From its terrace the eye commands a vast and beautiful panorama, a
richly cultivated plain dotted with villages and framed by the blue
Cévennes. Tea served after English fashion and by a dear countrywoman,
everywhere _"le confortable Anglais"_ admittedly unattainable by French
housewives, could not for a single moment make me forget that I was in
France. And when the dinner gong sounded came the final, the
unequivocal, proof of distance.

Imagine dining out of doors and in evening dress at eight o'clock in the
last week of August! The table was set on the wide balcony of the upper
floor, high above lawn and bosquets, the most chilly person having here
nothing to fear. It is above all things the French climate that
transports us so far from home and makes us feel ourselves hundreds,
nay, thousands of miles away.

I have elsewhere, perhaps ofttimes, dwelt on the luminosity of the
atmosphere in southern and south-western France. To-night not a breath
was stirring, the outer radiance was the radiance of stars only, yet so
limpid, so lustrous the air that cloudless moonlight could hardly have
made every object seem clearer, more distinct. The feeling inspired by
such conditions is that of enchantment. For the nonce we may yield to a
spell, fancy ourselves in Armida's enchanted garden or other "delightful
land of Faëry."

Not for long, however! Pleasant practical matters soon recall us to the
life of every day. That laborious, out-of-door existence, which seems
sordid in superfine English eyes, but which is never without the gaiety
that enchanted Goldsmith and Sterne a hundred and fifty years ago.

Whilst host and guest dined on the balcony, the farming folk and such of
the household as could be spared were enjoying a starlit supper
elsewhere. Later, my hostess took me downstairs and introduced her
English visitor to a merry but strictly decorous party having a special
bit of sward to themselves, bailiff, vintagers, stockmen, dairywoman,
washerwoman and odd hands making up a round dozen of men, women and
boys. All seemed quite at home, and chatted easily with their employer
and the visitor, by no means perturbed, rather pleased by the intrusion.

And here I will mention one of those incidents that lead English
observers into so many misconceptions concerning French rural life.
Little things that seem sordid, even brutifying to insular eyes, really
arise from incompatible standards.

The Frenchman's ideal of material comfort begins and ends with solvency,
the sense of absolute security from want in old age. Small comforts he
sets little store by; provided that he gets a good dinner, lesser
considerations go. I do not hesitate to say that the comforts enjoyed by
our own farm-servants half a century ago were far in excess of those
thought more than sufficient by French labourers and their employers. On
the following day my hosts took me round the farmery, fowl-run,
piggeries, neat-houses and stalls being inspected one by one. When we
came to the last named, I noticed at the door of the long building and
on a level with the feeding troughs for oxen, a bed-shaped wooden box
piled up with fresh clean straw.

"That is where our stockman sleeps," explained the lady.

Here, then, quite contentedly slept the herdsman of a large estate in
nineteenth-century France, whilst his English compeers two generations
before, and in much humbler employ, had their tidy bedroom and
comfortable bed under the farmer's roof. What would my own Suffolk
ploughmen have said to the notion of spending the night in an ox-stall?
But _autres pays, autres moeurs_. In Déroulède's fine little poem, "Bon
gîte", a famished, foot-sore soldier returning home is generously
entreated by a poor housewife. When she sets about preparing a bed for
him, he remonstrates--

     "Good dame, what means that new-made bed,
         Those sheets so finely spun?
     On heaped-up straw in cattle-shed,
         I'd snore till rise of sun."

The compensations for apparent hardship in the case of French peasants
are many and great. In Henry James's great series of dissolving views
called _The American Scene_, he describes the heterogeneous masses as
having "a promoted look". The French proletariat have not a promoted
look, rather one of inherited, traditional stability and self-respect.
One and all, moreover, are promoting themselves, rising by a slow
evolutionary process from the condition of wage-earner to that of
metayer, tenant, lastly freeholder.

Although the immediate environs of Quissac and Sauve are not remarkable,
magnificent prospects are obtained a little farther afield--our drives
and walks abounded in interest--and associations! Strange but true it is
that we can hardly halt anywhere in France without coming upon historic,
literary or artistic memorials. Every town and village is redolent of
tradition, hardly a spot but is glorified by genius!

Thus, half-an-hour's drive from our village still stands the château
and birthplace of Florian, the Pollux of fabulists, La Fontaine being
the Castor, no other stars of similar magnitude shining in their
especial arc.

Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian was born here in 1755, just sixty years
after the great fabulist's death. Nephew of a marquis, himself
nephew-in-law of Voltaire, endowed with native wit and gaiety, the young
man was a welcome guest at Fernay, and no wonder! His enchanting fables
did not see the light till after Voltaire's death, but we will hope that
some of them had delighted his host in recitation. Many of us who loved
French in early years have a warm corner in our hearts for "Numa
Pompilius", but Florian will live as the second fabulist of France, to
my own thinking twin of his forerunner.

How full of wisdom, wit and sparkle are these apologues! Take, for
instance, the following, which to the best of my ability I have rendered
into our mother tongue--

       VANITY (LE PETIT CHIEN).

                         I
     Once on a time and far away,
       The elephant stood first in might,
     He had by many a forest fray
       At last usurped the lion's right.
     On peace and reign unquestioned bent,
       The ruler in his pride of place,
     Forthwith to life-long banishment
       Doomed members of the lion race.

                        II
     Dispirited, their best laid low,
       The vanquished could but yield to fate,
     And turn their backs upon the foe
       In silence nursing grief and hate.
     A poodle neatly cropped and clipped,
       With tasselled tail made leonine,
     On hearing of the stern rescript,
       Straightway set up a piteous whine.

                        III
     "Alas!" he moaned. "Ah, woe is me!
       Where, tyrant, shall I shelter find;
     Advancing years what will they be,
       My home and comforts left behind?"
     A spaniel hastened at the cry,
       "Come, mate, what's this to-do about?"
     "Oh, oh," the other gulped reply,
       "For exile we must all set out!"

                        IV
     "Must all?" "No, you are safe, good friend;
       The cruel law smites us alone;
     Here undisturbed your days may end,
       The lions must perforce begone."
     "The lions? Brother, pray with these,
       What part or lot have such as you?"
     "What part, forsooth? You love to tease;
       You know I am a lion too."

[Footnote: The first translation appeared with others in _French Men,
Women and Books_, 1910. The second was lately issued in the
_Westminster Gazette_.]

Here is another, a poem of essential worldly wisdom, to be bracketed
with Browning's equally oracular "The Statue and the Bust," fable and
poem forming a compendium.

           THE FLIGHTY PURPOSE
     (LE PAYSAN AND LA RIVIERE).

     "I now intend to change my ways"--
       Thus Juan said--"No more for me
     A round on round of idle days
       'Mid soul-debasing company.
     I've pleasure woo'd from year to year
       As by a siren onward lured,
     At last of roystering, once held dear,
       I'm as a man of sickness cured."

     "Unto the world I bid farewell,
       My mind to retrospection give,
     Remote as hermit in his cell,
       For wisdom and wise friends I'll live."
     "Is Thursday's worldling, Friday's sage?
       Too good such news," I bantering spoke.
     "How oft you've vowed to turn the page,
       Each promise vanishing like smoke!"

     "And when the start?" "Next week--not this."
       "Ah, you but play with words again."
     "Nay, do not doubt me; hard it is
       To break at once a life-long chain."
     Came we unto the riverside,
       Where motionless a rustic sate,
     His gaze fixed on the flowing tide.
       "Ho, mate, why thus so still and squat?"

     "Good sirs, bound to yon town am I;
       No bridge anear, I sit and sit
     Until these waters have run dry,
       So that afoot I get to it."
     "A living parable behold,
       My friend!" quoth I. "Upon the brim
     You, too, will gaze until you're old,
       But never boldly take a swim!"

As far as I know, no memorial has as yet been raised to the fabulist
either at Quissac or at Sauve, but as long as the French language lasts
successive generations will keep his memory green. Certain of his fables
every little scholar knows by heart.

Associations of other kinds are come upon by travellers bound from
Quissac to Le Vigan, that charming little centre of silkworm rearing
described by me elsewhere. A few miles from our village lies Ganges, a
name for ever famous in the annals of political economy and progress.

"From Ganges", wrote the great Suffolk farmer in July 1787, "to the
mountain of rough ground which I crossed" (in the direction of
Montdardier), "the ride has been the most interesting which I have
taken in France; the efforts of industry the most vigorous, the
animation the most lively. An activity has been here that has swept away
all difficulties before it and clothed the very rocks with verdure. It
would be a disgrace to common sense to ask the cause; the enjoyment of
property must have done it. _Give a man the sure possession of a bleak
rock, and he will turn it into a garden_." The italics are my own. When
will Arthur Young have his tablet in Westminster Abbey, I wonder?

The department of the Gard offers an anomaly of the greatest historic
interest. Here and here only throughout the length and breadth of France
villages are found without a Catholic church, communities that have held
fast to Protestantism and the right of private judgment from generation
to generation during hundreds of years. Elsewhere, in the Côte d'Or, for
instance, as I have described in a former work, Protestantism was
completely stamped out by the Revocation, whole villages are now
ultramontane, having abjured, the alternatives placed before them being
confiscation of property, separation of children and parents,
banishment, prison and death.

[Footnote: See _Friendly Faces_, chap. xvi.]

The supremacy of the reformed faith may be gathered from the following
facts: A few years back, of the six deputies representing this
department five were Protestant and the sixth was a Jew. The _Conseil
Général_ or provincial council numbered twenty-three Protestants as
against seventeen Catholics. The seven members of the Board of Hospitals
at Nîmes, three of the four inspectors of public health, nine of the
twelve head-mistresses of girls' schools, twenty-nine of forty rural
magistrates, were Protestants.

My host belonged to the same faith, as indeed do most of his class and
the great captains of local industry. It is not as in Michelet's
fondly-loved St. Georges de Didonne, where only the lowly and the toiler
have kept the faith aflame.

But whilst neighbours now live peacefully side by side, a gulf still
divides Catholic and Protestant. Although half a millennium has elapsed
since the greatest crime of modern history, the two bodies remain apart:
French _annexés_ of Alsace-Lorraine and Germans are not more completely
divided. Mixed marriages are of rarest occurrence, intercourse limited
to the conventional and the obligatory. There are historic curses that
defy lustration. St. Bartholomew is one of these. I must now say
something about the country-folks. Calls upon our rustic neighbours,
long chats with affable housewives, and rounds of farmery, vineyard and
field attracted me more than the magnificent panoramas to be obtained
from Corconne and other villages within an easy drive.

George Sand has ever been regarded as a poetizer of rural life, an
arch-idealist of her humbler country-folks. At Quissac I made more than
one acquaintance that might have stepped out of _La petite Fadette_ or
_La mare au Diable_.

One old woman might have been "la paisible amie," the tranquil friend,
to whom the novelist dedicated a novel. Neat, contented, active and
self-respecting, she enjoyed a life-interest in two acres and a cottage,
her live stock consisting of a goat, a pig and poultry, her invested
capital government stock representing a hundred pounds. Meagre as may
seem these resources, she was by no means to be pitied or inclined to
pity herself, earning a few francs here and there by charing, selling
her little crops, what eggs and chickens she could spare, above all
things being perfectly independent.

A charming idyll the great Sand could have found here. The owner of a
thirty-acre farm had lately died, leaving it with all he possessed to
two adopted children, a young married couple who for years had acted
respectively as steward and housekeeper. We are bound to infer that on
the one hand there had been affection and gratitude, on the other the
same qualities with conscientiousness in business matters. The
foster-father was childless and a widower, but, among the humble as well
as the rich French, ambition of posthumous remembrance often actuates
impersonal bequests. This worthy Jacques Bonhomme might have made an
heir of his native village, leaving money for a new school-house or some
other public edifice. Very frequently towns and even villages become
legatees of the childless, and the worthy man would have been quite sure
of a statue, a memorial tablet, or at least of having his name added to
a street or square.

Before taking leave of Quissac I must mention one curious fact.

The Proteus of Odyssean story or the King's daughter and the Efreet in
the "Second Royal Mendicant's Adventure," could not more easily
transform themselves than the French peasant. Husbandman to-day,
mechanic on the morrow, at one season he plies the pruning-hook, at
another he turns the lathe. This adaptability of the French mind,
strange to say, is nowhere seen to greater advantage than in
out-of-the-way regions, just where are mental torpidity and unbendable
routine. Not one of Millet's blue-bloused countrymen but masters a dozen
handicrafts.

Thus, whilst the heraldic insignia of Sauve should be a trident, those
of Quissac should be surmounted by an old shoe! In the former place the
forked branches of the _Celtis australis_ or nettle tree, _Ulmaceæ_,
afford a most profitable occupation. From its tripartite boughs are made
yearly thousands upon thousands of the three-pronged forks used in
agriculture. The wood, whilst very durable, is yielding, and lends
itself to manipulation.

In Florian's birthplace folks make a good living out of old boots and
shoes! Some native genius discovered that, however well worn footgear
may be, valuable bits of leather may remain in the sole. These fragments
are preserved, and from them boot heels are made; the _débris_, boots,
shoes and slippers, no matter the material, find their way to the soil
as manure. But this subject if pursued further would lead to a lane,
metaphorically speaking, without a turning, that is to say to a treatise
on French rural economy.



VII

AN IMMORTALIZER

In Renan's exquisitely phrased preface to his _Drames Philosophiques_
occurs the following sentence which I render into English _tant bien que
mal_: "Side by side are the history of fact and the history of the
ideal, the latter materially speaking of what has never taken place, but
which, in the ideal sense, has happened a thousand times."

Who when visiting the beautiful little town of Saumur thinks of the
historic figures connected with its name? Even the grand personality of
Duplessis Morny sinks into insignificance by comparison with that of the
miser's daughter, the gentle, ill-starred Eugénie Grandet! And who when
Carcassonne first breaks upon his view thinks of aught but Nadaud's
immortal peasant and his plaint--

     "I'm growing old, just three score year,
       In wet and dry, in dust and mire,
     I've sweated, never getting near
       Fulfilment of my heart's desire.
     Ah, well I see that bliss below
       'Tis Heaven's will to vouchsafe none,
     Harvest and vintage come and go,
       I've never got to Carcassonne!"

The tragi-comic poem of six eight-lined verses ending thus--

     "So sighed a peasant of Limoux,
       A worthy neighbour bent and worn.
     'Ho, friend,' quoth I, 'I'll go with you.
       We'll sally forth to-morrow morn.'
     And true enough away we hied,
       But when our goal was almost won,
     God rest his soul!--the good man died,
       He never got to Carcassonne!"

No lover of France certainly should die without having seen Carcassonne,
foremost of what I will call the pictorial Quadrilateral, no formidable
array after the manner of their Austrian cognominal, but lovely,
dreamlike things. These four walled-in towns or citadels, perfect as
when they represented mediaeval defence, are Carcassonne, Provins in the
Brie, Semur in upper Burgundy, and the Breton Guérande, scene of
Balzac's _Béatrix_. To my thinking, and I have visited each, there is
little to choose between the first two, but exquisite as is the little
Briard acropolis, those imaginary "topless towers of Ilium" of Nadaud's
peasant bear the palm. That first view of Carcassonne as we approach it
in the railway of itself repays a long and tedious journey. A vision
rather than reality, structure of pearly clouds in mid-heaven, seems
that opaline pile lightly touched with gold. We expect it to evaporate
at evenfall! Vanish it does not, nor wholly bring disillusion, so fair
and harmonious are the vistas caught in one circuit of the citadel, mere
matter of twenty minutes.

But the place by this time has become so familiar to travellers in
France and readers of French travel, that I will here confine myself to
its glorifier, author of a song that has toured the world.

The first biography of the French Tom Moore, published last year, gives
no history of this much translated poem. Had, indeed, some worthy
vine-grower poured out such a plaint in the poet's ears? Very probably,
for one and all of Nadaud's rural poems breathe the very essence of the
fields, the inmost nature of the peasant, from first to last they reveal
Jacques Bonhomme to us, his conceptions of life, his mentality and
limitations.

[Footnote: My own rendering of this piece and many other of Nadaud's
songs and ballads are given in _French Men, Women and Books_, 1910.
American translators have admirably translated _Carcassonne_.]

Nadaud's career is uneventful, but from one point of view, far from
being noteless, he was pre-eminently the happy man. His biographer (A.
Varloy) tells us of a smooth, much relished, even an exuberant
existence. The son of an excellent bourgeois, whose ancestry,
nevertheless, like that of many another, could be traced for six hundred
years, his early surroundings were the least lyric imaginable.

He was born at Roubaix, the flourishing seat of manufacture near Lille,
which, although a mere _chef-lieu du canton_, does more business with
the Bank of France than the big cities of Toulouse, Nîmes, Montpellier
and others thrice its size. Dress fabrics, cloths and exquisite napery
are the products of Roubaix and its suburb; vainly, however, does any
uncommercial traveller endeavour to see the weavers at work. Grimy walls
and crowded factory chimneys are relieved at Roubaix by gardens public
and private, and the town is endowed with museums, libraries, art and
technical schools. But Nadaud, like Cyrano de Bergerac, if asked what
gave him most delectation, would certainly have replied--

     "Lorsque j'ai fait un vers et que je l'aime,
      Je me paye en me le chantant à moi-même."

Here is the boy's daily programme when a twelve-year-old student at the
Collège Rollin, Paris. The marvel is that the poetic instinct survived
such routine, marvellous also the fact that the dry-as-dust in authority
was a well-known translator of Walter Scott. If anything could have
conjured the Wizard of the North from his grave it was surely these
particulars written by Gustave Nadaud to his father on the 19th of
October, 1833--

"Five-thirty, rise; five-forty-five, studies till seven-thirty;
breakfast and recreation from seven-thirty till eight; from eight till
ten, school; from ten to a quarter past, recreation; from a quarter past
ten till half past twelve, school; then dinner and recreation from one
till two. School from two till half past four; collation from half past
four till a quarter past five; school from a quarter past five till
eight. Supper and to bed."

Poetry here was, however, a healthy plant, and in his school-days this
born song-writer would scribble verses on his copy-books and read Racine
for his own amusement. Turning his back upon the mill-wheels of his
native town and an assured future in a Parisian business house, like Gil
Bias's friend, _il s'est jeté dans le bel esprit_--in other words, he
betook himself to the career of a troubadour. Never, surely, did master
of song-craft write and sing so many ditties!

Quitting school with a tip-top certificate both as to conduct and
application, Gustave Nadaud quickly won fame if not fortune. Hardly of
age, he wrote somewhat Bohemian effusions that at once made the round of
Parisian music-halls.

The revolution, if it brought topsy-turvydom in politics, like its great
forerunner '89 brought the apogee of song. The popular young lyrist,
ballader and minstrel, for Nadaud accompanied himself on the piano, now
made a curious compact, agreeing to write songs for twenty years, a firm
named Heugel paying him six thousand francs yearly by way of
remuneration.

Two hundred and forty pounds a year should seem enough for a young man,
a bachelor brought up in bourgeois simplicity. But the cost of living in
Paris was apparently as high sixty years ago as now. In 1856-7 he wrote
to a friend: "How upon such an income I contrived to live and frequent
Parisian salons without ever asking a farthing of any one, only those
who have been poor can tell." The salons spoken of were not only
aristocratic but Imperial, the late Princess Mathilde being an
enthusiastic hostess and patroness. Several operettas were composed by
Nadaud for her receptions and philanthropic entertainments. Here is a
sketch of the French Tom Moore in 1868 by a witty contributor of the
_Figaro_--

"Nadaud then seated himself at the piano, and of the words he sang I
give you full measure, the impression produced by his performance I
cannot hope to convey. Quite indescribable was the concord of voice and
hands, on the music as on wings each syllable being lightly borne, yet
its meaning thereby intensified. In one's memory only can such delight
be revived and reproduced."

With other poets, artists and musicians Nadaud cast vocation to the
winds in 1870-1, working in field and other hospitals. "I did my best to
act the part of a poor little sister of charity," he wrote to a friend.
His patriotic poem, "La grande blessée," was written during that
terrible apprenticeship.

With Nadaud henceforward it was a case of roses, roses all the way.
Existence he had ever taken easily, warm friendships doing duty for a
domestic circle. And did he not write--

     "I dreamed of an ideal love
      And Benedick remain?"

His songs proved a mine of wealth, and the sumptuously illustrated
edition got up by friends and admirers brought him 80,000 francs, with
which he purchased a villa, christened Carcassonne, at Nice, therein
spending sunny and sunny-tempered days and dispensing large-hearted
hospitality. To luckless brethren of the lyre he held out an ungrudgeful
hand, alas! meeting with scant return. The one bitterness of his life,
indeed, was due to ingratitude. Among his papers after death was found
the following note--

"Throughout the last thirty years I have lent sums, large considering
my means, to friends, comrades and entire strangers. Never, never,
never has a single centime been repaid by a single one of these
borrowers. I now vow to myself, never under any circumstances whatever
to lend money again!"

Poor song-writers, nevertheless, he posthumously befriended. By his will
with the bulk of his property was founded "La petite Caisse des
chansonniers," a benefit society for less happy Nadauds to come. By aid
of these funds, lyrists and ballad-writers unable to find publishers
would be held on their onward path. Full of honours, Nadaud died in
1893, monuments being erected to his memory, streets named after him,
and undiminished popularity keeping his name alive.

And the honour denied to Béranger, to Victor Hugo, to Balzac, the
coveted sword and braided coat of the Forty were Nadaud's also. With the
witty Piron he could not ironically anticipate his own epitaph thus--

"Here lies Nadaud who was nothing, not even an Academician!"

Before taking leave of Carcassonne, poetic and picturesque, the most
inveterate anti-sightseer should peep into its museum. For this little
_chef-lieu_ of the Aude, with a population under thirty thousand,
possesses what, indeed, hardly a French townling lacks, namely, a
picture-gallery. If not remarkable from an artistic point of view, the
collection serves to demonstrate the persistent, self-denying and
constant devotion to culture in France. Times may be peaceful or stormy,
seasons may prove disastrous, the withered, thin and blasted ears of
corn may devour the seven ears full and golden, the ship of State may be
caught in a tornado and lurch alarmingly--all the same "the man in the
street," "the rascal many," to quote Spenser, will have a museum in
which, with wife and hopefuls, to spend their Sunday afternoons. The
local museum is no less of a necessity to Jacques Bonhomme than his
daily _pot-au-feu_, that dish of soup which, according to Michelet,
engenders the national amiability.

The splendid public library--the determinative is used in the sense of
comparison--numbers just upon a volume per head, and the art school,
school of music, and other institutions tell the same story. Culture
throughout the country seems indigenous, to spread of itself, and, above
all things, to reach all classes. Culture on French soil is gratuitous,
ever free as air! We must never overlook that primary fact.

One or two more noticeable facts about Carcassonne. Here was born that
eccentric revolutionary and poetic genius, Fabre d'Eglantine, of whom I
have written elsewhere.

 [Footnote: See Literary Rambles in France, 1906]

Yet another historic note. From St. Vincent's tower during the
Convention, 1792-5, were taken those measurements, the outcome of which
was the metric system. Two mathematicians, by name Delambre and Méchain,
were charged with the necessary calculations, the _mètre_, or a
ten-millionth part of the distance between the poles and the equator
(32,808 English feet), being made the unit of length. Uniformity of
weight followed, and became law in 1799.

But to touch upon historic Carcassonne is to glance upon an almost
interminable perspective. The chronicle of this charming little city
on the bright blue Aude has been penned and re-penned in blood and
tears. In 1560 Carcassonne suffered a preliminary Saint Bartholomew, a
general massacre of Protestants announcing the evil days to follow;
days that after five hundred years have left their trace, moral as
well as material.



VIII

TOULOUSE

A zigzaggery, indeed, was this journey from Nîmes to my Pyrenean valley.
That metropolis of art and most heroic town, Montauban, I could not on
any account miss. Toulouse necessarily had to be taken on the way to
Ingres-ville, as I feel inclined to call the great painter's birthplace
and apotheosis. But why write of Toulouse? The magnificent city, its
public gardens, churches, superbly housed museums and art galleries, its
promenades, drives and panoramas are all particularized by Murray,
Joanne and Baedeker. Here, however, as elsewhere, are one or two
features which do not come within the province of a guide-book.

The only city throughout France that welcomed the Inquisition was
among the first to open a _Lycée pour jeunes filles._ In accordance
with the acts of 1880-82 public day schools for girls were opened
throughout France; that of Toulouse being fairly representative, I
will describe my visit.

The school was now closed for the long vacation, but a junior mistress
in temporary charge gave us friendliest welcome, and showed us over the
building and annexes. She evidently took immense and quite natural
pride in the little world within world of which she formed a part. Her
only regret was that we could not see the scholars at work. Here may be
noted the wide field thrown open to educated women by the above-named
acts, from under-mistresses to _Madame la directrice_, the position
being one of dignity and provision for life, pensions being the reward
of long service.

The course of study is prepared by the rector of the Toulousain Academy,
and the rules of management by the municipal council, thus the programme
of instruction bears the signature of the former, whilst the prospectus,
dealing with fees, practical details, is signed by the mayor in the name
of the latter.

We find a decree passed by the town council in 1887 to the effect that
in the case of two sisters a fourth of the sum-total of fees should be
remitted, of three, a half, of four, three-quarters, and of five, the
entire amount. Even the outfit of the boarders must be approved by the
same authority. A neat costume is obligatory, and the number and
material of undergarments is specified with the utmost minuteness.
Besides a sufficient quantity of suitable clothes, each student must
bring three pairs of boots, thirty pocket-handkerchiefs, a bonnet-box,
umbrella, parasol, and so forth.

Such regulations may at first sight look trivial and unnecessary, but
there is much to be said on the other side. From the beginning of the
term to the end, the matron, whose province is quite apart from that of
the head-mistress, is never worried about the pupils' dress, no shoes in
need of repair, no garments to be mended, no letters to be written
begging Mme. A. to send her daughter a warm petticoat, Mme. B. to
forward a hair-brush, and so on. Again, the uniform obligatory on
boarders prevents those petty jealousies and rivalries provoked by fine
clothes in girls' schools. Alike the child of the millionaire and of the
small official wear the same simple dress.

Children are admitted to the lower school between the ages of five and
twelve, the classes being in the hands of certificated mistresses. The
upper school, at which pupils are received from twelve years and
upwards, and are expected to remain five years, offers a complete course
of study, lady teachers being aided by professors of the Faculté des
Lettres and of the Lycée for youths. Students who have remained
throughout the entire period, and have satisfactorily passed final
examinations, receive a certificate entitling them to admission into the
great training college of Sèvres or to offer themselves as teachers in
schools and families.

The curriculum is certainly modest compared with that obligatory on
candidates for London University, Girton College, or our senior local
examination; but it is an enormous improvement on the old conventual
system, and several points are worthy of imitation. Thus a girl quitting
the Lycée would have attained, first and foremost, a thorough knowledge
of her own language and its literature; she would also possess a fair
notion of French common law, of domestic economy, including needlework
of the more useful kind, the cutting out and making up of clothes, and
the like. Gymnastics are practised daily. In the matter of religion the
municipality of Toulouse shows absolute impartiality. No sectarian
teaching enters into the programme, but Catholics and Protestants and
Jews in residence can receive instruction from their respective
ministers.

The Lycée competes formidably with the convents as regards fees.
Twenty-eight pounds yearly cover the expense of board, education, and
medical attendance at the upper school; twenty-four at the lower; day
boarders pay from twelve to fifteen pounds a year; books, the use of the
school omnibus, and laundress being extras. Three hundred scholars in
all attended during the scholastic year ending July 1891.

Day-pupils not using the school omnibus must be accompanied to and from
the school, and here an interesting point is to be touched upon. In so
far as was practicable, the Lycée for girls has been modelled on the
plan of the time-honoured establishments for boys. As yet a uniform
curriculum to begin with was out of the question; the programme is
already too ambitious in the eyes of many, whilst ardent advocates of
the higher education of women in France regret that the vices as well as
the virtues of the existing system have been retained. Educationists and
advanced thinkers generally would fain see a less strait-laced routine,
a less stringent supervision, more freedom for play of character. The
Lycée student, boy or girl, youth or maiden, is as strictly guarded as a
criminal; not for a moment are these citizens of the future trusted to
themselves.

In the vast dormitory of the high school here we see thirty neat
compartments with partitions between, containing bed and toilet
requisites, and at the extreme end of the room, commanding a view of
the rest, is the bed of the under-mistress in charge, _surveillante_ as
she is called. Sleeping or waking, the students are watched. This
massing together of numbers and perpetual supervision no longer find
universal favour.

But I am here writing of fifteen years ago. Doubtless were I to repeat
my visit I should find progressive changes too numerous for detail.
Happy little middle-class Parisians now run to and from their Lycées
unattended. Young ladies in society imitate their Anglo-Saxon sisters
and have shaken off that incubus, _la promeneuse_ or walking chaperon.

Works on social France, as is the case with almanacs, encyclopædias and
the rest, require yearly revision. Manners and customs change no less
quickly than headgear and skirts.

Charles Lamb would have lived ecstatically at the Languedocian capital.
It is a metropolis of beggardom, a mendicant's Mecca, a citadel of Jules
Richepin's cherished _Gueux_. Here, indeed, Elia need not have lamented
over the decay of beggars, "the all sweeping besom of societarian
reformation--your only modern Alcides' club to rid time of its
abuses--is uplift with many-handed sway to extirpate the last fluttering
tatters of the bugbear _Mendicity_. Scrips, wallets, bags, staves, dogs
and crutches, the whole mendicant fraternity with all their baggage are
fast hasting out of the purlieus of this eleventh persecution."

No, here is what the best beloved of English humorists calls "the oldest
and the honourablest form of pauperism," here his vision would have
feasted on "Rags, the Beggars' robes and graceful insignia of his
profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected
to show himself in public." "He is never out of fashion," adds Lamb, "or
limpeth outwardly behind it. He is not required to wear court mourning.
He weareth all colours, fearing none. His costume hath undergone less
change than the Quaker's. He is the only man in the universe who is not
obliged to study appearances."

Here, too, would the unmatchable writer have gazed upon more than one
"grand fragment, as good as an Elgin marble." And alas! many deformities
more terrible still, and which, perhaps, would have damped even Lamb's
ardour. For in the Toulouse of 1894, as in the London of sixty years
before, its mendicants "were so many of its sights, its Lions." The city
literally swarmed with beggars. At every turn we came upon some living
torso, distorted limb and hideous sore. Begging seemed to be the
accepted livelihood of cripples, blind folk and the infirm. Let us hope
that by this time something better has been devised for them all. Was it
here that Richepin partly studied the mendicant fraternity, giving us in
poetry his astounding appreciation, psychological and linguistic? And
perhaps the bard of the beggars, like the English humorist, would wish
his _pauvres Gueux_ to be left unmolested.

The sights of Toulouse would occupy a conscientious traveller many days.
The least leisurely should find time to visit the tiny square called
_place du Salin_. Here took place the innumerable _autos-da-fé_ of the
Toulousain Inquisition, and here, so late as 1618, the celebrated
physician and scientist Vanini was atrociously done to death by that
truly infernal tribunal, and for what? For simply differing from the
obscurantism of his age, and having opinions of his own.

The atrocious sentence passed on Vanini was in part remitted, evidently
public opinion already making itself felt. His tongue was cut out, but
strangulation preceded the burning alive. Here one cannot help noting
the illogical, the puerile--if such words are applicable to devilish
wickedness--aspect of such Inquisitorial sentences. If these
hounders-down of common-sense and the reasoning faculty really believed,
as they affected to believe, that men who possessed and exercised both
qualities were thereby doomed to eternal torments, why set up the
horrible and costly paraphernalia of the Inquisition? After all, no
matter how ingeniously inventive might be their persecutors, they could
only be made to endure terminable and comparatively insignificant
torments, not a millionth millionth fraction of eternity!

Refreshing it is to turn to the Toulouse of minstrelsy. The proud seat
of the troubadours, the Academy of the Gay Science and of the poetic
tourneys revived in our own day! Mistral's name has long been European,
and other English writers have charmingly described the _Feux Floraux_
of the olden time and the society of _Lou Felibrige_ with its revival of
Provençal literature. But forty years ago, and twenty years before his
masterpiece had found a translator here, he was known and highly
esteemed by a great Englishman.

In Mill's _Correspondence_ (1910) we find a beautiful letter, and
written in fine stately French, from the philosopher to the poet, dated
Avignon, October 1869.

Mill had sent Mistral the French translation of his essay, "The
Subjection of Women," and in answer to the other's thanks and flattering
assurance of his own conversion, he wrote: "Parmi toutes les adhésions
qui ont été données à la thèse de mon petit livre, je ne sais s'il y en
a aucune qui m'ont fait plus de plaisir que la vôtre."

The letter as a whole is most interesting, and ends with a
characterization, a strikingly beautiful passage in the life and
teaching of Jesus Christ. Hard were it to match this appreciation among
orthodox writers.

So transparent is the atmosphere here that the Pyrenees appear within an
hour's ride: they are in reality sixty miles off! Lovely are the clearly
outlined forms, flecked with light and shadow, the snowy patches being
perfectly distinct.



IX

MONTAUBAN, OR INGRES-VILLE

An hour by rail from Toulouse lies the ancient city of Montauban, as far
as I know unnoticed by English tourists since Arthur Young's time. This
superbly placed _chef-lieu_ of the Tarn and Garonne is alike an artistic
shrine and a palladium of religious liberty. Here was born that strongly
individualized and much contested genius, Dominique Ingres, and here
Protestantism withstood the League, De Luyne's besieging army and the
dragonnades of Louis XIV.

The city of Ingres may be thought of by itself; there is plenty of food
for reflection here without recalling the prude whose virtue caused more
mischief than the vices of all the Montespans and Dubarrys put together.
Let us forget the Maintenon terror at Montauban, the breaking up of
families, the sending to the galleys of good men and women, the
torturings, the roastings alive, and turn to the delightful and soothing
souvenirs of genius! Every French town that has given birth to shining
talent is straightway turned into a Walhalla. This ancient town, so
strikingly placed, breathes of Ingres, attracts the traveller by the
magic of the painter's name, has become an art pilgrimage. The noble
monument erected by the townsfolk to their great citizen and the
picture-gallery he bequeathed his native city well repay a much longer
journey than that from Toulouse. We see here to what high levels public
spirit and local munificence can rise in France. We see also how close,
after all, are the ties that knit Frenchman and Frenchman, how the glory
of one is made the pride of all. The bronze statue of the painter, with
the vast and costly bas-relief imitating his "Apotheosis of Homer" in
the Louvre, stand in the public walk, the beauty of which aroused even
Arthur Young's enthusiasm. "The promenade," he wrote in June 1787, "is
finely situated. Built on the highest part of the rampart, and
commanding that noble vale, or rather plain, one of the richest in
Europe, which extends on one side to the sea and in front to the
Pyrenees, whose towering masses heaped one upon another in a stupendous
manner, and covered with snow, offer a variety of lights and shades from
indented forms and the immensity of their projections. This prospect,
which contains a semicircle of a hundred miles in diameter, has an
oceanic vastness in which the eye loses itself; an almost boundless
scene of cultivation; an animated but confused mass of infinitely varied
parts, melting gradually into the distant obscure, from which emerges
the amazing frame of the Pyrenees, rearing their silvered heads above
the clouds."

The Ingres Museum contains, I should say, more works from the hand of a
single master than were ever before collected under the same roof.
Upwards of a thousand sketches, many of great power and beauty, are
here, besides several portraits and one masterpiece, the Christ in the
Temple, brilliant as a canvas of Holman Hunt, although the work of an
octogenarian. The painter's easel, palette, and brushes, his violin, the
golden laurel-wreath presented to him by his native town, and other
relics are reverently gazed at on Sundays by artisans, soldiers and
peasant-folk. The local museum in France is something more than a little
centre of culture, a place in which to breathe beauty and delight. It is
a school of the moral sense, of the nobler passions, and also a temple
of fame. Therein the young are taught to revere excellence, and here the
ambitious are stimulated by worthy achievement.

Ingres-ville recalls an existence stormy as the history of Montauban
itself. This stronghold of reform throughout her vicissitudes did not
show a bolder, more determined front to the foe than did her great
citizen his own enemies and detractors. Dominique Ingres and his
life-story favour those physicists who discern in native soil and
surroundings the formative influences of aptitudes and character. The
man and his birthplace matched each other. Indomitableness characterized
both, and to understand both we must know something of their respective
histories. To Montauban Henri Martin's great history does ample justice,
to her illustrious son contemporary writers have recently paid worthy
tributes.

[Footnote: See _Les Grands Artistes--Ingres_, par J. Mommeja,
Paris, Laurens; _Le Roman d'amour de M. Ingres_, par H. Lapauze, Paris,
Lafitte, 1911.]

"When a writer is praised above his merits in his own times," wrote
Savage Landor, "he is certain of being estimated below them in the
times succeeding." In the case of Ingres, opposition and contumely were
followed by perhaps excessive laudation whilst he lived, after his
death ensuing a long period of reaction. Time has now set the seal upon
his fame. The great Montalbanais has been finally received into the
national Walhalla.

The father of the so-called French Raphaël, writes his biographer, was
not even a Giovanni Santi. Joseph Ingres, in the words of M. Momméja,
was _un petit ornemaniste_, a fabricator of knick-knacks, turning out
models in clay, busts in plaster, miniatures and other trifles for sale
at country fairs. Who can say, this humble craftsman may yet have had
much to do with his son's aspirations?

An inferior artist can appraise his masters. From the humble artificer
and purveyor of bagatelles the youth not only imbibed a passion for
art and technical knowledge: he inherited the next best thing to a
calling, in other words, a love of music. From the palette throughout
his long life Ingres would turn with never-abated enthusiasm to his
adored violin.

The learned monograph above-named gives a succinct and judicial account
of the painter's career. The second writer mentioned tells the story of
his inner life; one, indeed, of perpetual and universal interest.

For to this sturdy young bourgeois early came a crisis. He found himself
suddenly at the parting of the ways, on the one hand beckoning
Conscience, on the other ambition in the flattering shape of Destiny. To
which voice would he hearken? Would love and plighted troth overrule
that insistent siren song, Vocation? Would he yield, as have done
thousands of well-intentioned men and women before him, to self-interest
and worldly wisdom? The problem to be solved by this brilliantly endowed
artist just twenty-six--how many a historic parallel does it recall!
What three words can convey so much pathos, heroism and generosity as
"il gran riffiuto?"--the great renunciation. Does the French language
contain a more touching record than that of the great Navarre's farewell
to his Huguenot brethren? What bitter tears shed Jeanne d'Albret's son
ere he could bring himself to sacrifice conscience on the altar of
expediency and a great career!

At the age of twenty we find Dominique Ingres studying in Paris under
David, then in his apogee.

The son of an obscure provincial, however promising, would hardly be
overwhelmed with hospitalities; all the more welcome came the
friendliness of an honourable magistrate and his wife, by name
Forestier. During five years the young man had lived on terms of
closest intimacy with these good folks, under his eyes growing up their
only daughter.

Alas! poor Julie. Mighty, says Goethe, is the god of propinquity. On
Dominique's part attachment seems to have come insensibly, as a matter
of course and despite the precariousness of his position. M. Forestier
encouraged the young man's advances. To Julie love for the brilliant
winner of the Prix de Rome became an absorption, her very life. Not
particularly endowed by Nature--we have her portrait in M. Momméja's
volume--she described her own physiognomy as "not at all remarkable, but
expressive of candour and goodness of heart." For Julie, as we shall
see, turned her love-story into a little novel, only unearthed the other
day by M. Lapauze.

The Prix de Rome meant, of course, a call to Rome, the worthy magistrate
exacting from his prospective son-in-law a promise that in twelve
months' time he would return. During that interval correspondence went
on apace not only between the affianced lovers, but between M. Forestier
and Ingres, the former taking affectionate and not uncritical interest
in the other's projects. For Ingres was before all things a projector,
anticipating by decades the achievements of his later years. The glow of
enthusiasm, the fever of creativeness were at its height. Italy
possessed Ingres' entire being when the crisis came.

After delays, excuses, pleadings, Julie's father lost patience. He would
brook no further tergiversations. Ingres must choose between Italy and
Paris; in other words, so the artist interpreted it, between art and
marriage, a proud destiny or self-extinction.

Never had a young artist more completely fallen under the spell of
Italy. The recall seemed a death-blow. "On my knees," he wrote to Julie,
whom he really loved, "I implore you not to ask this. It is impossible
for me to quit immediately a land so full of marvel."

But the practical M. Forestier would not give way. Ingres' persistence
looked like folly, even madness in his eyes. The young man was with
difficulty living from hand to mouth, portraits and small orders barely
keeping the wolf from the door. The return home and marriage would
ensure his future materially and socially, and up to a certain point
render him independent of malevolent criticism. For already Ingres was
fiercely attacked by Parisian authorities on art: he had become
important enough to be a target. After cruellest heart-searching and
prolonged self-reproach, _il gran riffiuto_ was made, youthful passion,
worldly advantages--and plighted faith--were cast to the winds.
Henceforth he would live for his palette only, defying poverty,
detraction and fiercely antagonistic opinion; if failing in allegiance
to others, at least remaining staunch to his first, best, highest self,
his genius.

Julie, the third imperishable Julie of French romance, never married.
Let us hope that the writing of her artless little autobiography called
a novel brought consolation. Did she ever forgive the recalcitrant? Her
story, _Emma, ou la fiancée,_ ends with the aphorism: "Without the
scrupulous fulfilment of the given word, there can be neither happiness
nor inner peace."

Did that backsliding in early life disturb the great painter's stormy
but dazzling career? Who can say? We learn that Ingres was twice, and,
according to accredited reports, happily, married. His first wife, a
humbly-born maiden from his native province, died in 1849, leaving the
septuagenarian so desolate, helpless and stricken that kindly
interveners set to work and re-married him. The second Mme. Ingres,
although thirty years his junior, gave him, his biographer tells us,
"that domestic peace and happiness of which for a brief space he had
been deprived." Heaped with honours, named by Napoleon III. Grand
Officer of the Legion of Honour, Senator, Member of the Institut, Ingres
died in 1869. Within a year of ninety, he was Dominique Ingres to the
last, undertaking new works with the enthusiasm and vitality of Titian.
A few days before his death he gave a musical party, favourite works of
Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven being performed by skilled amateurs. His
funeral was a veritable apotheosis, disciples, admirers and detractors
swelling the enormous cortège.

Those who, like myself, have times without number contemplated the
master's _opus magnum_ in the Louvre, and have studied his art as
represented in the provincial museums, will quit the Musée Ingres with
mixed feelings. It must occur to many that, perhaps, after all, _il gran
riffiuto_ of opposite kind might have better served art and the artist's
fame. Had he returned to France--and to Julie--at the stipulated period,
the following eighteen years being spent not on Italian but on native
soil, how different the result! Then of his work he could have said, as
did Chantecler of his song--

                                                           "Mon chant
     Qui n'est pas de ces chants qu'on chante en cherchant
     Mais qu'on reçoit du sol natal comme une sève."

Would not most of us willingly give Ingres' greatest classical and
historic canvases for one or two portraits, say that of Bertin, or,
better still, for a group like that of the Stamiti family? What a
portrait gallery he would have bequeathed, how would he have made the
men and women of his time live again before us!

[Footnote: Both are reproduced, with many other works, in M.
Momméja's volume.]

Ingres, the artist, ever felt sure of himself. Did the lover look back,
regretting the broken word, the wrong done to another? We do not know.
His life was throughout upright, austere, free from blot; born and bred
a Catholic, he had doubtless Huguenot blood in his veins, many of his
most striking characteristics pointed to this inference.

A word more concerning Montauban itself. The stronghold of reform, that
defied all Richelieu's attempts to take it, is to this day essentially a
Protestant town. Half of its inhabitants have remained faithful to the
faith of their ancestors. Tourists will note the abundance of cypress
trees marking Huguenot graves, the capital of Tarn and Garonne is a
veritable Calvinistic _Campo Santo_. After the Revocation, many families
fled hence to England, their descendants to this day loving and
reverencing the country which gave them a home.

Montauban, as we should expect, has raised a splendid monument to its
one great citizen.

Since writing these lines, an Ingres exhibition has been opened in the
Georges Petit Gallery, Paris. Apropos of this event, the _Revue des Deux
Mondes_ (May 15, 1911) contains a striking paper by the art-critic, M.
de Sizeraine. Some of the conclusions here arrived at are startling.
Certain authorities on art are said to regard the great Montalbanais as
a victim of daltonism--in other words, colour-blind!

In company of the mere amateur, this authority turns with relief from
the master's historical and allegorical pieces to his wonderfully
speaking portraits. Here, he says, all is simple, nothing is
commonplace, nothing is unexpected, and yet nothing resembles what we
have seen elsewhere; we find no embellishment, no stultification. He
adds: "In art, as in literature, works which survive are perhaps those
in which the artist or writer has put the most of himself, not those in
which he has had most faith. The "Voeu de Louis XIII," the "Thétis" of
Ingres, we may compare to Voltaire's _Henriade_ and to the
_Franciade_ of Ronsard, all belong to the category of the
_opus magnum_ that has failed, and of which its creator is proud."
With the following charming simile the essay closes--

"Posterity is a great lady, she passes, reviews the _opus magnum, la
grande machine_ disdainfully, satirically; all seems lost, the artist
condemned. But by chance she catches sight of a neglected picture turned
to the wall in a corner or passage, some happy inspiration that has cost
its author little pains, but in which he has not striven beyond his
powers, and in which he has put the best of himself. The _grande dame_
catches it up, holds it to the light. 'Ha! here is something pretty!'
she cries. And the artist's fame is assured."

Has not Victor Hugo focused the same truth in a line--

     "Ici-bas, le joli c'est le nécessaire!"

And our own Keats also--

                                 "For 'tis the eternal law,
     That first in beauty should be first in might."



X

MY PYRENEAN VALLEY AT LAST



                         Osse, la bien aimée
                           Toi, du vallon
                         Le choix, la fille aînée
                           Le vrai fleuron!
                         C'est sur toi qu'est fixée
                           Dans son amour,
                         La première pensée
                           Du roi du jour
                         Comme à sa fiancée
                           L'amant accourt.
                                                   Xavier Navarrot.


Between Toulouse and Tarbes the scenery is quite unlike that of the
Gard and the Aude. Instead of the interminable vineyards round about
Aigues-Mortes and Carcassonne, we gaze here upon a varied landscape.
Following the Garonne with the refrain of Nadaud's famous song in
our minds--

     "Si la Garonne avait voulu,"--

we traverse a vast plain or low vale rich in many-coloured crops:
buckwheat, sweeps of creamy blossom, dark-green rye, bluish-green Indian
corn with silvery flower-head, and purple clover, and here and there a
patch of vine are mingled together before us; in the far distance the
Pyrenees, as yet mere purple clouds against the horizon.

We soon note a peculiarity of this region--vines trained to trees, a
method in vogue a hundred years ago. "Here," wrote Arthur Young, when
riding from Toulouse to St. Martory on his way to Luchon, "for the first
time I see rows of maples with vines trained in festoons from tree to
tree"; and farther on he adds, "medlars, plums, cherries, maples in
every hedge with vines trained." The straggling vine-branches have a
curious effect, but the brightness of the leafage is pleasant to the
eye. No matter how it grows, to my thinking the vine is a lovely thing.

The rich plain passed, we reach the slopes of the Pyrenees, their wooded
sides presenting a strange, even grotesque, appearance, owing to the
mathematical regularity with which the woods are cut, portions being
close shaven, others left intact in close juxtaposition, solid phalanxes
of trees and clearings at right angles. The fancy conjures up a
Brobdingnagian wheat-field partially cut in the green stage. Sad havoc
is thus made of once beautiful scenes, richly-wooded slopes having lost
half their foliage.

A hundred years ago Lourdes was a mere mountain fortress, a State prison
to which unhappy persons were consigned by _lettres de cachet_.
Apologists of the Ancien Régime assert, in the first place, that these
Bastilles were comfortable, even luxurious retreats; in the second, that
_lettres de cachet_ were useful and necessary; in the third, that
neither Bastilles nor _lettres de cachet_ were resorted to on the eve
of the Revolution. Let us hear what Arthur Young has to say on the
subject. "I take the road to Lourdes," he writes in August 1787, "where
is a castle on a rock, garrisoned for the mere purpose of keeping State
prisoners, sent hither by _lettres de cachet_. Seven or eight are known
to be here at present; thirty have been here at a time; and many for
life--torn by the relentless hand of jealous tyranny from the bosom of
domestic comfort, from wives, children, friends, and hurried, for crimes
unknown to themselves, most probably for virtues, to languish in this
detested abode, and die of despair. Oh liberty, liberty!"

Great is the contrast between the lovely entourage of this notorious
place and the triviality and vulgar nature of its commerce. The one
long, winding street may be described as a vast bazaar, more suited to
Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims than to holders of railway tickets and
contemporaries of the Eiffel Tower.

A brisk trade is done here, the place wearing the aspect of a huge fair.
Rosaries, crosses, votive tablets, ornamental cans for holding the
miraculous waters, drinking-cups, candles, photographs, images, medals
are sold by millions. The traffic in these wares goes on all day long,
the poorest "pilgrim" taking away souvenirs.

The Lourdes of theology begins where the Lourdes of bartering ends. As
we quit the long street of bazaars and brand-new hotels, the first
glimpse gives us an insight into its life and meaning, makes us feel
that we ought to have been living two or three hundred years ago. We
glance back at the railway station, wondering whether a halt were wise,
whether indeed the gibbet, wheel, and stake were not really prepared for
heretics like ourselves!

The votive church built on the outer side of the rock from which flows
the miraculous fountain is a basilica of sumptuous proportions,
representing an outlay of many millions of francs. Its portico, with
horse-shoe staircase in marble, spans the opening of the green hills,
behind which lie grotto and spring. We are reminded of the enormous
church now crowning the height of Montmartre at Paris; here, as there
and at Chartres, is a complete underground church of vast proportions.
The whole structure is very handsome, the grey and white building-stone
standing out against verdant hills and dark rocks. A beautifully
laid-out little garden with a statue of the miracle-working Virgin lies
between church and town.

Looking from the lofty platform on the other side of the upper church,
we behold a strange scene. The space below is black with people,
hundreds and thousands of pilgrims, so called, priests and nuns being in
full force, one and all shouting and gesticulating with fierce zealotry,
a priest or two holding forth from a temporary pulpit.

Between these closely-serried masses is a ghastly array. On litters,
stretchers, beds, chairs, lie the deformed, the sick, the moribund,
awaiting their turn to be sprinkled with the miraculous waters or
blessed by the bishop. These poor people, many of whom are in the last
stage of illness, have for bearers, volunteers; these are priests, young
gentlemen of good family, and others, who wear badges and leather
traces, by which they attach themselves to their burden.

All day long masses are held inside the church and in the open air; at a
given signal the congregation stretching out their arms in the form of a
cross, prostrating themselves on the ground, kissing the dust.

We must descend the broad flight of steps in order to obtain a good view
of the grotto, an oval opening in the rocks made to look like a
stalactite cave, with scores and hundreds of _ex-votos_ in the shape
of crutches. Judging from this display, there should be n

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