A LAKE IN THE JURA
When the train from Bourg had left the valley, and commenced its
mountainous passage across the Jura, en route for Nantua, we felt that,
historically, if not geographically, we were leaving Burgundy for an
intermediate land that, while ceasing to be France, was not quite
Switzerland. Yet, for all that, the journey is worth making, for the
sake of the loveliness of the hills, and the links it forms in your
mind between what you have left, and the regions of lake and mountain
that once formed part of the old Kingdom of Burgundy.
The passage of the viaduct over the Suran soon reconciles you to the
Cimmerian darkness of Jura tunnels. Hundreds of feet below winds the
blue river mackerel-backed, beside terraced lawns of rich, green grass,
between banks of dark fir-wood, through which silvery, snowy waterfalls
come swirling and splashing down to the valley stream.
Almost equally beautiful is the crossing of the Ain that follows. At
length, after some fifty kilometres of charming surprises, you leave
La Cluse and jog onward, until the bend of the line shows you the red
roofs and white church-tower of the little town of Nantua reflected in
the dark waters of the placid lake, ringed round with upland meadows,
and steep, fir-clad hills.
Here, for a few days, we ceased to see things. We just idled, lounged,
looked on. Only too soon we learned that this is not Burgundy, but a
pocket edition of Switzerland, a tourist resort, where the hotel is
more expensive, and the gamins hail you with cries of "Oh! yes!" But if
this spot has Swiss drawbacks, it has Swiss beauties, too; ce que est
déjà quelque chose.
It was on a lovely autumn morning, that, after a breakfast made
memorable by mountain honey, we climbed the hills above the town, and
basked in the rays of the sun, that shone from a cloudless sky. Such
sun-heat has not been felt in Burgundy all this frozen summer and
vineless fall. We bathed in it with infinite joy. Below us flickered,
golden green, the grasses of an upland meadow, where the hay-makers
were busy raking over the last crop. Lower down, across a fringe of
branches tossing in the north wind, shone in soft, warm colours, grey,
brown, and red, the roofs and walls of ancient Nantua, crowned with the
tower of the Romanesque Church, whose sides and sculptured shafts and
capitals challenged, in the fierce morning light, the pitchy shadows
that lurked in every rounded arch.
Through the angle, formed by the tower and the mottled roof of the
nave, one caught a glimpse of shops in the main street. From the gable
of one of them flapped the tricolor flag of France. People passed
beneath it--black specks, like flies walking. Beyond lay the blue
lake, breeze-ruffled, striped like a fish's back in shades of azure
and grey, passing now and then into buff and yellow, where the waters
reflected the naked rock--the whole framed, hemmed in by rugged cliffs,
whose lower slopes are clothed in scrub and trees of every tint, from
black to green and gold. The topmost rocks--jagged, bare, vertical
faces broken with black patches, and streaked, on the sunny side, with
bright, zig-zag paths--threaten the town and lake beneath. Unbroken
shadows still enveloping the eastern cliffs, throw into stronger relief
the gleaming water, and opposite shore quivering in the morning light.
Westward only can the eye escape from these rugged beauties to the
gentler slopes of the Jura beyond La Cluse.
Wandering dream-hunter that I am, it is there that I find myself
gazing, at these shining, shining waters, and beyond them, to the real
Burgundy, to the memories of her glorious past still lingering in the
Palace of Dijon, and the mother abbeys of the west. While my wife
sketched Nantua, and envied the hay-makers their arms, I thought of
Cluny and of Citeaux, of things, in fact, symbolized in that Romanesque
tower below.
Walking through the town, on our way back to our hotel, we entered a
shop, and nearly fell over a small child--some seven years old--who was
playing on the doormat with shells and bits of glass. She jumped up at
once, adjusted her long, straight, red hair, worn in two plaits; and
turned to us a round, sweet, intelligent little face.
[Illustration: NANTUA FROM THE HILL]
"Bonjour, Monsieur et Dame!" she said.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," we replied; and looked round for the
shop-keeper. There was no other. This was the shop-keeper--this baby,
with the sweet face and red plaits; now a woman, official, dignified,
alert.
"You desire post-cards, 'Sieur et Dame? Here is a tray-full--please
choose."
We chose. Our dame de comptoir looked on, graciously. The cards were
handed to her to count: The little red head was ready first with the
figure.
"Ca fait dix-neuf sous, Monsieur. Yes, I have change. Do you desire
stamps?" Stamps and change were instantly forthcoming.
"Voilà, Bonjour M'sieur-Dame!"
From twenty yards away we looked back. A sweet child with ted pigtails
was playing with shells on the doormat.
Don't believe people who tell you that French women are not born
capable.
* * * * *
The church of Nantua is worth a visit. It has a good Romanesque façade,
carved with the usual energy and freedom of the Burgundy school; but
the capitals are mutilated, as is the tympanum at the first order of
the arch. The interior is in the usual Burgundian style. The nave has
square pillars with engaged vaulting shafts; but the original ceiling
has been replaced by a thirteenth-century ribbed vault, springing
from corbel-capitals at the same height as the vaulting shafts. The
thrust of the vaults has forced the pillars outwards both ways, and
flying buttresses of a very substantial kind have been built to hold
the church together. The tower, of later date than the body of the
church, is the best in the district. Other points worth noticing are
the barrel-vaulted transept, the primitive vaulting of the ceiling, the
frescoes in the choir, and the westward slope of the floor.
[Illustration: Heading, chapter XX; Princess Margaret's Tomb]