BERRY AND GEORGE SAND'S COUNTRY
Whether one enters Berry through the valley of the Cher or the Indre or
through the gateway of Sancerre in the mid-Loire, the impression is much
the same. The historic province of Berry resounds again and again with
the echoes of its past, and no province adjacent to the Loire is more
prolific in the things that interest the curious, and none is so little
known as the old province which was purchased for the Crown by Philippe
I. in 1101.
[Illustration: BERRY (MAP)]
With the interior of the province, that portion which lies away from
the river valleys, this book has little to do, though the traveller
through the region would hardly omit the episcopal city of Bourges, and
its great transeptless cathedral, with its glorious front of quintupled
portals. With the cathedral may well be coupled that other great
architectural monument, the Maison de Jacques Coeur. At Paris one is
asked, "_Avez-vous vu le Louvre?_" but at Bourges it is always,
"_Etes-vous alle a Jacques Coeur?_" even before one is asked if he has
seen the cathedral.
From the hill which overlooks Sancerre, and forms a foundation for the
still existing tower of the chateau belonging to the feudal Counts of
Sancerre, one gets one of the most wonderfully wide-spread views in all
the Loire valley. The height and its feudal tower stand isolated, like a
rock rising from the ocean. From Cosne and beyond, on the north, to La
Charite, on the south, is one vast panorama of vineyard, wheat-field,
and luxuriant river-bottom. At a lesser distance, on the right bank, is
the line of the railroad which threads its way like a serpent around the
bends of the river and its banks.
Below the hill of Sancerre is a huge overgrown hamlet--and yet not large
enough to be called a village--surrounding a most curious church (St.
Satur), without either nave or apse. The old Abbey of St. Satur once
possessed all the lands in the neighbourhood that were not in the actual
possession of the Counts of Sancerre, and was a power in the land, as
were most of the abbeys throughout France. The church was begun in
1360-70, on a most elaborate plan, so extensive in fact (almost
approaching that great work at La Charite) that it has for ever remained
uncompleted. The history of this little churchly suburb of Sancerre has
been most interesting. The great Benedictine church was never finished
and has since come to be somewhat of a ruin. In 1419 the English sacked
the abbey and stole its treasure to the very last precious stone or
piece of gold. A dozen flatboats were anchored or moored to the banks of
the river facing the abbey, and the monks were transported thither and
held for a ransom of a thousand crowns each. As everything had already
been taken by their captors, the monks vainly protested that they had no
valuables with which to meet the demand, and accordingly they were bound
hand and foot and thrown into the river, to the number of fifty-two,
eight only escaping with their lives. A bloody memory indeed for a fair
land which now blossoms with poppies and roses.
Sancerre, in spite of the etymology of its name (which comes down from
Roman times--Sacrum Caesari), is of feudal origin. Its fortress, and the
Comte as well, were under the suzerainty of the Counts of Champagne, and
it was the stronghold and refuge of many a band of guerilla warriors,
adventurers, and marauding thieves.
At the end of the twelfth century a certain Comte de Sancerre, at the
head of a coterie of bandits called Brabacons, marched upon Bourges and
invaded the city, killing all who crossed their path, and firing all
isolated dwellings and many even in the heart of the city.
Sancerre was many times besieged, the most memorable event of this
nature being the attack of the royalists in 1573 against the Frondeurs
who were shut up in the town. The defenders were without artillery, but
so habituated were they to the use of the _fronde_ that for eight months
they were able to hold the city against the foe. From this the _fronde_
came to be known as the "_arquebuse de Sancerre_."
[Illustration: _La Tour, Sancerre_]
Sancerre is to-day a ruined town, its streets unequal and tortuous, all
up and down hill and blindly rambling off into _culs-de-sac_ which
lead nowhere. Above it all is the fine chateau, built in a modern day
after the Renaissance manner, of Mlle. de Crussol, proudly seated on the
very crest of the hill. Within the grounds, the only part of the domain
which is free to the public, are the ruins of the famous citadel which
was bought by St. Louis, in 1226, from the Comte Thibaut. The only
portion of this feudal stronghold which remains to-day is known as the
"Tour des Fiefs."
One may enter the grounds and, in the company of a _concierge_, ascend
to the platform of this lone tower, whence a wonderful view of the broad
"_ruban lumineux_" of the Loire spreads itself out as if fluttering in
the wind, northward and southward, as far as the eye can reach. Beside
it one sees another line of blue water, as if it were a strand detached
from the broader band. This is the Canal Lateral de la Loire, one of
those inland waterways of France which add so much to the prosperity of
the land.
Above Sancerre is Gien, another gateway to Berry, through which the
traveller from Paris through the Orleannais is bound to pass.
[Illustration: _Chateau de Gien_]
At a distance of five kilometres or more, coming from the north, one
sees the towers of the chateau of Gien piercing the horizon. The
chateau is a most curious affair, with its chainbuilt blocks of stone,
and its red and black--or nearly black--_brique_, crossed and recrossed
in quaint geometrical designs. It was built in 1494 for Dame Anne de
Beaujeau, who was regent of the kingdom immediately after the death of
Charles VIII. This building replaced another of a century before, built
by Jean-sans-Peur, where was celebrated the marriage of his daughter
with the Comte de Guise. Gien's chateau, too, may be said to be a
landmark on Jeanne d'Arc's route to martyrdom and fame, for here she
made her supplication to Charles VII. to march on Reims. In
Charlemagnian times this old castle had a predecessor, which, however,
was more a fortress than a habitable chateau; but all remains of this
had apparently disappeared before the later structure made its
appearance. Louis XIV. and Anne of Austria, regent, held a fugitive,
impoverished court in this chateau, and heard with fear and trembling
the cannon-shots of the armies of Turenne and Conde at Bleneau, five
leagues distant.
At Nevers or at La Charite one does not get the view of the Loire that
he would like, for, in one case, the waterway is masked by a row of
houses, and in the other by a series of walled gardens; but at Gien,
where everything is splendidly theatrical, there is a tree-bordered quay
and innumerable examples of those coquettish little houses of brick
which are not beautiful, but which set off many a French riverside
landscape as nothing else will.
In Gien's main street there are a multitude of rare mellowed old houses
with sculptured fronts and high gables. This street twists and turns
until it reaches the old stone and brick chateau, with its harmoniously
coloured walls, making a veritable symphony of colour. Each turn in this
old high-street of Gien gives a new vista of mediaevalism quite
surprising and eerielike, as fantastic as the weird pictures of Dore.
Gien and its neighbour Briare are chiefly noted commercially for their
pottery. Gien makes crockery ware, and Briare inundates the entire world
with those little porcelain buttons which one buys in every land.
Crossing the Sologne and entering Berry from the capital of the
Orleannais, or coming out from Tours by the valley of the Cher, one
comes upon the little visited and out-of-the-way chateau of Valencay, in
the charming dainty valley of the Nahon.
There is some reason for its comparative neglect by the tourist, for it
is on a cross-country railway line which demands quite a full day of
one's time to get there from Tours and get away again to the next centre
of attraction, and if one comes by the way of the Orleannais, he must be
prepared to give at least three days to the surrounding region.
This is the gateway to George Sand's country, but few English-speaking
tourists ever get here, so it may be safely called unknown.
It is marvellous how France abounds in these little corners all but
unknown to strangers, even though they lie not far off the beaten track.
The spirit of exploration and travel in unknown parts, except the Arctic
regions, Thibet, and the Australian desert, seems to be dying out.
The chateau of Valencay was formerly inhabited by Talleyrand, after he
had quitted the bishopric of Autun for politics. It is seated proudly
upon a vast terrace overlooking one of the most charming bits of the
valley of the Nahon, and is of a thoroughly typical Renaissance type,
built by the great Philibert Delorme for Jacques d'Etampes in 1540, and
only acquired by the minister of Napoleon and Louis XVIII. in 1805.
The architect, in spite of the imposing situation, is not seen at his
best here, for in no way does it compare with his masterwork at Anet, or
the Tuileries. The expert recognizes also the hands of two other
architects, one of the Blaisois and the other of Anjou, who in some
measure transformed the edifice in the reign of Francois I.
The enormous donjon,--if it is a donjon,--with its great, round corner
tower with a dome above, which looks like nothing so much as an
observatory, is perhaps the outgrowth of an earlier accessory, but on
the whole the edifice is fully typical of the Renaissance.
The court unites the two widely different terminations in a fashion more
or less approaching symmetry, but it is only as a whole that the effect
is highly pleasing.
Beyond a _balustrade a jour_ is the Jardin de la Duchesse, communicating
with the park by a graceful bridge over an ornamental water. In general
the apartments are furnished in the style of the First Empire, an epoch
memorable in the annals of Valencay.
[Illustration: _Chateau de Valencay_]
By the orders of Napoleon many royalties and ambassadors here received
hospitality, and in 1808-14 it became a gilded cage--or a "golden
prison," as the French have it--for the Prince of the Asturias,
afterward Ferdinand VII. of Spain, who consoled himself during his
captivity by constructing wolf-traps in the garden and planting
cauliflowers in the great urns and vases with which the terrace was set
out.
There is a great portrait gallery here, where is gathered a collection
of portraits in miniature of all the sovereigns who treated with
Talleyrand during his ministerial reign, among others one of the Sultan
Selim, painted from life, but in secret, since the reproduction of the
human form is forbidden by the Koran.
In the Maison de Charite, in the town, beneath the pavement of the
chapel, is found the tomb of the family of Talleyrand, where are
interred the remains of Talleyrand and of Marie Therese Poniatowska,
sister of the celebrated King of Poland who served in the French army in
1806. In this chapel also is a rare treasure in the form of a chalice
enriched with precious stones, originally belonging to Pope Pius VI.,
the gift of the Princess Poniatowska.
The Pavillon de la Garenne,--what in England would be called a
"shooting-box,"--a rendezvous for the chase, built by Talleyrand, is
some distance from the chateau on the edge of the delightful little
Foret de Gatine.
Varennes, just above Valencay, is thought by the average traveller
through the long gallery of charms in the chateau country to be wholly
unworthy of his attention. As a matter of fact, it does not possess much
of historical or artistic interest, though its fine old church dates
from the twelfth century.
Ascending the Cher from its juncture with the Loire, one passes a number
of interesting places. St. Aignan, with its magnificent Gothic and
Renaissance chateau; Selles; Romorantin, a dead little spot, dear as
much for its sleepiness as anything else; Vierzon, a rich, industrial
town where they make locomotives, automobiles, and mechanical hay-rakes,
copying the most approved American models; and Mehun-sur-Yevre, all
follow in rapid succession.
Mehun-sur-Yevre, which to most is only a name and to many not even that,
is possessed of two architectural monuments, a grand ruin of a Gothic
fortress of the time of Charles VII. and a feudal gateway of two great
rounded cone-roofed towers, bound by a ligature through which a
port-cullis formerly slid up and down like an act-drop in a theatre.
[Illustration: GATEWAY OF MEHUN-SUR-YEVRE]
Wonderfully impressive all this, and the more so because these
magnificent relics of other days are unspoiled and unrestored.
[Illustration: _Le Carrior Dore, Romorantin_]
Charles VII. was by no means constant in his devotions, it will be
recalled, though he seems to have been seriously enamoured of Agnes
Sorel--at any rate while she lived. Afterward he speedily surrounded
himself with a galaxy of "_belles demoiselles vetues comme reines_."
They followed him everywhere, and he spent all but his last sou upon
them, as did some of his successors.
One day Charles VII. took refuge in the strong towers of the chateau of
Mehun-sur-Yevre, which he himself had built and which he had frequently
made his residence. Here he died miserable and alone,--it is said by
history, of hunger. Thus another dark chapter in the history of kings
and queens was brought to a close.
If one has the time and so desires, he may follow the Indre, the next
confluent of the Loire south of the Cher, from Loches to "George Sand's
country," as literary pilgrims will like to think of the pleasant
valleys of the ancient province of Berry.
The history of the province before and since Philippe I. united it with
the Crown of France was vivid enough to make it fairly well known, but
on the whole it has been very little travelled. It is essentially a
pastoral region, and, remembering George Sand and her works, one has
refreshing memories of the idyls of its prairies and the beautiful
valleys of the Indre and the Cher, which join their waters with the
Loire near Tours.
If one would love Berry as one loves a greater and more famous haunt of
a famous author, and would prepare in advance for the pleasure to be
received from threading its highways and byways, he should read those
"_petits chefs-d'oeuvre_ of sentiment and rustic poesy", the romances of
George Sand. If he has done this, he will find almost at every turning
some long familiar spot or a peasant who seems already an old friend.
Chateauroux is the real gateway to the country of George Sand.
Nohant is the native place of the great authoress, Madame Dudevant, whom
the world best knows as George Sand; a little by-corner of the great
busy world, loved by all who know it. Far out in the open country is the
little station at which one alights if he comes by rail. Opposite is a
"_petite route_" which leads directly to the banks of the Indre, where
it joins the highway to La Chatre.
Nohant itself, as a dainty old-world village, is divine. Has not George
Sand expressed her love of it as fervidly as did Marie Antoinette for
the Trianon? The French call it a "_bon et honnete petit village
berrichon_." Nude of artifice, it is deliciously unspoiled. A delightful
old church, with a curious wooden porch and a parvise as rural as could
possibly be, not even a cobblestone detracting from its rustic beauty,
is the principal thing which strikes one's eye as he enters the village.
Chickens and geese wander about, picking here and there on the very
steps of the church, and no one says them nay.
The house of George Sand is just to the right of the church, within
whose grounds one sees also the pavilion known to her as the "_theatre
des marionettes_."
In a corner of the poetic little cemetery at Nohant, one sees among the
humble crosses emerging from the midst of the verdure, all
weather-beaten and moss-grown, a plain, simple stone, green with mossy
dampness, which marks the spot where reposes all that was mortal of
George Sand. Here, in the midst of this land which she so loved, she
still lives in the memory of all; at the house of the well-lettered for
her abounding talent--second only to that of Balzac--and in the homes
of the peasants for her generous fellowship.
Through her ancestry she could and did claim relationship with Charles
X. and Louis XVIII.; but her life among her people had nought of
pretence in it. She was born among the roses and to the sound of music,
and she lies buried amid all the rusticity and simple charm of what may
well be called the greenwood of her native land.