THE FORTRESS OF BESANÇON--AUTOS IN HEAVY
RAINS--DREAMS--BELFORT--ENTRANCE INTO THE VOSGES--THE RISE TO
BALLON D'ALSACE--SUPERB RIDE TO GÉRARDMER
Besançon is so old that Cæsar thought it of the utmost importance as
a basis, and France thinks so to-day. As we approach it, we note that
every hill (and it is surrounded by hills) holds its fortifications and
even the river assists in the work of defence, by enclosing the town
in a complete horseshoe. At the opening of the horseshoe, is a hill
crowned by the citadel. If you explore the town you will find relics of
the Romans on every hand, even a triumphal arch, rich with statues and
bas-reliefs.
The Christian martyrs, St. Ferréol and St. Ferjeux, were slain in A.
D. 212 in the amphitheatre whose remains one may see here. The wars of
France have raged around Besançon to the present day. It is the most
important stronghold on the Swiss frontier, and last but not least, it
was the birthplace of Victor Hugo, who would seem to have acquired some
of his ruggedness and strength from these surrounding mountains and
yonder rushing river. The town is black and forbidding in appearance,
as though strangers were not wanted, and we pass onward over the river
Doubs and find refuge from the storm in the very comfortable "Hôtel des
Bains," near the Casino, for Besançon is also a watering-place, has
springs, a season, and a casino. Thank the Lord we are too soon for the
season, and in consequence have the huge draughty hotel to ourselves.
The air is cold here and a wood fire is most cheering and acceptable.
It is storming hard, and as I look downward upon the dripping trees,
three autos rush past, autos without tops, and whose occupants are
fairly drowned out. While a fixed top is a great weight to carry, and
very hard on pneumatics, one should certainly have a calash. We are
so provided and could never get wet save in a water-spout. The poor
women who are coming out of these veritable bath-tubs below there are
forced to pause in the rain and allow some of the accumulated water to
run off them. Wearily they struggle to the lift and disappear for the
night. I have the _salle à manger_ all to myself, and gather my feet up
upon the opposite chair to escape the draughts. Ensconced at last on a
sofa in my room before a great blazing log, I look up the history of
Besançon and while I read, the warm air gets into my brain and holds
consultation with the cold air which has been rushing through it all
day long, producing a drowsy effect. The dancing flames are full of
shapes and fantasies, and as I watch them, the door opens and a
queer figure dressed in sandals and short skirts and wearing a breast
plate and helmet enters. He carries a green wreath in his hand, which,
having doffed the helmet, he puts on: it has pointed leaves which
stick forward over his big nose. I ask him if he likes Besançon, and
he promptly tells me that it is called "Vesontio," at which I differ
and we argue, finally deciding to go out and inquire. I take the auto
which he scoffs at, preferring a thing shaped like a coal scuttle,
with knives on its wheel hubs and drawn by three horses abreast--with
a shout we are off through the storm, sweeping up and down the streets
of the ancient city, past closed houses, and through silent fortresses,
and even out on the face of the river, where car and auto hold a wild
race, cheered by ghostly multitudes on the banks. Cæsar loses his
wreath, and Yama stands up and yells a desire to have him in Manchuria.
The race is mine and the Emperor of Rome is so enchanted with my red
devil that he announces that it is his, and I will "just get out."
Again discussion follows and he waves to his assistance some thousands
or so of shadows, but a word to George and we rush right through them,
and off and away until we come up with a bang somewhere, and I wake to
find the fire out and the room very cold. Ah me, how one does sleep and
dream after a rushing ride!
Our entrance into the Vosges was not propitious. Heavy mist and some
rain attended all our morning progress until we neared the luncheon
hour. The roads were fine and the scenery picturesque, what we could
see of it.
At one we reached Belfort, another great army post, with soldiers
everywhere,--necessary to prevent the gobbling up of one Christian
nation by another.
In the very good "Hotel of the Ancient Post" I have an excellent
luncheon served by a waiter who scarcely speaks French. He is an
Alsatian, speaks English, and was at Chicago in 1893, says he is going
back to America "just as soon as he can get there," was "a fool to
leave," says this place is no good save for soldiers and there would
be no soldiers if it were not for the fine clothes. Yea, verily! The
Emperor William would find his army melt away if he put the men in
plain clothes. Vanity and ambition form the basis of most empires.
Belfort is the last military post of great strength in this direction.
If the traveller will mount to the foot of the old ruined tower which
rises on a hill some twelve hundred feet above the town, he will obtain
a view of all the fortifications, amongst them the famous "Intrenched
Camp," capable of holding twenty thousand men. Off to the north, he
will see the Vosges Mountains, and to the east, the Black Forest, while
the Bernese Alps gleam in the south, rising above the Jura.
The siege and capture of Belfort by the Germans in 1871 forms an
interesting chapter in the history of that conflict, and one would
judge from the warlike appearance here to-day that the place would not
be taken unawares if a struggle came on.
From Belfort to Ballon d'Alsace there is a rise of some four thousand
feet. As we leave the former place, the clouds roll away and the sun
streams out warmly. The road commences to mount soon after we quit
the town and at one of the first hills the auto balks and refuses to
go farther. George gets out and fusses and fixes for ten minutes and
then away we go,--all of our twenty-four horses put their full speed
forth and we sail up the mountains, skimming like a bird. The higher we
mount, the steeper the grades, the faster we move.
Really this is a sturdy machine. In all the long journey, save a burst
tire now and then, we have had no accidents and now it is lifting
itself and ourselves up and over these mountains as easily as it rolled
along the level.
It is good to be alive in such air and amidst such scenery. These
mountains of the Vosges are very much like those at the Horse Shoe Bend
and our Allegheny Mountains would be just as charming if we had such
roads to reach them by. Here at an elevation of four thousand feet the
highways are as fine as those in Central Park. Reaching the summit, a
magnificent panorama is unrolled on all sides, but there is snow abroad
and we do not linger long. Our route lies past Le Thillon. Farther on,
we begin to ascend again and are soon high up in the snow line. As we
round the shoulder of the peak, far off to the westward, between two
great green mountain pyramids, the sun is setting in a golden glory
high overhead the new moon sails in a pink sky, while far below,
deep down in the valley sparkles an emerald lake on whose shore lies
Gérardmer, where we shall stop for the night, the most beautiful spot
in the Vosges.
The descent is rapid and very crooked, but George manages the turns as
easily as with a hand cart, though I confess I hold on tightly now and
then, feeling that that will help matters. Waterfalls tumble all around
us and the sunlight rolls down through the pine boughs in a golden
glory. Far below, the land is spread out like a map and dotted thickly
with villages, while above, the sky bends, a blue arch without shadow
of a cloud,--a blessing after the mists of this morning.
With all power shut off, our car glides down the white highway
stretching in long curves and zigzags far below. The hills on
either side are spangled with yellow easter lilies, and the glowing
buttercups; the air is wine, which adds to one's lease of life; and
again it is good to be alive,--one of those days and scenes which would
force an atheist to believe in God.
The road winds through dense forests of pine trees where no sound
breaks the silence, save that of our on-rushing and the music of the
many waterfalls; and as for the sound of our wheels, this auto on the
down grade is almost noiseless. It is nearly as silent on the level,
but on the up grade when the speed is changed its motor talks quite
loudly,--does not hesitate to discuss the change.
The journey to-day impresses me again with the advantages of motor cars
over all other methods of locomotion for pleasure. We have run away
from the storm and my perseverance in coming has had its reward. It
was so wretched when we started and the prospects looked so hopeless
that nothing save stubbornness and pride prevented my giving the order
to turn southward towards the sun--if sun there could be--and give up
the Vosges. My reward for not doing so has been a ride that I shall
always remember as one of the most glorious of my travels. My own land
holds many scenes of equal beauty, but as I have already stated we
have not the roads by which to reach them. Then again we would find
such wretched inns and poor food that the pleasure would be all gone,
whereas here I draw up at the Hôtel de la Poste, where "Madame" shows
me to a room, simple but clean, and later I sit down to a dinner which
would do justice to any New York restaurant. To be sure, we are but a
century old, whereas Cæsar fought for this section two thousand years
ago, and I have a hazy recollection that he returns hereabouts every
now and then.