GÉRARDMER AND THE MOUNTAINS--A WEDDING--FRENCH
COURTSHIP--EXCURSIONS TO ST. DIÉ--OVER THE COL DE LA
SCHLUCHT--GERMAN CUSTOM HOUSE--"ALWAYS A GERMAN"--COLMAR--RHINE
VALLEY--ARRIVAL AT FREIBURG
Gérardmer (pronounced _Je-rah-may_) is considered one of the loveliest
spots in these mountains. It nestles deep down in a valley by a smiling
lake, and lies far apart from the rush of the great whirl of life; yet
life does come here, as the several pretty half Swiss hotels proclaim.
Gérardmer has its season, but not until July, and to-day the place is
placid and peaceful, as though knowing that there are good times in
store, and I found later in Paris that the spot is well known in the
great capital--but only to the French. I fancy few Americans ever come
this way.
Had I reached here yesterday, so "Madame" tells me, I would have been
present at a wedding. It was here in her hotel, and she has the air
of having added another leaf to her crown of laurels. She tells me
that yonder middle-aged bachelor was one of the guests, and promptly
lost his heart to one of the _demoiselles_. To-day he returns with
his mother and that huge bouquet, and will shortly request the honour
of the maiden's hand. But, I exclaim, you say he never saw her until
yesterday? Certainly, Monsieur, but that is long enough surely, for at
his age he must know his own mind. A statement which I do not think
is always a true one. I watch him as he moves off into the garden of
the hotel and wonder whether love can find any place under those prim
angular black clothes. But the sunshine is too attractive to allow one
to remain indoors, and to "Madame's" regret, who dearly loves to talk,
I wander off into the streets of the town, lifting my eyes up to the
hills all around it--for over them, we are told, cometh peace. The
departing sunlight gilds the forests into gold, and sparkles on the
cross high up on the village church, whose portals stand invitingly
open bidding me enter. One of the attractions and beauties of the
Catholic Church in Europe is that its sanctuaries are never closed;
one may wander in at any and all times and be at rest and peace as
long as one wishes it. Here in the heart of the Vosges, amidst this,
busy little town is this one which I have all to myself save for the
divine face looking downward from the cross and the painted saints in
the windows. It is a simple structure, yet withal very impressive.
Its Norman columns and arches must be very old, and very dear to
these people, as the place where they have been baptised, married,
and buried, throughout all the centuries. As I leave, two ancient
black-robed priests greet me with smiles like a bit of late October
sunshine.
This afternoon has been passed in an excursion to St. Dié, a beautiful
ride to an uninteresting town, noted merely as the place where Amerigo
Vespucci published his account of the land now bearing his name. Coming
back, we left the beaten track, climbed mountains, and descended
into valleys where autos rarely go, and our appearance created much
astonishment; only two machines have passed that way this year. That
route is not down on the map but plunges through the mountains to the
west of St. Dié, passing Laveline, Le Valtin, and other towns. Just a
run of seventy-five miles for the fun of it.
We finally leave Gérardmer on a glorious morning. George is well on
time and the auto is snorting before the door at nine o'clock. Yama
has become an expert in packing our goods and chattels in it, and they
fit like a puzzle of his own land. The road begins to mount as soon as
we leave the town, and when we reach the Col de la Schlucht we are far
above the valley, and on one of the highest points of the Vosges. The
road winds directly along the precipice. On one side, the pine forests
mount above us, while on the other, the fall is sheer to the valley
below, some three thousand feet and the panorama of the Rhine land and
these mountains is magnificent. Here we enter Germany. George shuts
off all power and for the next half hour we coast down the mountain
in superb fashion to a village near the base where we are halted by
a dapper little man in a German cap to pay a duty of one hundred
francs for the auto, which will be returned when we leave the country.
The number and make of the machine are taken and also my name, which
I give with its present spelling; but the little man promptly changes
it to that of his own land. When I venture to fear that it will cause
confusion and that the spelling given has held in America for two
centuries, he waves my objections aside, "Your name is Schumacher,--the
fact that your family has spent _the last few years_ away from _home_
does not change it,--once a German, always a German." Well, perhaps,
but in those two centuries and more, other strains have entered, which
may claim a showing, and at least you could never get my mustache
into that Kaiser fashion and I am very certain that I am exempt from
military duty.
[Illustration: LA SCHLUCHT. THE TUNNEL ON THE ROAD TO MÜNSTER
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
So we move on. The entire characteristics of the land have changed. All
the neat, sweet appearance of France is gone, and the daintiness has
vanished. Germany is a work-a-day world. No matter how interesting, and
the interest is, of course, very great, at its best it cannot be called
an elegant country, and that word does apply to France. The soldiers
with their spiked helmets are an improvement over the rank and file of
the French, but the French officers are _chic_, elegant. The same holds
with her women, while in Germany, the word "dowdy" certainly suits the
dress from the Court down.
In Colmar at the Hotel of the "Two Keys" we find as much English spoken
as German, and have cabbage, boiled mutton, and carrots for luncheon.
Many German officers enter and, pausing at the dining-room door, take
out pocket combs and carefully arrange their hair.
I noticed a change in the highway, the moment we entered the Empire,
and only trust it will not hold throughout. The excellent road-beds,
well rolled and oiled to prevent dust, vanished, and we jolted on over
an ordinary pike, dirty and rough, until it was agreeable to stop at
Colmar. All this was before luncheon. Now that the meal has placed
me more at peace with the world, my point of view is different and I
am forced to retract at once. The road from Colmar to Freiburg is an
excellent one, well marked, and well kept up.
We make quick time, crossing the Rhine at Breisach, and then on through
its wide green valley until we reach Freiburg, nestling under the hills
which form a lovely background for the stately red stone spire of the
great Cathedral.