All hope of a fine prospect was now at an end, but instead w

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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--