ST. HIPPOLYTE, MORTEAU, AND THE SWISS BORDERLAND.
I never understood, till I travelled with French friends, why hotels in
France should be so bad, but the reason is to be sought in that
amiability, _laisser faire_, call it by what name we will, that
characteristic which distinguishes our neighbours on the other side of
La Manche. We English, who perpetually travel, growl and grumble at
discomfort till, by force of persistent fault-finding, we bring about
reformation in hotels and travelling conveniences generally--whereas the
French, partly from a dislike of making themselves disagreeable, partly
from the feeling that they are not likely to go over the same ground
again, leave things as they find them, to the great disadvantage of
those who follow. The French, indeed, travel so little for mere pleasure
that, whenever they do so, they think it useless to make a fuss about
what seems to them a part and parcel of the journey. Thus it happens
that, wherever you go off the beaten tracks in France, you find the
hotels as bad as they can well be, and your French fellow-traveller
takes the dirt, noise, and discomfort generally much as a matter of
course. I am sorry that I can say little for the hotels we found
throughout our four days' drive in the most romantic scenery of the
Doubs, for the people are so amiable, obliging, and more titan moderate
in their charges, that one feels inclined to forgive anything. Truth
must be told, however, and so, for once, I will only add that the
tourist must here be prepared for the worst in the matter of
accommodation, whilst too much praise cannot be accorded to the general
desire to please, and absolute incapacity of these good people to impose
on the stranger.
It must also be explained that as the mere tourist is a rare phenomenon
in these remote parts, the hotels are not arranged in order to meet his
wants, but those of the _commis-voyageur_, or commercial traveller, who
is the chief and best customer of innkeepers all over the country. You
meet no one else at the table-d'hôte but the _commis-voyageurs_, and it
must not be supposed that they are in any way objectionable company.
They quietly sit out the various courses, then retire to the
billiard-room, and they are particularly polite to ladies. Throughout
the journey we were on the borders of Switzerland, the thinnest possible
partition dividing the land of cleanliness, order, and first-rate
accommodation from that of dirt, noise, and discomfort; yet so rigid is
the demarcation that no sooner do you put foot on Swiss ground than you
find the difference. Quite naturally, English travellers keep on the
other side of the border, and only a stray one now and then crosses it.
Our little calèche and horse left much to desire, but the good qualities
of our driver made up for everything. He was a fine old man, with a face
worthy of a Roman Emperor, and, having driven all over the country for
thirty years, knew it well, and found friends everywhere. Although
wearing a blue cotton blouse, he was in the best sense of the word a
gentleman, and we were somewhat astonished to find him seated opposite
to us at our first _table-d'hôte_ breakfast. We soon saw that he well
deserved the respect shown him; quiet, polite, dignified, he was the
last person in the world to abuse his privileges, never dreaming of
familiarity. The extreme politeness shown towards the working classes
here by all in a superior social station doubtless accounts for the good
manners we find among them. My fellow-traveller, the widow of a French
officer, never dreamed of accosting our good Eugène without the
preliminary Monsieur, and did not feel herself at all aggrieved at
having him for her _vis-à-vis_ at meals. Eugène, like the greater part
of his fellow-countrymen, is proud and economical, and, in order not to
become dependent upon his children, or charity, in his old age, had
already with his savings bought a house and garden. It is impossible to
give any idea of the thrift and laboriousness of the better order of
working classes here.
Soon after quitting Montbéliard we began to ascend, and for the rest of
the day were climbing, gradually exchanging the region of corn-fields
and vineyards for that of the pine. From Montbéliard to St. Hippolyte is
a superb drive of about five hours, amid wild gorges, grandiose rocks
that have here taken every imaginable form--rampart, citadel, fortress,
tower, all trellised and tasselled with the brightest green; and narrow
mountains, valleys, here called "combes"--delicious little emerald
islands shut in by towering heights on every side. The mingled wildness
and beauty of the scenery reach their culminating point at St.
Hippolyte, a pretty little town with picturesque church, superbly
situated at the foot of three mountain gorges and the confluence of the
Doubs with the Dessoubre, the latter river here turning off in the
direction of Fuans. Here we halt for breakfast, and in two hours' time
are again ascending, looking down from a tremendous height at the town,
incomparably situated in the very heart of these solitary passes and
ravines. Our road is a wonderful bit of achievement, curling as it does
around what below appear unapproachable precipices, and from the
beginning of our journey to the end, we never ceased admiring it. This
famous road was constructed with many others in Louis Philippe's time,
and must have done great things for the progress of the country.
Excepting an isolated little château here and there, and an occasional
diligence and band of cantonniers, all is solitary, and the solitariness
and grandeur increase as we leave the region of rocks and ravines to
enter that of the pine--still getting higher and higher. From St.
Hippolyte to our next halting place, Maîche, the road only quits one
pine-forest to enter another, our way now being perfectly solitary, no
herdsman's hut in sight, no sound of bird or animal, nothing to break
the silence. Some of these trees are of great height--their sombre
foliage at this season of the year being relieved by an abundance of
light brown cones, which give them the appearance of gigantic Christmas
trees hung with golden gifts. Glorious as is the scenery we had lately
passed, hoary rocks clothed with richest green, verdant slopes, valleys,
and mountain sides all glowing in the sunshine--the majestic gloom and
isolation of the pine-forests appeal more to the imagination, and fill
the mind with deeper delight. Next to the sea, the pine-forest, to my
thinking, is the sublimest of nature's handiworks. Nothing can lessen,
nothing can enlarge such grandeur as we have here. Sea and pine-forest
are the same, alike in thunder-cloud or under a serene sky--summer and
winter, lightning and rain--we can hardly add by a hairbreadth to the
profundity of the impression they produce.
Maîche might conveniently be made a summer resort, and I can fancy
nothing healthier and pleasanter than such a sojourn around these
fragrant pines. The hotel, too, from what we saw of it, pleased us
greatly, and the landlady, like most of the people we have to do with in
these parts, was all kindness, obligingness, and good-nature. In large
cities and cosmopolitan hotels, a traveller is Number one, two, or
three, as the case may be and nothing more. Here, host and hostess
interest themselves in all their visitors, and regard them as human
beings. The charges moreover are so trifling that, in undertaking a
journey of this kind, hotel expenses need hardly count at all--the real
cost is the carriage.
From Maîche to Le Russey, our halting place for the night, is a distance
of three hours only, during which we are still in the pine-woods. Le
Russey possesses no attractions, except a quaint and highly artistic
monument to the memory of one of her children, a certain Jesuit
missionary, whose imposing statue, cross in hand, is conspicuously
placed above the public fountain. We cannot have too many of these local
monuments, unfortunately rarer in England than in France. They lend
character to provincial towns, and keep up a spirit of patriotism and
emulation among the people. The little town of Le Russey should, if
possible, be halted at for an hour or two only, the hotels are dirty and
uncomfortable; we fared worse there than I ever remember to have fared
in France--which is saying a good deal!
Next morning we were off at eight o'clock; our road, now level for the
most part, leading us through very different scenery from that of the
day before, monotonous open country, mostly pasturage, with lines of
pine and fir against the horizon--in many places were rocky wastes,
hardly affording scant herbage for the cattle. Much of this scenery
reminded me of the Fell district or North Wales, but by degrees we
entered upon a far more interesting region. We were now close to
Switzerland, and the landscape already wore a Swiss look. There is
nothing prettier in a quiet way than this Swiss borderland, reached
after a long stretch of dreary country; here we have grace without
severity, beauty without gloom, pastoral hills and dales alive with the
tinkling of cattle-bells, and pleasingly diversified with villages
scattered here and there; a church spire rising above the broad-roofed,
white-washed châlets on every side, undulating green pastures, in some
places shut in by pine-clad ridges, in others by smiling green hills. We
see patches of corn still too green to cut, also bits of beet-root,
maize, hemp, and potatoes; the chief produce of these parts is of course
that of the dairy, the "Beurre de Montagne," being famous in these
parts. Throughout our journey we have never lost sight of the
service-berry tree; the road from Maîche to Morteau is indeed planted
with them, and nothing can be handsomer than the clusters of bright red,
coral-like berries we have on every side. The hedges show also the
crimson-tasselled fruit of the barberry, no less ornamental than the
service-berry tree. It is evident the greatest possible care is taken of
these wayside plantations, and in a few years' time the road will
present the appearance of a boulevard. At La Chenalotte, a hamlet half
way between Le Russey and Morteau, enterprising pedestrians, may alight
and take a two hours' walk by a mountain path to the Falls of the Doubs;
but as the roads were very bad on account of the late heavy rains, we
prefer to drive on to the little hamlet of Les Pargots, beyond Morteau,
and from thence reach the falls by means of a boat, traversing the lake
of Les Brenets and the basin of the Doubs. The little Swiss village of
Les Brenets is coquettishly perched on a green hill commanding the lake,
and we are now indeed on Swiss ground, being within a few miles only of
Chaux de Fonds, and a short railway journey of Neufchatel and
Pontarlier.
We trust ourselves to the care of an experienced boatwoman, and are soon
in a fairy-like scene, a long sheet of limpid water surrounded by
verdant ridges, amid which peep châlets here and there, and velvety
pastures slope down to the water's edge; all is here tenderness,
loveliness, and peace. As we glide from the lake to the basins, the
scenery takes a severer character, and there is sublimity in these
gigantic walls of rock rising sheer from the silvery lakelike sheets of
water, each successive one seeming to us more beautiful and romantic
than the last. Perfect solitude reigns here, for so precipitous and
steep are these fortress-like rocks that there is no "coigne of
vantage," even for the mountain goat, not the tiniest path from summit
to base, no single break in the shelving masses, some of which take the
weirdest forms. Seen as we first saw them with a brilliant blue sky
overhead, no shadow on the gold green verdure, these exquisite little
lakes--twin pearls on a string--afford the daintiest, most delightful
spectacle; but a leaden sky and a driving wind turn this scene of
enchantment into gloom and monotony, as we find on our way back.
The serene beauty of the lake, and the imposing aspect of these
rock-shut basins give an ascending scale of beauty, and the climax is
reached when, having glided in and out from the first to the last, we
alight, climb a mountain path, and behold far below at our feet, amid a
deafening roar, the majestic Falls of the Doubs.
Such things are indescribable; but to come from the sublime to the
ludicrous, I would advise future travellers not to follow our example in
respect of a woman-boatman. The good woman, who acted as guide to the
Falls could not hold her tongue for a single moment, and her loud
inharmonious tittle-tattle put us in ill-humour for the rest of the day.
When you make a long journey to see such a phenomenon as this, you
should see it alone, or, at least, in perfect quiet. We had come
opportunely for the Falls, however, the enormous quantity of rain that
had fallen within the last few weeks having greatly augmented their
volume. It was as if no river, but a sea were leaping from its prison
here, rejoiced to leave its rocky home and follow its own wild way. The
profound impression created by such a scene as this, to my thinking,
lies chiefly in the striking contrast we have here before us--a vast
eddy of snow-white foam, the very personification of impetuous movement,
also of lightness, sparkling whiteness, with a background of pitchy
black rock, still, immoveable, changeless, as the heavens above.
As we stood thus lost, peering down at the silvery whirlpools and its
sombre environment, we were bedewed with a light mist, spray sent upward
by the frothing waters. Our terrible female Cerberus gabbled on, and so
to be rid of her we descended. There is a Restaurant on the French, also
on the Swiss side of the basin we had just crossed, and we chose the
latter, not with particular success. Very little we got either to eat or
drink, and a very long while we had to wait for it, but at last we had
dined, and again embarked to cross the basin and lake. In the meantime
the weather had entirely changed, and, instead of a glowing blue sky and
bright sun, we had hovering clouds and high winds, making our
boatwoman's task difficult in the extreme. However she continued to
clear one little promontory after another, and, when once out of the
closely confined basins on to the more open lake, all was as easy as
possible.
We found the Hôtel Gimbard at Morteau a vast improvement upon that of Le
Russey, and woke up refreshed next morning after having well supped and
well slept, to find, alas! thunder, lightning, and torrents of rain the
order of the day. The programme had been to turn off at Morteau in the
direction of Fuans and the picturesque banks of the Dessoubre, reaching
St. Hippolyte at night, but with great reluctance we were now obliged to
give up this round. From Morteau to St. Hippolyte is a day's journey,
only to be made by starting at eight in the morning, and there are not
even decent wayside inns. So we patiently waited till the storm was
over, and as by that time it was past midday, there was nothing to do
but drive leisurely back to Maîche. More fortunate travellers than
ourselves, in the matter of weather, however, are particularly
recommended the other route. Maîche is a good specimen of the large,
flourishing villages, or _bourgs_, found in these parts, and a greater
contrast with those of Brittany cannot be conceived. There you find no
upper or middle-class element, no progress, little communication with
the outer world; some of the towns even, St. Pol de Léon, for instance,
being literally asleep. Here all is life, bustle, and animation, and,
though we are now amid a Catholic community, order and comparative
cleanliness prevail. Some of the cottage gardens are quite charming, and
handsome modern homes in large numbers denote the existence of rich
_bourgeois_ families, as is also the case in the villages near
Montbéliard. The commune of Maîche has large revenues, especially in
forest lands, and we can thus account for the really magnificent _cure_,
or _presbytère_, the residence of the curé, also the imposing
Hôtel-de-Ville, and new costly decoration of the church. There is
evidently money for everything, and the curé of Maîche must be a happy
person, contrasting his position favorably with that of his fellow-curés
in the Protestant villages around Montbéliard. The down-hill drive from
our airy eminence amid the pine-forests was even more striking than our
ascent two days before; and we naturally got over the ground in less
than half the time. It is a pity such delightful scenery as this should
not be made more accessible to travellers by a first rate inn. There are
several hotels at Maîche, also at St. Hippolyte and Pont de Roide, but
they are adapted rather to the wants of the _commis-voyageur_ than the
tourist. Yet there is a friendliness, a bonhomie, and disinterestedness
about the hotel-keepers, which would soon disappear were Franche Comté
turned into a little Switzerland. At the table-d'hôte dinner, the master
of the house always presides and looks after the guests, waiters there
are none; sometimes the plates are changed by the landlady, who also
superintends the kitchen, sometimes by the landlord, sometimes by a
guest, and shortcomings are always made up for by general geniality.
Everyone knows everyone, and the dinner is a meeting of old friends.
All this will soon be changed with the new line of railway to lead from
Besançon by way of St. Hippolyte and Morteau into Switzerland, and
future travellers will be able to see this beautiful country with very
little fatigue. As yet Franche Comté is an unknown region, and the sight
of an English tourist is of rare occurrence. When we leave Pont de
Roïde, we once more enter the region of Protestantism, every village
possessing a Protestant as well as a Catholic Church. The drive to
Blamont is charming--a bit of Devonshire, with green lanes, dells, and
glades, curling streams and smooth pastures. Blamont itself is
romantically situated, crossing a verdant mountain side, its twin spires
(Protestant and Catholic) rising conspicuously above the scattered
villages; beyond these, the low mountain range of Blamont.
We have been all this time, be it remembered, geographically speaking in
the Jura, though departmentally in the Doubs, the succession of rocks
and mountains passed through forming part of the Jura range which
vanishes in the green slopes of Blamont.
The next village, Glaye, is hardly less picturesque, and indeed all this
neighbourhood would afford charming excursions for the pedestrian. The
rest of our drive lay through an open, fairly-cultivated plain with
little manufacturing colonies, thickly scattered among the rural
population. In many cases the tall black chimneys spoil the pastoralness
of the scene.
It was with extreme regret I took farewell of the friendly little
Protestant town of Montbéliard, soon after this journey. I had entered
it a few weeks before, a stranger, I quitted it amid the good wishes,
hand-clasps, and affectionate farewells of a dozen kind friends. Two
hours' railway journey, through a beautiful country, brought me to
Besançon, where, as at Montbéliard, I received the warmest welcome, and
felt at home at once.