ORNANS, COURBET'S COUNTRY, AND THE VALLEY OF THE LOUE.
Let the reader now follow me to Ornans, Courbet's birth and favourite
abiding place, and the lovely Valley of the Loue. This is the excursion
_par excellence_ from Besançon, and may be made in two ways, either on
foot, occupying three or four days, decidedly the most advantageous for
those who can do it, or by carriage in a single day, starting very early
in the morning, and telegraphing for relays at Ornans the previous
afternoon. This is how we managed it, starting at five, and reaching
home soon after eight at night. The children accompanied us, and I must
say, better fellow-travellers I never had than these mites of sixteen
months and three and a-half years. When tired of looking at the cows,
oxen, goats, horses and poultry, we passed on the road, they would amuse
themselves for an hour by quietly munching a roll, and, when that
occupation at last came to an end, they would go to sleep, waking up
just as happy as before.
Here I will mention that the great amiability of the French character is
no more strongly manifested than in this habit of always having their
little children about them. As neither day nor night nurseries exist in
France, and head-nurses are equally unheard of, young children are
always with their parents. Thus, if visitors call, and papa and mamma
happen to be engaged in interesting conversation with them, no attention
will be paid to the perpetual noise and interruption of little toddling
things, whose place is naturally there. I have heard an animated
political discussion go on whilst a boy of two and a half was hammering
with a hammer on a wooden box; and no kind of notice was taken by his
elders. Such a practice, of course, could only be made tolerable by
excessive good-nature, but there is no doubt that our own system is
better both for parents and children.
Ornans is not only extremely picturesque in itself, but interesting as
the birth and favourite abiding place of the famous painter Courbet; it
is also a starting place for the Valley of the Loue, and the source of
this beautiful little river, the last only to be seen in fine, dry
weather, on account of the steepness and slipperiness of the road. The
climate of Franche-Comté is unfortunately very much like our own, being
excessively changeable, rainy, blowy, sunny, all in a breath. To-day's
unclouded sunshine is no guarantee of fine weather to-morrow, and
although, as a rule, September is the finest month of the year here, it
was very variable during my stay, with alternations of rain and
chilliness. Fine days had to be waited for and seized upon with avidity,
whilst the temperature is liable to great and sudden variations.
Ornans we reach after a drive of three hours, amid hills luxuriantly
draped with vines and craggy peaks clothed with verdure, here and there
wide sketches of velvety green pasture with cattle feeding, haymakers
turning over the autumn hay. Everywhere we find haymakers at work, and
picturesque figures they are.
Ornans is lovely, and no wonder that Courbet was so fond of it. Nestled
in a deep valley of green rocks and vineyards, and built on the banks of
the transparent Loue, its quaint spire rising from the midst, it
commends itself alike to artist, naturalist, and angler. These old-world
houses reflected in the river are marvellously paintable, and the scene,
as we saw it after a heavy rain, glowed in the brightest and warmest
light.
Courbet's house is situated, not on the river, but by the roadside, on
the outskirts of the town, fronting the river and the bright green
terraced hills above. It is a low, one-storied house, embosomed in
greenery, very rural, pretty, and artistic. In the dining-room we were
shown a small statue of the painter by his own hand, giving one rather
the idea of a country-squire or sporting farmer than a great artist, and
his house--which is not shown to strangers--is full of interesting
reminiscences of its owner. In the kitchen is a splendid Renaissance
chimney-piece in sculptured marble, fit for the dining-hall of a
Rothschild. This, Courbet found in some old château near, and,
artist-like, transferred it to his cottage. On the walls of the studio
are two frescoes he painted in his happier days, before he helped to
overthrow the Vendôme Column, and thus forfeited the good feeling of his
fellow-townsmen. Ornans is clerical to the backbone, and will it be
believed?--after this unfortunate affair of the Vendôme Column, an
exquisite statue, with which Courbet had decorated the public fountain,
was thrown down, of course at clerical instigation. Morteau, it must be
supposed, being more enlightened, rescued the dishonoured statue, and it
now adorns the public fountain of that village. It is, indeed,
impossible to give any idea of the vindictive spirit with which poor
Courbet was treated by his native village, and, seeing how much he loved
it, it must have galled him deeply. We were allowed to wander at will
over the house and straggling gardens, having friends in the present
occupants, but the house still belongs to the Courbet family, and is not
otherwise to be seen.
All this time I was listening, with no little edification, to the
remarks of our young driver, who took the keenest interest in Courbet
and art generally. He told me, as an instance of the strong feeling
existing against Courbet after the events of the Commune, that, upon one
occasion when the painter had been drinking a toast with a friend in a
café, he had no sooner quitted the place than a young officer sprang up
and dashed the polluted glass to the ground, shattering it into a dozen
pieces. "No one shall henceforth drink out of a glass used by that man,"
he said, and doubtless he was only echoing the popular sentiment.
Ornans is the birthplace of the princely Perronet de Granvelle (father
of the Cardinal whose portrait by Titian adorns the picture-gallery of
Besançon), and whose munificent patronage of arts and letters turned
that city into a little Florence during the Spanish régime. In the
church is seen the plain red marble sarcophagus of his parents, also a
carved reading desk and several pictures presented to the church by his
son, the Cardinal. There is a curious old Spanish house in the town, a
relic of the same epoch. Ornans is celebrated for its cherry orchards
and fabrications of Kirsch, also for Absinthe, and its wines. Everywhere
you see cherry orchards and artificial terraces for the vines as on the
Rhine, not a ledge of hill side being wasted. Gruyère cheese, so called,
is also made here, and there are besides several manufactures,
nail-forges, wire-drawing mills, and tile-kilns. But none of these
interfere with the pastoralness of the scenery, and no wonder that this
attracts French artists in the summer time. Lovely walks and drives
abound, and the magnificence of the forest trees has been made familiar
to us by the landscapes of Courbet, whose name will ever be associated
with this quaint village in the Valley of the Loue.
We are now on the high road from Ornans to Pontarlier, and are passing
some of the wealthiest little communities in Franche-Comté, Montgesoye,
Vuillafans, Lods, all most picturesque to behold, and important centres
of industry. Iron foundries, kirsch distilleries, chemical works, and
other manufactures maintain these rustic populations, and such isolated
little nuclei of trade will doubtless take extraordinary development
when the line of railway from Besançon to Pontarlier, by way of Ornans,
is completed. At present it is one of the few places that may be
described as out of the world, and a veritable paradise for the lover of
quiet and rusticity. If we proceed further on the Monthier road, the
aspect changes, and we find ourselves in the winding close-shut valley,
the narrow turbulent little streams of deepest green tossing over its
rocky bed amid hanging vineyards and lofty cliffs. Soon, however, the
vine, the oak, the beech, and the ash tree disappear, and we have
instead the sombre pine and fir only.
Monthier is perched on a hill-side amid grandiose mountains, and is
hardly less picturesque than Ornans, though not nearly so enticing. In
fact it is a trifle dirty when visited in detail, though charming,
viewed from the high road above. Here we sat down to an excellent dinner
at one end of the _salle-à-manger_; at the other was a long table where
a number of peasant farmers, carters, and graziers--it was fair
day--were faring equally well: our driver was amongst them, and all were
as quiet and well-behaved as possible, but given to spit on the floor,
"as is their nature to." The charges were very low, the food good, the
wine sour as vinegar, and the people obliging in the extreme. The hotels
in these parts are very much on a par with caravanserais in Algeria;
bells, fire-places, and other necessities of civilized life are unknown,
the bed-rooms are often reached by an outside staircase only, and afford
such accommodation we should not think luxurious for a stable-boy in
England, and these often, moreover, adjoin a noisy upper
_salle-à-manger_, where eating, and drinking, and talking go on all day
long.
After having stopped to look at the beautiful old wood carvings in the
church, we continue our way, climbing the mountain road towards
Pontarlier; hardly knowing which to admire most, the deep-lying valley
at our feet, where the little imprisoned river curls with a noise as of
thunder, making miniature cascades at every step, or the limestone rocks
of majestic shape towering above on the other side. One of them, the
so-called _Roche de Hautepierre_, is nearly nine hundred yards high; the
road all the time zigzags wonderfully around the mountain sides, a
stupendous piece of engineering which cost the originator his life. Soon
after passing the tunnel cut in the rock, we saw an inscription telling
how the engineer, while engaged in taking his measurements, lost his
footing and was precipitated into the awful ravine below. The road
itself was opened in 1845, and is mainly due to the public spirit of the
inhabitants of Ornans.
Franche-Comté is rich in zig-zagging mountain roads of daring
construction, and none are more wonderful than this. As we crawl at a
snail's pace between rocks and ravine, silvery grey masses towering
against the glowing purple sky, deepest green fastnesses below that make
us giddy to behold, all is still but for the sea-like war of the little
river as it pours down impetuously from its mountain home. The heavy
rain of the previous night unfortunately prevents us from following it
to its source, a delightful excursion in tolerably dry weather, but
impracticable after a rain-fall. By far the best, way is to sleep at
Monthier and visit the source on foot, but fatigue may be avoided by
taking a carriage from Pontarlier. Between Monthier and the source of
the Loue is a bit of wild romantic scenery known as the _Combes de
Nouaille_, home of the Franc-Comtois elf, or fairy, called _la Vouivre_.
_Combe_, it must be explained, means a straight, narrow valley lying
between two mountains, and Charles Nodier remarks: "is very French, and
is perfectly intelligible in any part of the country, but has been
omitted in the Dictionary of the Academy, because there is no _combe_ at
the Tuileries, the Champs Elysées or the Luxembourg!" These close
winding _combes_ form one of the most characteristic and picturesque
features of Franc-Comtois scenery. Leaving the more adventuresome part
of this journey therefore to travellers luckier in respect of weather
than ourselves, we turn our horses' heads towards Ornans, where we rest
for coffee and a little chat with friends. As we set out for Besançon, a
splendid glow of sunset lights up Courbet's birth and favourite abiding
place, clothing in richest gold the hills and hanging woods he portrayed
with so much vigour and poetic feeling. The glories of the sinking sun
lingered long, and, when the last crimson rays faded, a full pearly moon
rose in the clear heavens, lighting us on our way.
A few days after this delightful excursion, I left Besançon, as I had
done Montbéliard, amid the heartiest leave-takings, and the last
recollection I brought away from the venerable town is of two little
fair-haired boys, whose faces were lifted to mine for a farewell kiss in
the railway station.