BOURRON.
Two years ago some Anglo-French friends joyfully announced their
acquisition of a delightful little property adjoining Fontainebleau
forest. “Come and see for yourself,” they wrote, “we are sure that
you will be charmed with our purchase!” A little later I journeyed to
Bourron, half an hour from Moret on the Bourbonnais line, on arriving
hardly less disconcerted than Mrs. Primrose by the gross of green
spectacles. No trim, green verandahed villa, no inviting vine-trellised
walk, no luxuriant vegetable garden or brilliant flower beds greeted my
eyes; instead, dilapidated walls, abutting on these a peasant’s cottage,
and in front an acre or two of bare dusty field! My friends had indeed
become the owners of a dismantled bakery and its appurtenances, to the
uninitiated as unpromising a domain as could well be imagined. But
I discovered that the purchasers were wiser in their generation than
myself. Noticing my crestfallen look they had said:--
“Only wait till next year, and you will see what a bargain we have made.
You will find us admirably housed and feasting on peaches and grapes.”
True enough, twelve months later, I found a wonderful transformation.
That a substantial dwelling now occupied the site of the dismantled
bakery was no matter for surprise, the change out of doors seemed
magical. Nothing could have looked more unpromising than that stretch
of field, a mere bit of waste, your feet sinking into the sand as if you
were crossing the desert. Now, the longed-for _tonnelle_ or vine-covered
way offered shade, petunias made a splendid show, choice roses scented
the air, whilst the fruit and vegetables would have done credit to a
market-gardener. Peaches and grapes ripened on the wall, big turnips and
tomatoes brilliant as vermilion took care of themselves. It was not only
a case of the wilderness made to blossom as the rose, but of the horn
of plenty filled to overflowing, prize flowers, fruit and vegetables
everywhere. For the soil hereabouts, if indeed soil it can be called,
and the climate of Bourron, possess very rare and specific qualities. On
this light, dry sand, or dust covering a substratum of rock, vegetation
springs up all but unbidden, and when once above ground literally takes
care of itself. As to climate, its excellence may be summed up in
the epithet, anti-asthmatic. Although we are on the very hem of forty
thousand acres of forest, the atmosphere is one of extraordinary
dryness. Rain may fall in torrents throughout an entire day. The sandy
soil is so thorough an absorbent that next morning the air will be as
dry as usual.
This house reminded me of a tiny side door opening into some vast
cathedral. We cross the threshold and find ourselves at once in the
forest, in close proximity moreover to its least-known but not least
majestic sites. We may turn either to right or left, gradually climbing
a densely wooded headland. The first ascent lands us in an hour on the
Redoute de Bourron, the second, occupying only half the time, on a
spur of the forest offering a less famous but hardly less magnificent
perspective, nothing to mar the picture as a whole, sunny plain, winding
river and scattered townlings looking much as they must have done to
Balzac when passing through three-quarters of a century ago.
This eastern verge of the Fontainebleau forest is of especial beauty;
the frowning headlands seem set there as sentinels jealously guarding
its integrity, on the watch against human encroachments, defying time
and change and cataclysmal upheaval. Boldly stands out each wooded crag,
the one confronting the rising, the other the sinking sun, behind both
massed the world of forest, spread before them as a carpet, peaceful
rural scenes.
I must now describe a spot, the name of which will probably be new to
all excepting close students of Balzac. The great novelist loved the
valley of the Loing almost as fondly as his native Touraine; and if
these pastoral scenes did not inspire a _chef d’oeuvre_, they have
thereby immensely gained in interest. “Ursule Mirouët,” of which I shall
have more to say further on, is not to be compared to such masterpieces
as “Eugénie Grandet.” But a leading incident of “Ursule Mirouët” occurs
at Bourron--a sufficient reason for recalling the story here.
The beauty of our village, like the beauty of French women, to quote
Michelet, “is made up of little nothings.” There are a hundred and
one pretty things to see but very few to describe. Who could wish it
otherwise? Little nothings of an engaging kind better agree with us
as daily fare than the seven wonders of the world. With forty thousand
acres of forest at our doors we do not want M. Mattel’s newly discovered
underground river within reach as well.
From our garden we yet look upon scenes not of every day. Those sweeps
of bluish-green foliage strikingly contrasted with the brilliant vine
remind us that we are in France, and in a region with most others having
its specialities. Asparagus, not literally but figuratively, nourishes
the entire population of Bourron. Everyone here is a market gardener on
his own account, and the cultivation of asparagus for the Paris markets
is a leading feature of local commerce.
There is no more graceful foliage than that of this plant, and
gratefully the eye rests upon these waves of delicate green under a
blazing, grape-ripening sky. Making gold-green lines between are vines,
a succession of asparagus beds and vineyards separating our village from
its better known and more populous neighbour, Marlotte. In the opposite
direction we see brown-roofed, white-walled houses surmounted by a
pretty little spire. This is Bourron. To reach it we pass a double row
of homesteads, rustic interiors of small farmer or market gardener,
the one, as our French neighbours say, more picturesque than the other.
Each, no matter how ill kept, is set off by an ornamental border,
zinnias, begonias, roses and petunias as obviously showing signs of care
and science. Oddly enough the finest display of flowers often adorns
the least tidy premises. And oddly enough, rather perhaps as we should
expect it, in not one, but in every respect, this French village is the
exact opposite of its English counterpart. In England every tenant of
a cottage pays rent, there, not an inhabitant, however poor, but sits
under his own vine and his own fig-tree. In England the farm-house faces
the road and the premises lie behind. Here manure-heap, granary and pig
styes open on the highway, the dwellings being at the back. In England
a man’s home, called his castle, is no more defended than the Bedouin’s
tent. Here at nightfall the small peasant proprietor is as securely
entrenched within walls as a feudal baron in his moated château. In
England ninety-nine householders out of a hundred are perpetually
changing their domicile. Here folks live and die under the paternal
roof that has sheltered generations. Nor does diversity end with
circumstances and surroundings. As will be seen in another chapter,
habits of life, modes of thought and standards of duty show contrasts
equally marked.
Bourron possesses twelve hundred and odd souls, most of whom are
peasants who make a living out of their small patrimony. Destined
perhaps one day to rival its neighbour Marlotte in popularity--even
to become a second Barbizon--it is as yet the sleepiest, most
rustic retreat imaginable. The climate would appear to be not only
anti-asthmatic but anti-everything in the shape of malady. Anyhow,
if folks fall ill they have to send elsewhere for a doctor. Minor
complaints--cuts, bruises and snake bites--are attended to by a
Fontainebleau chemist. Every day we hear the horn of his messenger who
cycles through the village calling for prescriptions and leaving drugs
and draughts.
A post office, of course, Bourron possesses, but let no one imagine
that a post office in out of the way country places implies a supply of
postage stamps. English people are the greatest scribblers by post in
the world, whilst our wiser French neighbours appear to be the laziest.
An amusing dilemma had occurred here just before my arrival. One day my
friends applied to the post office for stamps, but none were to be had
for love or money. Off somebody cycled to Marlotte, which possesses not
only a post and telegraph, but a money order office as well--same
reply, next the adjoining village of Grez was visited and with no better
result--“Supplies have not yet reached us from headquarters,” said the
third postmistress.
Perhaps instead of smiling contemptuously we should take a moral to
heart. The amount of time, money, eyesight and handcraft expended among
ourselves on letter writing so-called is simply appalling. Was it
not Napoleon who said that all letters if left unanswered for a month
answered themselves? Too many Englishwomen spend the greater portion
of the day in what is no longer a delicate art, but mere time-killing,
after the manner of patience, games of cards and similar pastimes.
Bourron is a most orderly village; within its precincts liberty is not
allowed to degenerate into licence. As in summer-time folks are fond of
spending their evenings abroad, a municipal law has enforced quiet after
ten o’clock. Thus precisely on the stroke of ten, alike café, garden,
private summer-house or doorstep are deserted, everyone betakes himself
indoors, leaving his neighbours to enjoy unbroken repose. A most
salutary by-law! Would it were put in force throughout the length and
breadth of France! At Chatouroux I have been kept awake all night by
the gossip of a _sergeant de ville_ and a lounger close to my window. At
Tours, La Châtre and Bourges my fellow-traveller and myself could get
no sleep on account of street revellers, whilst at how many other places
have not holiday trips been spoiled by unquiet nights? All honour then
to the aediles of dear little Bourron!