BOURRON--_continued_.
Forty thousand acres of woodland at one’s doors would seem a fact
sufficiently suggestive; to particularize the attractions of Bourron
after this statement were surely supererogation. Yet, for my own
pleasure as much as for the use of my readers, I must jot down one or
two especially persistent memories, impressions of solemnity, beauty and
repose never to be effaced.
Of course it is only the cyclist who can realise such an immensity as
the Fontainebleau forest. From end to end these vast sweeps are now
intersected by splendid roads and by-roads. Old-fashioned folks, for
whom the horseless vehicle came too late, can but envy wheelmen and
wheelwomen as they skim through vista after vista, outstripping one’s
horse and carriage as a greyhound outstrips a decrepit poodle. On the
other hand only inveterate loiterers, the Lazy Lawrences of travel,
can appreciate the subtler beauties of this woodland world. There
are certain sights and sounds not to be caught by hurried observers,
evanescent aspects of cloud-land and tree-land, rock and undergrowth,
passing notes of bird and insect, varied melodies, if we may so express
it, of summer breeze and autumn wind--in fine, a dozen experiences
enjoyed one day, not repeated on the next. The music of the forest is
a quiet music and has to be listened for, hardly on the cyclist’s ear
falls the song or rather accompaniment of the grasshopper, “the Muse of
the wayside,” a French poet has so exquisitely apostrophized.
One’s forest companion should be of a taciturn and contemplative turn.
Only thus can we drink in the sense of such solitude and immensity;
realizing to the full what indeed these words may mean, he may wander
for hours without encountering a soul, very few birds are heard by the
way, but the hum of the insect world, that dreamy go-between, hardly
silence, hardly to be called noise, keeps us perpetual company, and our
eyes must ever be open for beautiful little living things. Now a green
and gold lizard flashes across a bit of grey rock, now a dragon-fly
disports its sapphire wings amid the yellowing ferns or purple ling,
butterflies, white, blue, and black and orange, flit hither and
thither, whilst little beetles, blue as enamel beads, enliven the mossy
undergrowth.
One pre-eminent charm indeed of the Fontainebleau forest is this wealth
of undergrowth, bushes, brambles and ferns making a second lesser
thicket on all sides. In sociable moods delightful it is to go
a-blackberrying here. I am almost tempted to say that if you want
to realise the lusciousness of a hedgerow dessert you must cater for
yourself in these forty thousand acres of blackberry orchard.
But the foremost, the crowning excellence of Fontainebleau forest
consists in its variety. France itself, the “splendid hexagon,” with its
mountains, rivers and plains, is hardly more varied than this vast area
of rock and woodland. We can choose between sites, savage or idyllic,
pastoral or grandiose, here finding a sunny glade, the very spot for a
picnic, there break-neck declivities and gloomy chasms. The magnificent
ruggedness of Alpine scenery is before our eyes, without the awfulness
of snow-clad peaks or the blinding dazzle of glacier. In more than one
place we could almost fancy that some mountain has been upheaved and
split asunder, the clefts formed by these gigantic fragments being now
filled with veteran trees.
The formation of the forest has puzzled geologists, to this day the
origin of its rocky substratum remaining undetermined.
Within half an hour’s stroll of Bourron lies the so-called “Mare aux
Fées” or Fairies’ Mere, as sweet a spot to boil one’s kettle in as
holiday makers can desire, at the same time affording the best possible
illustration of what I have just insisted upon. For this favourite
resort is in a certain sense microcosmic, giving in miniature those
characteristics for which the forest is remarkable. Smooth and sunny as
a garden plot is the open glade wherein we now halt for tea, and while
the kettle boils we have time for a most suggestive bird’s eye view. It
is a little world that we survey from the borders of this rock-hemmed,
forest-girt lake, one perspective after another with varying gradations
of colour making us realize the many-featured, chequered area spread
before us. From this coign of vantage are discerned alike the sterner
and the more smiling beauties of the forest, rocky defiles, gloomy
passes, sunlit lawns and mossy dells, scenery varied in itself and
yet varying again with the passing hour and changing month. And such
suggestion of almost infinite variety is not gained only from the
Fairies’ Mere. From a dozen points, not the same view but the same kind
of view may be obtained, each differing from the other, except in charm
and immensity. Within a walk of home also stands one of the numerous
monuments scattered throughout the forest. The Croix de Saint Hérem, now
a useful landmark for cyclists, has a curious history. It was erected in
1666 by a certain Marquis de Saint-Hérem, celebrated for his ugliness,
and centuries later was the scene of the most extraordinary rendezvous
on record. Here, in 1804, every detail having been theatrically arranged
beforehand, took place the so-called chance meeting of Napoleon and Pope
Pius VII. The Emperor had arranged a grand hunt for that day, and in
hunting dress, his dogs at his heels, awaited the pontiff by the cross
of Saint Hérem. As the pair lovingly embraced each other the Imperial
horses ran away; this apparent escapade formed part of the programme,
and Napoleon stepped into the Pope’s carriage, seating himself on his
visitor’s, rather his prisoner’s, right. A few years later another
rencontre not without historic irony took place here. In 1816, Louis
XVIII. received on this spot the future mother, so it was hoped, of
French Kings, the adventurous Caroline of Naples, afterwards Duchesse de
Berri.
The crosses monuments of the forest are usefully catalogued in local
guide-books, and many have historic associations. The most interesting
of these--readers will excuse the Irish bull--is a monument that may be
said never to have existed!
The great Polish patriot Kosciusko spent the last fifteen years of his
life in a hamlet near Nemours, and on his death the inhabitants of that
and neighbouring villages projected a double memorial, in other words,
a tiny chapel, the ruins of which are still seen near Episy, and a mound
to be added to every year and to be called “La Montagne de Kosciusko,”
or Kosciusko’s mountain. Particulars of this generous and romantic
scheme are preserved in the archives of Montigny. The inauguration
of the mound took place on the ninth of October 1836. To the sound
of martial music, drums and cannon, the first layers of earth were
deposited, men, women and children taking part in the proceedings.
A year later no less than ten thousand French friends of Poland with
mattock and spade added several feet to Kosciusko’s mountain. But the
celebration got noised abroad. Afraid of anti-Russian manifestations the
government of Louis Philippe prohibited any further Polish fêtes. Thus
it came about that, as I have said, the most interesting monument in the
forest remains an idea. And all things considered, neither French nor
English admirers of the exiled hero could to-day very well carve on the
adjoining rock,
“And Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell.”
Some time or other the Russian Imperial pair may visit Fontainebleau,
whilst an English tourist with _The Daily Mail_ in his pocket would
naturally and sheepishly look the other way.
Another half hour’s stroll and we find ourselves in an atmosphere of
art, fashion and sociability. Only a mile either of woodland, field path
or high road separates Bourron from its more populous and highly popular
neighbour, Marlotte. Here every house has an artist’s north window, the
road is alive with motor cars, you can even buy a newspaper! Marlotte
possesses a big, I should say comfortable, hotel, is very cosmopolitan
and very pretty. Anglo-French households here, as at Bourron, favour
Anglo-French relations. In Marlotte drawing-rooms we are in France,
but always with a pleasant reminder of England and of true English
hospitality.