LA CHARITÉ-SUR-LOIRE.
From Bourron, in September, 1900, I journeyed with a friend to La
Charité, a little town four hours off.
It is ever with feelings of pleasurable anticipation that I approach
any French town for the first time. The number of these, alas! now being
few, I have of late years been compelled to restrain curiosity, leaving
one or two dreamed-of spots for the future, saying with Wordsworth:--
“Should life be dull and spirits low,
‘Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow.”
La Charité, picturesque of the picturesque--according to French
accounts, English, we have none--for many years had been a Yarrow to me,
a reserve of delight, held back from sheer Epicureanism.
As, on the 12th of September, the cumbersome old omnibus rattled over
the unpaved streets, both to myself and fellow traveller came a feeling
of disenchantment. We had apparently reached one more of those sleepy
little _chefs-lieux_ familiar to both, places of interest certainly, the
sleepiest having some architectural gem or artistic treasure. But here
was surely no Yarrow!
A few minutes later we discovered our error. Hardly had we reached our
rooms in the more than old-fashioned Hôtel du Grand Monarque, than from
a side window, we caught sight of the Loire; so near, indeed, lay the
bright, blue river, that we could almost have thrown pebbles into its
clear depths; quitting the hotel, half a dozen steps, no more were
needed, an enchanting scene burst upon the view.
Most beautiful is the site of La Charité, built terrace-wise, not on the
skirts but on the very hem of the Loire, here no revolutionary torrent,
sweeping away whole villages, leaving only church steeples visible above
the engulfing waters, as I had once seen it at Nantes, but a broad,
smooth, crystal expanse of sky-blue. Over against the handsome stone
bridge to-day having its double in the limpid water, we see a little
islanded hamlet crowned with picturesque church tower; and, placing
ourselves midway between the town and its suburban twin, obtain vast and
lovely perspectives. Westward, gradually purpling as evening wears on,
rises the magnificent height of Sancerre, below, amid low banks bordered
with poplar, flowing the Loire. Eastward, looking towards Nevers, our
eyes rest on the same broad sheet of blue; before us, straight as
an arrow, stretches the French road of a pattern we know so well, an
apparently interminable avenue of plane or poplar trees. The river is
low at this season, and the velvety brown sands recall the sea-shore
when the tide is out. Exquisite, at such an hour are the reflections,
every object having its mirrored self in the transparent waves, the
lights and shadows of twilight making lovely effects.
As is the case with Venice, La Charité should be reached by river, and a
pity it seems that little steamers do not ply between all the principal
towns on the Loire. How enchanting, like the immortal Vert-Vert, of
Gresset’s poem, to travel from Nevers to the river’s mouth!
If I had headed this paper merely with the words “La Charité,” I should
surely be supposed to treat of some charitable institution in France,
or of charity as worked out in the abstract, for this first of Christian
virtues has given the place its name, presumably perpetuating the
charitableness of its abbatial founders. Just upon two thousand years
ago, some pious monks of the order of Cluny settled here, calling their
foundation La Charité. Gradually a town grew around the abbey walls, and
what better name for any than this? So La Charité it was in early feudal
times, and La Charité it remains in our own.
The place itself is as antiquated and behindhand as any I have seen in
France, which is saying a good deal. A French gentleman, native of
these parts, told me that in his grandfather’s time our Hôtel du Grand
Monarque enjoyed a fine reputation. In many respects it deserves the
same still, excellent beds, good cooking, quietude and low prices not
being so common as they might be in French provincial inns. The house,
too, is curious, what with its spiral stone staircases, little passages
leading to one room here, to another there--as if in former days
travellers objected to walls that adjoined those of other people--and
unaccountable levels, it is impossible to understand whether you were
on the first floor or the second floor, house-top, or basement. Our
bedrooms, for instance, reached by one of the spiral stone staircases
just named never used by myself without apprehension, landed us on the
edge of a poultry yard; I suppose a wide bit of roof had been converted
into this use, but it was quite impossible to make out any architectural
plan. These rooms adjoining this _basse-cour_, hens and chicks
would enter unceremoniously and pick up the crumbs we threw to them.
Fastidious tourists might resent so primitive a state of things, the
hotel, I should say, remaining exactly what it was under the Ancien
Régime. The beauty and interest of various kinds around, more than make
up for small drawbacks. Here the archaeologist will not grudge several
days. Ruined as it is, the ancient abbey may be reconstructed in the
mind’s eye by the help of what we see before us. The fragments of
crumbling wall, the noble tower and portal, the delicately sculptured
pillars, cornices, and arches, enable us to build up the whole, just
as Cuvier made out an entire skeleton from the examination of a single
bone. These grand architectural fragments have not been neglected by the
learned. Unfortunately, and exceptionally, La Charité possesses neither
public library nor museum, but at Nevers the traveller would surely find
a copy of Prosper Merimée’s “Notes Archéologiques” in which is a minute
account of these.
Alike without and within the ruins show a medley of styles and richest
ornamentation.
[Illustration]
The superb north-west tower, that forms so striking an object from the
river, is said to be in the Burgundian style; rather should we put it
after a Burgundian style, so varied and heterogeneous are the churches
coming under this category. Again, the guide books inform us that
the open space between this tower and the church was occupied by the
narthex, a vast outer portico of ancient Burgundian churches used for
the reception of penitents, catechumens, and strangers. All interested
in ecclesiastical architecture should visit the abbey church of Vézelay,
which possesses a magnificent narthex of two storeys, restored by the
late Viollet le Duc. Vézelay, by the way, may be easily reached from La
Charité.
Next to the elaborate sculptures of this grand tower, will be noted the
superb colour of the building stone, carved out of deep-hued gold it
looks under the burning blue sky. And of a piece are arch, portico and
column, one and all helping us to reconstruct the once mighty abbey,
home of a brotherhood so powerful as to necessitate disciplinary
measures on the part of the Pope.
The interior of the church shows the same elaborateness of detail, and
the same mixture of styles, the Romanesque-Burgundian predominating, so,
at least, affirm authorities.
The idler and lover of the picturesque will not find time hang heavy on
his hands here. Very sweet are the riverside views, no matter on which
side we obtain them, and the quaintest little staircases of streets run
from base to summit of the pyramidally-built town. A climb of a quarter
of an hour takes us to an admirable coign of vantage just above the
abbey church, and commanding a view of Sancerre and the river. That
little town, so splendidly placed, is celebrated for its eight months’
defence as a Huguenot stronghold.
La Charité, with most mediaeval towns, was fortified, one old city gate
still remaining.
To-day, as when that charming writer, Émile Montégut visited the
place more than a generation ago, the townspeople ply their crafts and
domestic callings abroad. In fine weather, no work that can possibly be
done in the open air is done within four walls. Another curious feature
of these engaging old streets, is the number of blacksmiths’ shops. It
would seem as if all the horses, mules, and donkeys of the Nièvre were
brought hither to be shod, the smithy fires keeping up a perpetual
illumination.
A third and still more noteworthy point is the infrequency--absence, I
am inclined to say--of cabarets. Soberest of the sober, orderliest of
the orderly, appear these good folks of La Charité, les Caritates as
they are called, nor, apparently, has tradition demoralised them. One
might expect that a town dedicated to the virtue of almsgiving would
abound in beggars. Not one did we see.