POUGUES.
If an ugly name could kill a place, Pougues must surely have been ruined
as a health resort centuries ago. Coming, too, after that soothing,
harmoniously named La Charité, could any configuration of letters grate
more harshly on the ear? Truth to tell, my travelling companion and
myself had a friendly little altercation about Pougues. It seemed
impossible to believe pleasant things of a town so labelled. But the
reputation of Pougues dates from Hercules and Julius Caesar, both
heroes, it is said, having had recourse to its mineral springs! Coming
from legend to history, we find that Pougues, or, at least, the waters
of Pougues, were patronised by the least objectionable son of Catherine
de Medicis, Henri II. of France and runaway King of Poland. Imputing
his disorders to sorcery, he was thus reassured by a sensible physician
named Pidoux: “Sire, the malady from which you suffer is due to no
witchcraft. Lead a quiet life for ten weeks, and drink the water of
Pougues.” The best king France ever had, namely, the gay Gascon, and
after him Louis XIII., by no means one of the worst, had recourse to
Pougues waters; also that arch-voluptuary and arch-despot, the Sun-King,
who imagined that even syntax and prosody must bow to his will.
[Footnote: One day the young king ordered his carriage, saying, “_mon_
carrosse,” instead of “_ma_ carrosse,” the French word being derived
from the Italian feminine, _carrozza_. On being gently corrected, the
king flew into a passion, declaring that masculine he had called it, and
masculine it should remain, which it has done to this day, so the story
runs. Let the Republic look to it!] And Madame de Sevigné--for whom,
however, I have scant love, for did she not hail the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes?--Madame de Sevigné honoured Pougues with an epigram.
A second Purgatory she styled the douches, and, doubtless, in those
non-washing days, a second Purgatory it would have been to most folks.
To Pougues, nevertheless, we went, and if these notes induce the more
enterprising of my countrypeople to do the same next summer, they are
not likely to repent of the experiment. Never, indeed, was a little
Eden of coolness, freshness, and greenery more abominably used by its
sponsors, whilst the name of so many French townlings are a poem in
themselves!
From a view of sky blue waters and smooth brown sands we were
transported to a world of emerald green verdure and richest foliage,
interpenetrated with golden light. On this 14th of September the warmth
and dazzlingness of mid-summer still reigned at Pougues; and the scenery
in which we suddenly found ourselves, bosquets, dells, and glades, with
all the charm but without the savageness of the forest, recalled the
loveliest lines of the laziest poet:--
“Was naught around but images of rest,
And flowery beds, that slumberous influence kest[1],
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green.”
[Footnote 1: Cast]
A drive of a few minutes had landed us in the heart of this little
Paradise, baths and Casino standing in the midst of park-like grounds.
Apparently Pougues, that is to say, the Pougues-les-Eaux of later
days, has been cut out of natural woodland, the Casino gardens and
its surroundings being rich in forest trees of superb growth and
great variety. The wealth of foliage gives this new fashionable little
watering-place an enticingly rural appearance, nor is the attraction
of water wholly wanting. To quote once more a most quotable, if little
read, poet:--
“Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played,
And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen,
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade,
Though restless still, themselves a lulling murmur made.”
A pretty little lake, animated with swans, varies the woodland scenery,
and tropical birds in an aviary lend brilliant bits of colour. The
usual accessories of a health resort are, of course, here--reading room,
concert hall, theatre, and other attractions, rapidly turning the place
into a lesser Vichy. The number and magnificence of the hotels, the
villas and _cottages_, that have sprung up on every side, bespeak the
popularity of Pougues-les-Eaux, as it is now styled, the surname adding
more dignity than harmoniousness. One advantage Pougues possesses over
its rivals, is position. At Aix-les-Bains, Plombières, Salins, and how
many other inland spas, you are literally wedged in between shelving
hills. If you want to enjoy wide horizons, and anything like a breeze,
you must get well outside the town. Never in hot, dusty, crowded
cities have I felt so half-suffocated as at the two first named places.
Pougues, on the contrary, lies in a broad expanse of beautifully varied
woodland and champaign, no more appropriate site conceivable for the now
popular air-cure. “Pougues-les-Eaux, Cure d’Eau and Cure d’Air,” is
now its proud title, folks flocking hither, not only to imbibe its
delicious, ice-cold, sparkling waters, but to drink in its highly
nourishing air. The iron-gaseous waters resemble in properties those of
Spa and Vichy. From one to five tumblers are ordered a day, according
to the condition of the drinker, a little stroll between each dose being
advisable. With regard to the air-cure, visitors are reminded that at
Pougues they find the four kinds of walking exercise recommended by a
German specialist, namely, that on quite level ground; secondly, a
very gradual climb; thirdly, a somewhat steeper bit of up-hill; and,
fourthly, the really arduous ascent of Mont Givre. In order to entice
health-seekers, all kinds of gratifications await them on the summit,
restaurant, dairy, reading room, tennis court, and croquet ground, to
say nothing of a panorama almost unrivalled in eastern France. We have,
indeed, climbed the Eiffel Tower, in other words, are on a level with
that final stage from which floats the Tricolour. Looking east we behold
the sombre Morvan and Nevers rising above the Loire, whilst westward,
beyond the plain and the Loire, may be descried the cathedral of
Bourges. How many regions visited and revisited by myself now lie before
my eyes as on a map--the Berri, Georges Sand’s country, the little
Celtic kingdom of the Morvan, on the borders of which, for so many
years, that charming writer, Philip Gilbert Hamerton, made his home;
the Nivernais, with its souvenirs of Vert-Vert and Mazarin, or, rather,
Mazarin and Vert-Vert, the Department of the Allier made from the
ancient province of the Bourbonnais.
A wanderer in France should never be without his Arthur Young. That
“wise and honest traveller,” of course, had been before us, but
travelling in a contrary direction. “From the hill that descends to
Pougues,” he wrote on his way from Nevers to Fontainebleau, in 1790,
“is an extensive view to the north, and after Pouilly a (_sic_) fine
scenery, with the Loire doubling through it.” But the great farmer made
this journey in mid-winter, thus missing its charm. And Arthur Young
was ever too intent upon crops and roots to notice wild flowers. Had
he traversed this region earlier in the year, he might have missed an
exquisite feature, namely, the sweeps of autumn crocus. Just now the
rich pastures around Pougues, as well as suburban lawns and wayside
spaces, were tinted with delicate mauve, the ground being literally
carpeted with these flowers. It was as if the lightest possible veil of
pale purple covered the turf, the same profusion being visible on every
side.
One final word about this sweet and most unmusically named place. On no
occasion and nowhere have I been received with more cordiality than
at dear little Pougues, a place I was told there utterly ignored by my
country people. I do honestly believe, indeed, that myself and fellow
traveller were the first English folk to wander about those delicious
gardens, and taste the incomparable waters, cool, sparkling,
invigorating as those of Spa.
One enterprising proprietor of an excellent hotel was so anxious to
secure an English _clientèle_, the best _clientèle_ in the world, so
hotel keepers aver, that she offered me a handsome percentage on any
visitors I would send her. In the most delicate manner I could command,
I gave her to understand that my inquiries about Pougues were not made
from a business point of view, but that I should certainly proclaim its
many attractions on the house-tops.