East of Paris
M >>
Matilda Betham Edwards >> East of Paris
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10
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 Hotel 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
Regime. 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 Charite possesses neither
public library nor museum, but at Nevers the traveller would surely find
a copy of Prosper Merimee's "Notes Archeologiques" 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 Vezelay,
which possesses a magnificent narthex of two storeys, restored by the
late Viollet le Duc. Vezelay, by the way, may be easily reached from La
Charite.
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 Charite, with most mediaeval towns, was fortified, one old city gate
still remaining.
To-day, as when that charming writer, Emile Montegut 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 Nievre 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 Charite, 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.
CHAPTER X.
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 Charite, 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
Sevigne--for whom, however, I have scant love, for did she not hail the
revocation of the Edict of Nantes?--Madame de Sevigne 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, Plombieres, 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 _clientele_, the best _clientele_ 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.
CHAPTER XI.
NEVERS AND MOULINS.
I found the well-remembered Hotel de France much as I had left it, just
upon twenty years before, every whit as quiet, comfortable, and moderate
in price, indeed, one of the best provincial hotels of France. The dear
old woman then employed as waitress, had, of course, long since gone to
her rest, and the landlord and landlady were new to me. But, the
traditions of an excellent house were evidently kept up, accommodation,
meanwhile, having been greatly enlarged.
A place is like a book; if worth knowing at all, to be returned to again
and again. After the first brief visit so many years ago, I wrote, "I
envy the traveller who for the first time stands on the bridge of
Nevers." And more imposing, more exhilarating still, seemed the view
from the same spot now; under the brilliant sky, in the clear
atmosphere, every feature standing out as in a mosaic proudly dominating
all, the Cathedral, with its mass of sombre architecture; stretching
wide to right and left, the gay, prosperous-looking city; white villas
rising one above the other, hanging gardens and terraced lawns, making
greenery and verdure in mid-air. On the occasion of my first visit in
August, 1881, the Loire was so low as to appear a mere thread of palest
blue amid white sands; at the time I now write of, broad and beautiful
it flowed beneath the noble bridge, a deep twilight sky reflected in its
limpid waters.
How well I remember the first sight of this scene years ago! Then it was
early morning of market day, and, pouring in from the country, I had met
crowds of peasants with their products, the men in blue blouses, the
women in neat white coiffes, some bearing huge baskets on their heads,
others drawing heavily laden barrows, driving donkey-carts, the piled-up
fruit and vegetables making a blaze of colour. For three sous I recorded
the purchase of more wild strawberries, peaches, and greengages than I
knew what to do with, each grower doing business on his own account, no
middleman to share his profits; choicest fruit and vegetables to be had
almost for the asking. On this lovely Sunday evening plenty of peasant
folk were about, the men fishing in the Loire, the women minding their
children under the trees. But I noted here, as elsewhere, a gradual
disappearance of the blue blouse and white coiffe. Broadcloth and
bonnets are fast superseding the homely, picturesque dress of former
days.
The aerial residences just mentioned are characteristic of riverside
Nevers. Craning our necks as we strolled to and fro, we remarked how
much life in such altitudes must resemble that of a balloon, folks being
thus lifted above the hubbub, malodours, and microbes of the human
bee-hive below. For my own part I prefer a turnpike level, despite the
engaging aspect of those rose-girt verandahs, bowers, and lawns on a
level with the cathedral tower.
"Nevers makes a fine appearance, rising proudly from the Loire," wrote
Arthur Young, "but on the first entrance it is like a thousand other
places."
But the indefatigable apostle of the turnip had no time for archaeology
on his great tour, or he would have discovered that Nevers possesses
more than one architectural gem of the first water. The cathedral
certainly, alike without and within, must take rank after those of
Chartres, Le Mans, Reims, and how many others! but the exquisite little
church of St. Etienne and the Ducal Palace, are both perfect in their
way, and will enchant all lovers of harmony and proportion. The first,
another specimen of so-called Romanesque-Burgundian, has to be looked
for, standing as it does in a kind of _cul de sac_; the second occupies
a conspicuous site, forms, indeed, the centre-piece and crowning
ornament of the town. Daintiest of the dainty, this fairy-like Italian
palace in the heart of France, reminds us that once upon a time Nevers
was the seat of Italian dukes, the last of whom was a nephew of Mazarin.
The great Cardinal, "whose heart was more French than his speech," and
who served France so well, despite his nationality and his nepotism,
having purchased the Nivernais of a Gonzague, finally incorporated it
into the French crown in 1659.
To this day, Nevers remains true to its Italian traditions. Go into the
tiniest suburban street, enter the poorest little general shop, and you
are reminded of the art that made the city famous hundreds of years ago,
an art introduced by a Duke of Mantua, relation of Catherine de Medicis.
It was in the sixteenth century, that this feudal lord of the Nivernais
summoned Italian potters hither, among these a native of Faenza. Under
his direction a manufactory of faience was established, the ware
resembling that of his native city, scriptural and allegorical subjects
traced in manganese. The unrivalled blue glaze of Nevers is of later
date. Just as Rouen potters were celebrated for their reds, the
Nivernais surpassed them in blues. No French or foreign potters ever
achieved an azure of equal depth and purity.
The golden age of Nevers majolica belongs to that early period, but the
highly ornamented faience now produced in its ateliers, shows taste and
finish, and in the town itself may be found charming things as cheap as,
if not cheaper than, our commonest earthenware.
As I write, I have before me some purchases made at a small general
dealer's, a plate, and two small amphora-shaped vases, costing a few
sous each. The colouring of this cheap pottery is very harmonious, and
the glaze remarkable for its brilliance. The shopwoman, with whom we had
a pleasant chat, did not seem astonished at our admiration for her
goods.
"I sell lots of such things as you have just bought, to folks like you"
_(de votre genre)_, she said, "strangers who like to carry away a
souvenir of the place, and all my ware comes from the same manufacture."
To-day Nevers thrives upon ornamental majolica. A hundred and ten years
ago it throve upon plates and dishes commemorating the Revolution. In
the upper storey of the Ducal Palace we may read revolutionary annals in
faience, every event being memorialised by a piece of porcelain.
Curious enough is this record in earthenware, one stormy day after
another being thus commemorated; and perhaps more curious still is the
evident care with which these fragile objects have been preserved.
Throughout the Napoleonic era they might pass--had not gold pieces then
on one side the portrait of "Napoleon Empereur," on the obverse
"Republique Francais"?--but when Louis XVIII was brought back by his
foreign friends, how was it that there came no general smashing, a great
flinging of revolutionary potsherds to the dunghill? Safe enough now is
the Nivernais collection, under the roof of the Ducal Palace, the rude
designs and commonness of the ware strikingly contrasted with the
exquisite things around.
In close proximity to these cheap plates, dedicated to the Phrygian cap
and sans-culottism, are the very choicest specimens of Nevers faience of
priceless value. Why the municipality, as a rule so generous towards the
public, should thus inconveniently house its treasure, is inconceivable.
The museum is reached by a long spiral staircase, without banister or
support, and a false step must certainly result in a broken leg, or,
perhaps, neck! The room also contains a striking portrait of Theodore de
Beze, the great French reformer, who, then an aged man, penned a letter,
sublime in its force and simplicity, to Henry IV., conjuring him not to
abandon the Protestant faith. The mention of this fact recalls an
interesting experience. I here allude to the incontestable advance of
Protestantism in France. The traveller whose acquaintance with the
country began a quarter of a century ago, cannot fail to be impressed
with this fact. Alike in towns large and small, new places of worship
have sprung up, Nevers now possessing an Evangelical church. And good
was it to hear the appreciation of the little Protestant community from
my Catholic landlady.
"Yes," she said, "the Protestants here are worthy of all respect
(_dignes gens_) and the pastor also; I esteem him much." Evidently the
Lemaitre-Coppee-Deroulede dictum, "Only the Catholic can be called a
Frenchman," is not accepted at Nevers.
In dazzlingly brilliant weather, and amid glowing scenery, we continued
our journey to Moulins, as we travelled by rail, and not by road unable
to identify "the little opening in the road leading to a thicket" where
Sterne discovered Maria. Has anyone ever identified the spot I wonder,
poplar, small brook and the rest?
Too soon were we also for "the heyday of the vintage, when Nature is
pouring her abundance into everyone's lap." For the vintage, indeed, one
must go farther. Sterne must have been thinking of Burgundy when he
penned that line, or the phylloxera has brought about a transformation,
vineyards here being changed into pastures. The scenery of the Allier,
like that around Autun, recalls many parts of England. Meadows set
around with hedges; little rises of green hill here and there; cattle
browsing by quiet streams; just such pictures as we may see in our own
Midlands. I well remember a remark of the late Philip Gilbert Hamerton
on this subject. We were strolling near his home, in the neighbourhood
of Autun, one day, when he pointed to the landscape over against us.
"How like that is to many an English scene," he said; "and maybe it was
the English aspect of this region that tempted me to settle here." I had
paid Moulins a hasty visit many years before, but, unlike Nevers and so
many French towns, the _chef-lieu_ of the Allier does not improve upon
further acquaintance. And I surmise, that such is the impression of my
country people generally. English travellers must be few and far between
at Moulins, or why should the appearance of two English ladies attract
so much curiosity? Wherever we went, the good folks of Moulins, alike
rich and poor, turned round to have a good look at us, even stopping
short to stare. All this was done without any rudeness or remark, but
such extraordinary behaviour can only be accounted for by the foregoing
supposition. For some reason or other our compatriots do not, like
Sterne and Maria go to Moulins.
Why should an essentially aristocratic place be so ill-kept, not to say
dirty? The town is no centre of industry. Tall factory chimneys do not
disfigure its silhouette or blacken its walls. Handsome equipages
enliven the streets. But the municipality, like certain saints of old,
seem to have taken vows of perpetual uncleanliness. Alike the
scavenger's broom and the dust-cart appear to be unknown.
Whilst a riverside walk at Nevers presents nothing but cheerful bustle
and an aspect of prosperity, here you approach the Allier through scenes
of squalor and torpid neglect. The poorer inhabitants, too, are very
un-French in appearance, wanting that personal tidiness characteristic
of their country people in general. An aristocratic place, means an
Ultramontane place, and every third man you meet in Moulins wears a
soutane. What so many cures, Jesuits and Christian Brothers can find to
do passes the ordinary comprehension.
However interesting twins may be in the human family, monumental duality
is far from successful. Unfortunately for this delightfully picturesque
old town, its graceful Cathedral has, in the grand new church of
Sacre-Coeur, a double. But--
"As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,"
is the second self, the never to be obliterated shadow of the first and
far more beautiful church.
Two towers of equal height, twice two spires like as cherries and in
close juxtaposition rise above the town, an ensemble spoiling the
symmetry of outline and general effect.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10