In the Heart of the Vosges | Page 4

rivers and sunny glades all framed by solemn hills--I
should rather say mountains--pitchy black with the solemn pine. You
may search far and wide for a picture so engaging as Gérardmer when
the sun shines, its gold-green slopes sprinkled with white châlets, its
red-roofed village clustered about a rustic church tower, and at its feet
the loveliest little lake in the world, from which rise gently the fir-clad
heights.
And no monotony! You climb the inviting hills and woods day by day,
week after week, ever to find fresh enchantment. Not a bend of road or
winding mountain-path but discloses a new scene--here a fairy glen,
with graceful birch or alder breaking the expanse of dimpled green;
there a spinny of larch or of Scotch fir cresting a verdant monticule;
now we come upon a little Arcadian home nestled on the hill-side, the

spinning-wheel hushed whilst the housewife turns her hay or cuts her
patch of rye or wheat growing just outside her door. Now we follow the
musical little river Vologne as it tosses over its stony bed amid banks
golden with yellow loosestrife, or gently ripples amid fair stretches of
pasture starred with the grass of Parnassus. The perpetual music of
rushing, tumbling, trickling water is delightful, and even in hot weather,
if it is ever indeed hot here, the mossy banks and babbling streams must
give a sense of coolness. Deep down, entombed amid smiling green
hills and frowning forest peaks, lies the pearl of Gérardmer, its sweet
lake, a sheet of turquoise in early morn, silvery bright when the
noon-day sun flashes upon it, and on grey, sunless days gloomy as
Acheron itself.
[Illustration: A VOSGIAN SCENE]
Travellers stinted for time cannot properly enjoy the pastoral scenes,
not the least charm of which is the frank, pleasant character of the
people. Wherever we go we make friends and hear confidences. To
these peasant folks, who live so secluded from the outer world, the
annual influx of visitors from July to September is a positive boon,
moral as well as material. The women are especially confidential,
inviting us into their homely yet not poverty-stricken kitchens, keeping
us as long as they can whilst they chat about their own lives or ask us
questions. The beauty, politeness, and clear direct speech of the
children, are remarkable. Life here is laborious, but downright want I
should say rare. As in the Jura, the forest gorges and park-like solitudes
are disturbed by the sound of hammer and wheel, and a tall factory
chimney not infrequently spoils a wild landscape. The greater part of
the people gain, their livelihood in the manufactories, very little land
here being suitable for tillage.
Gérardmer is famous for its cheeses; another local industry is turnery
and the weaving of linen, the linen manufactories employing many
hands, whilst not a mountain cottage is without its handloom for winter
use. Weaving at home is chiefly resorted to as a means of livelihood in
winter, when the country is covered with snow and no out-door
occupations are possible. Embroidery is also a special fabric of the
Vosges, but its real wealth lies in mines of salt and iron, and mineral
waters.
One chief feature in Gérardmer is the congeries of handsome buildings

bearing the inscription _"École Communale"_ and how stringently the
new educational law is enforced throughout France may be gathered
from the spectacle of schoolboys at drill. We saw three squadrons, each
under the charge of a separate master, evidently made up from all
classes of the community. Some of the boys were poorly, nay,
miserably, clad, others wore good homely clothes, a few were really
well dressed.
Our first week at Gérardmer was wet and chilly. Fires and winter
clothes would have been acceptable, but at last came warmth and
sunshine, and we set off for the Col de la Schlucht, the grandest feature
of the Vosges, and the goal of every traveller in these regions.
[Illustration: CIRQUE DE RETOURNEMER]
There is a strange contrast between the calm valley of Gérardmer, a
little haven of tranquil loveliness and repose, and the awful solitude and
austerity of the Schlucht, from which it is separated by a few hours
only. Not even a cold grey day can turn Gérardmer into a dreary place,
but in the most brilliant sunshine this mountain pass is none the less
majestic and solemn. One obtains the sense of contrast by slow degrees,
so that the mind is prepared for it and in the mood for it. The acme, the
culminating point of Vosges scenery is thus reached by a gradually
ascending scale of beauty and grandeur from the moment we quit
Gérardmer, till we stand on the loftiest summit of the Vosges chain,
dominating the Schlucht. For the first half-hour we skirt the
alder-fringed