let the reader now follow me to ornans, courbet's birth and favourite abiding place, and the lovely valley of the loue. this is the excursion par excellence from besan?on, and may be made in two ways, either on foot, occupying three or four days, decidedly the most advantageous for those who can do it, or by carriage in a single day, starting very early in the morning, and telegraphing for relays at ornans the previous afternoon. this is how we managed it, starting at five, and reaching home soon after eight at night. the children accompanied us, and i must say, better fellow-travellers i never had than these mites of sixteen months and three and a-half years. when tired of looking at the cows, oxen, goats, horses and poultry, we passed on the road, they would amuse themselves for an hour by quietly munching a roll, and, when that occupation at last came to an end, they would go to sleep, waking up just as happy as before.
here i will mention that the great amiability of the french character is no more strongly manifested than in this habit of always having their little children about them. as neither day nor night nurseries exist in france, and head-nurses are equally unheard of, young children are always with their parents. thus, if visitors call, and papa and mamma happen to be engaged in interesting conversation with them, no attention will be paid to the perpetual noise and interruption of little toddling things, whose place is naturally there. i have heard an animated political discussion go on whilst a boy of two and a half was hammering with a hammer on a wooden box; and no kind of notice was taken by his elders. such a practice, of course, could only be made tolerable by excessive good-nature, but there is no doubt that our own system is better both for parents and children.
ornans is not only extremely picturesque in itself, but interesting as the birth and favourite abiding place of the famous painter courbet; it is also a starting place for the valley of the loue, and the source of this beautiful little river, the last only to be seen in fine, dry weather, on account of the steepness and slipperiness of the road. the climate of franche-comté is unfortunately very much like our own, being excessively changeable, rainy, blowy, sunny, all in a breath. to-day's unclouded sunshine is no guarantee of fine weather to-morrow, and although, as a rule, september is the finest month of the year here, it was very variable during my stay, with alternations of rain and chilliness. fine days had to be waited for and seized upon with avidity, whilst the temperature is liable to great and sudden variations.
ornans we reach after a drive of three hours, amid hills luxuriantly draped with vines and craggy peaks clothed with verdure, here and there wide sketches of velvety green pasture with cattle feeding, haymakers turning over the autumn hay. everywhere we find haymakers at work, and picturesque figures they are.
ornans is lovely, and no wonder that courbet was so fond of it. nestled in a deep valley of green rocks and vineyards, and built on the banks of the transparent loue, its quaint spire rising from the midst, it commends itself alike to artist, naturalist, and angler. these old-world houses reflected in the river are marvellously paintable, and the scene, as we saw it after a heavy rain, glowed in the brightest and warmest light.
courbet's house is situated, not on the river, but by the roadside, on the outskirts of the town, fronting the river and the bright green terraced hills above. it is a low, one-storied house, embosomed in greenery, very rural, pretty, and artistic. in the dining-room we were shown a small statue of the painter by his own hand, giving one rather the idea of a country-squire or sporting farmer than a great artist, and his house—which is not shown to strangers—is full of interesting reminiscences of its owner. in the kitchen is a splendid renaissance chimney-piece in sculptured marble, fit for the dining-hall of a rothschild. this, courbet found in some old chateau near, and, artist-like, transferred it to his cottage. on the walls of the studio are two frescoes he painted in his happier days, before he helped to overthrow the vend?me column, and thus forfeited the good feeling of his fellow-townsmen. ornans is clerical to the backbone, and will it be believed?—after this unfortunate affair of the vend?me column, an exquisite statue, with which courbet had decorated the public fountain, was thrown down, of course at clerical instigation. morteau, it must be supposed, being more enlightened, rescued the dishonoured statue, and it now adorns the public fountain of that village. it is, indeed, impossible to give any idea of the vindictive spirit with which poor courbet was treated by his native village, and, seeing how much he loved it, it must have galled him deeply. we were allowed to wander at will over the house and straggling gardens, having friends in the present occupants, but the house still belongs to the courbet family, and is not otherwise to be seen.
all this time i was listening, with no little edification, to the remarks of our young driver, who took the keenest interest in courbet and art generally. he told me, as an instance of the strong feeling existing against courbet after the events of the commune, that, upon one occasion when the painter had been drinking a toast with a friend in a café, he had no sooner quitted the place than a young officer sprang up and dashed the polluted glass to the ground, shattering it into a dozen pieces. "no one shall henceforth drink out of a glass used by that man," he said, and doubtless he was only echoing the popular sentiment.
ornans is the birthplace of the princely perronet de granvelle (father of the cardinal whose portrait by titian adorns the picture-gallery of besan?on), and whose munificent patronage of arts and letters turned that city into a little florence during the spanish régime. in the church is seen the plain red marble sarcophagus of his parents, also a carved reading desk and several pictures presented to the church by his son, the cardinal. there is a curious old spanish house in the town, a relic of the same epoch. ornans is celebrated for its cherry orchards and fabrications of kirsch, also for absinthe, and its wines. everywhere you see cherry orchards and artificial terraces for the vines as on the rhine, not a ledge of hill side being wasted. gruyère cheese, so called, is also made here, and there are besides several manufactures, nail-forges, wire-drawing mills, and tile-kilns. but none of these interfere with the pastoralness of the scenery, and no wonder that this attracts french artists in the summer time. lovely walks and drives abound, and the magnificence of the forest trees has been made familiar to us by the landscapes of courbet, whose name will ever be associated with this quaint village in the valley of the loue.
we are now on the high road from ornans to pontarlier, and are passing some of the wealthiest little communities in franche-comté, montgesoye, vuillafans, lods, all most picturesque to behold, and important centres of industry. iron foundries, kirsch distilleries, chemical works, and other manufactures maintain these rustic populations, and such isolated little nuclei of trade will doubtless take extraordinary development when the line of railway from besan?on to pontarlier, by way of ornans, is completed. at present it is one of the few places that may be described as out of the world, and a veritable paradise for the lover of quiet and rusticity. if we proceed further on the monthier road, the aspect changes, and we find ourselves in the winding close-shut valley, the narrow turbulent little streams of deepest green tossing over its rocky bed amid hanging vineyards and lofty cliffs. soon, however, the vine, the oak, the beech, and the ash tree disappear, and we have instead the sombre pine and fir only.
monthier is perched on a hill-side amid grandiose mountains, and is hardly less picturesque than ornans, though not nearly so enticing. in fact it is a trifle dirty when visited in detail, though charming, viewed from the high road above. here we sat down to an excellent dinner at one end of the salle-à-manger; at the other was a long table where a number of peasant farmers, carters, and graziers—it was fair day—were faring equally well: our driver was amongst them, and all were as quiet and well-behaved as possible, but given to spit on the floor, "as is their nature to." the charges were very low, the food good, the wine sour as vinegar, and the people obliging in the extreme. the hotels in these parts are very much on a par with caravanserais in algeria; bells, fire-places, and other necessities of civilized life are unknown, the bed-rooms are often reached by an outside staircase only, and afford such accommodation we should not think luxurious for a stable-boy in england, and these often, moreover, adjoin a noisy upper salle-à-manger, where eating, and drinking, and talking go on all day long.
after having stopped to look at the beautiful old wood carvings in the church, we continue our way, climbing the mountain road towards pontarlier; hardly knowing which to admire most, the deep-lying valley at our feet, where the little imprisoned river curls with a noise as of thunder, making miniature cascades at every step, or the limestone rocks of majestic shape towering above on the other side. one of them, the so-called roche de hautepierre, is nearly nine hundred yards high; the road all the time zigzags wonderfully around the mountain sides, a stupendous piece of engineering which cost the originator his life. soon after passing the tunnel cut in the rock, we saw an inscription telling how the engineer, while engaged in taking his measurements, lost his footing and was precipitated into the awful ravine below. the road itself was opened in 1845, and is mainly due to the public spirit of the inhabitants of ornans.
franche-comté is rich in zig-zagging mountain roads of daring construction, and none are more wonderful than this. as we crawl at a snail's pace between rocks and ravine, silvery grey masses towering against the glowing purple sky, deepest green fastnesses below that make us giddy to behold, all is still but for the sea-like war of the little river as it pours down impetuously from its mountain home. the heavy rain of the previous night unfortunately prevents us from following it to its source, a delightful excursion in tolerably dry weather, but impracticable after a rain-fall. by far the best, way is to sleep at monthier and visit the source on foot, but fatigue may be avoided by taking a carriage from pontarlier. between monthier and the source of the loue is a bit of wild romantic scenery known as the combes de nouaille, home of the franc-comtois elf, or fairy, called la vouivre. combe, it must be explained, means a straight, narrow valley lying between two mountains, and charles nodier remarks: "is very french, and is perfectly intelligible in any part of the country, but has been omitted in the dictionary of the academy, because there is no combe at the tuileries, the champs elysées or the luxembourg!" these close winding combes form one of the most characteristic and picturesque features of franc-comtois scenery. leaving the more adventuresome part of this journey therefore to travellers luckier in respect of weather than ourselves, we turn our horses' heads towards ornans, where we rest for coffee and a little chat with friends. as we set out for besan?on, a splendid glow of sunset lights up courbet's birth and favourite abiding place, clothing in richest gold the hills and hanging woods he portrayed with so much vigour and poetic feeling. the glories of the sinking sun lingered long, and, when the last crimson rays faded, a full pearly moon rose in the clear heavens, lighting us on our way.
a few days after this delightful excursion, i left besan?on, as i had done montbéliard, amid the heartiest leave-takings, and the last recollection i brought away from the venerable town is of two little fair-haired boys, whose faces were lifted to mine for a farewell kiss in the railway station.
