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Matilda Betham-Edwards - Holidays in Eastern France
how many manufactories, most of which lie so deep down in the heart of the gorges that they do not spoil
the scenery. The ugly blot is hidden, or at least inconspicuous. As I turn back, I have on one side a vast
velvety slope, sweeping from mountain to river, terrace upon terrace of golden-green pasture, where a
dozen little girls are keeping their kine; on the other steep limestone precipices, all a tangle of
brushwood, with only here and there a bit of scant pasturage. The air is transparent and reviving, a south
wind caresses us as we go, nothing can be more heavenly beautiful. The blue gentian grows everywhere,
and, as I pursue my way, the peasant-folks I meet with pause to say good-day and stare. They evidently
find in me an outlandish look, and are quite unaccustomed to the sight of strangers.
I had pleasant acquaintances provided for me here by my friend, the schoolmaster's wife at Morez, and a
very agreeable glimpse I thus obtained of French middle-class life; Catholic life, moreover, but free alike
from bigotry and intolerance. Very light-hearted, lively, and well-informed were these companions of my
walks at St. Claude, among them a government official, his young wife, sister, and another relation, who
delighted in showing me everything. We set off one lovely afternoon for what turned out to be a four
hours' walk, but not a moment too long, seeing the splendour of weather and scenery, and the amiability
of my companions. We took a road that led from the back of the Cathedral by the Valley of the Tacon, a
little river that has its rise in the mountain near, and falls into the Flumen close by. It is necessary to take
this walk to the falls of the Flumen in order to realize fully the wonderful site of St. Claude, and the
amazing variety of the surrounding scenery. Every turn we take of the upward curling road gives us a
new and more beautiful picture. The valley grows deeper and deeper, the mountains on either side higher
and higher, little chalets peeping amid the grey and the green, here perched on an apparently
unapproachable mountain-top, there in the inmost recess of some rocky dell. As we get near the falls, we
are reaching one of the most romantic points of view in all the Jura, and one of the most striking I have
ever seen, so imposingly do the mountains close around us as we enter the gorge, so lovely the scene shut
in by the impenetrable natural wall; for within the framework of rock, peak, and precipice are little farms,
gardens, and orchards - gems of dazzling green bathed in ripest sunshine, pine-forests frowning close
above these islets of luxuriance and cultivation, dells, glades, and open, lawny spaces between the
ramparts of fantastically formed crags and solitary peaks, a scene recalling Kabylia, in the Atlas
mountains, but unlike anything except itself. All was still, except for the roar of the tiny river and the
occasional sound of timber sliding from some mountain slope into the valley below. The timber is thus
transported in these parts, the woodman cutting the planks on some convenient ledge of rock, then letting
it find its way to the bottom as best it can. All day long you see the trunk-cutters at work on their airy
perches, now bright stairs of gold-green turf, soon to be enveloped in impenetrable masses of snow, and
hear the falling planks. As we climb, we are overtaken by two timber carts, and the drivers, peasant-folks
from the mountains, are old acquaintances of my companions, and suggest that the ladies should mount.
We gladly do so, to the great satisfaction of the peasants, who on no account would themselves add to
their horses' burden. It would have been an affront to offer these good people anything in return for their
kindness. They were delighted to chat behind with Monsieur, whilst their horses, sure-footed as mules,
made their way beside the winding precipice. These peasants had intelligent, good countenances, and
were excellent types of the Jura mountaineer.
Having passed a tunnel cut through the rock, we soon reached the head of the valley, the end of the
world, as it seems, so high, massive, and deep is the formidable mountain wall hemming it in, from
whose sides the little river Tacon takes a tremendous leap into the green valley below; and not one leap,
but a dozen, the several cascades uniting in a stream that meanders towards St. Claude. Before us, high
above the falls, seeming to hang on a perpendicular chain of rocks, is a cluster of saw-mills. It is not
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