ALSACE-LORRAINE

By George Wharton Edwards

 “Section 4”

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Altkirch

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Altkirch

Altkirch passed from the control of the Counts of Ferrette to the house of Hapsburg of Austria, and in 1659 was presented by France to Cardinal Mazarin. Away back in the dim days of 1375 the hordes of Enguerrand de Coucy occupied the town for three months, after which they sacked and burned it. Captured by the Armagnacs in 1444, the little town again suffered by pillage and fire, and two years later the Balois encamped here with their troops. Two hundred years later, the Swedes invaded the region, leaving in their wake little but ragged walls. But both Ferrette and Altkirch survived these disasters, and even became rich and famed the country round. Under the French régime in the twelfth century, Altkirch’s great annual Fair, celebrated in the month of July, enjoyed much renown. Its narrow, tortuous streets were thronged with rich merchants, and its square, surrounded by quaint gabled houses, was covered with well stocked booths containing rich stuffs from the looms of Flanders, while outside the stone walls surrounding the town great droves of sleek and blooded

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cattle and fine Norman horses were offered for sale, attracting buyers from far and near. Thus a great prosperity settled upon the town, and its merchants and inhabitants waxed rich and proud.

From 1800 Altkirch, down to 1857, was a “sous prefecture” of the Upper Rhine, but in the latter year this title was removed and bestowed upon Mulhouse. Altkirch was the seat of an excellent college, and here was educated the painter Jean Jacques Henner, who was born at Bernwiller, a neighboring village.

The Henner family were very poor, with many children, but they sent young Henner to Strassburg to study art. Later he went to Paris, where he became famous. He never forgot his birthplace, however, and regularly visited his parents, whom he was able to care for in their old age. In his paintings he depicted often the Alsatian type of face with the picturesque headdress. After he died, in 1905, his friends and admirers erected a monument to him in Bernwiller. “And now,” continued our historian, “Altkirch is famed for its charming pottery, not perhaps as magnificent as that of Sèvres, but nevertheless of good quality and design, and I hope that M’-sieur and Madame will agree with me as to its quality.” He looked so beseeching and anxious for the compliment that Lady Anne hastened to agree with him for politeness’ sake. I remember a quaint figure of speech of Miss Wharton’s describing a French town: “It has

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been the fate of many venerable towns to sacrifice their bloom of ‘Vetuste’ to the restoring craze, which gives them the pathetic appearance of cosseted old ladies and antediluvian beaux, parading their makeups.” But no one need pity Altkirch, it is as redolent of untouched antiquity as one could wish, and it was our good luck to be here on a market day, when the streets were full of bright-eyed peasant girls, and lively merchants; and drivers in quaint smocks and broad-brimmed hats, as well as some in the quaint old tasseled caps of velvet worn rakishly far back on the head by the men from the more remote villages. Climbing some of the steep streets, we wondered what was occurring behind the high walls of those gabled, steep-roofed houses, to which the tourist so rarely has access.

Little life was visible at the curtained windows, save occasionally the wrinkled face of an old velvet-capped woman. The gray old church seemed withdrawn immeasurably into the dim past, sunk in the forgotten memories of ancient Gaul, and even the chanting circle of children, dancing a kind of “ring around the rosy” before the steps, were as subdued and well mannered as befitted the scene.

In the old church the effect of this antiquity was enhanced by what one might call beneficent neglect. Here were all the scars and hues of age, untouched by the restorer. The old choir, the organ loft and rood screen, all

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of a lacy yet heavy woodcarving, have preserved well their detail, acquiring with the centuries that precious lustre of surface that one associates with the patina of old bronze. It was unfinished, of course; all great Gothic temples are unfinished—always will be; “Dieu Merci!”

—with something left to the imagination—and this old church quite satisfied one’s esthetic sense in that respect.

The people of Altkirch are very French in manner. All those whom we encountered, from the people at the “Blume,” noted for its comforts, to the white-aproned baker who was arranging a fragrant pile of cakes in his open window, were smiling and good-humored, and the little old man in the stiff blue blouse at the inn, who was draining the lettuce in a wire cage, which he swung about his head, each pursued his activities with cheerful acceptance of the conditions attached to their several occupations. Each was apparently conscious of his established walk of life and gloried in it.

We could not but admire this characteristic, this really admirable fitting of each member of the community into the fabric of everyday existence. It must be the outcome of their admirable sense of form, lubricated by the good manners possessed by the French, which doubtless has led them by a short cut to their goal.

It was difficult for one to leave the attractions of Altkirch and the picturesque fertile valley adorned by many old embowered châteaux and farmsteads, built when

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reminiscences only lingered from those good old times when private feuds armed every man against his neighbor, and made every mansion a stronghold. These assumed an intermediate character between fortress and peaceful habitation. Their glazed windows were in strange proximity to flanking towers and iron-plated and nail-studded doors. But they were most pleasing features in the landscape, and with their high steep roofs garnished with two or three rows of curious little dormer windows, and iron pinnacles of every imaginable design, often most artistic, their character added immensely to the picture, as when, for instance, placed upon a projecting bluff almost surrounded by a swiftly running stream.

In exploring the valley one day, we found the road thronged with pilgrims on their way to or from a shrine, we did not ascertain which. The greater number were on foot, in scattered parties, but later on we met with the procession marching in two files. The children came first, generally clad in white and carrying banners and emblems. Those who followed seemed to march in the order of their age. Between the files were the priests, in full regalia. A crucifix was borne in advance of the whole train, and an ornate painted and embroidered banner at the head of each file. They were either singing hymns or reciting prayers. We were told that these processions at night were most beautiful and impressive, and that the most attractive sight of all the poetic scenes

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which the festival presented was when the pilgrims, lighted by the glare of torches, embarked in large barges and floated down the river with their banners and sacred symbols all displayed, making the night resound with the sweet voices of the women and children and the deep responses of the chanting priests and choristers.

It is not to be supposed that such ceremonies and spectacles as this should fail to arouse an anxious interest and bitter antipathy among the German Protestants of Alsace, and it is perhaps enough to say here that every obstacle and discouragement is put in the way of such innocent celebrations by the civic authorities, under secret orders from Berlin. But to the casual observer this is, of course, hidden, and on the surface the village life goes on placidly; suffice it for him that this is a romantic region of mountains and fair valleys, with tossing water courses and thick forests abounding in rare plants; of grand rivers flowing through rocky chasms or lovely meadow lands, and gemmed by such marvelous old towns and villages as transport those who visit and tarry in them into the Middle Ages; where the sunny uplands are dotted by such a lavish wealth of ruined castles and half forgotten abbeys and the remains of charming châteaux, as to be well nigh impossible to chronicle or describe. Rarely did we meet with an English traveller after crossing the French frontier, save for two elderly English ladies who were discovered economizing

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in a delightfully remote inn on the flowery banks of the Ill.  Both were quite “midvictorian,” wearing lace head-dresses at dinner, and as coldly dignified in deportment as one can well imagine. And it is quite true that one happened upon the rosy-cheeked maid in the hallway bearing a tray up to their apartment at nine o’clock in the evening, upon which was a steaming pitcher of milk and a fat squat bottle of “Hollands.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the maid most earnestly, “these great ladies, after the fashion of the English, must have each night before retiring the gin and hot milk. It is the manner of the nobility in their country. They are great ladies, you understand? It is for them that we have the ‘ros’ biff,’ and also, on occasion, the ‘plum puddang.’ The ladies are here for the season, and we love them, too.” Delightful hospitality!

It seemed strange that more travellers did not resort to these charming inns. Nowhere else perhaps could one live so cheaply and withal so free from care, and be so hospitably received and entertained.

Was it not Smollett who complained so bitterly because at a French inn a “diner apart” cost him three francs, while the charge for the “table d’hôte” was only forty sous? It was because the landlords discouraged such exclusiveness. The table d’hôte is an established institution and a most excellent and entertaining one too. True, the ubiquitous commercial traveller is

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not always the most pleasant of companions at table, but your experienced globe trotter learns to take what comes and all uncomplainingly.

These provincial inns are, as a rule, excellently well kept. The beds are invariably immaculately clean, with splendid linen, woven often in the neighborhood. The food is excellent and well cooked, and the chamber into which the traveller is welcomed has almost invariably the heavy furniture which was once thought indispensable to every well furnished salon. In the center of the room will be the heavy marble-topped table (guéridon), with its square of embroidery upon which is a vase for flowers. Upon the mantel will be a clock of the empire under a glass dome, showing some hero or other in bronze, upon either side of which is a gilt vase of artificial flowers, likewise under glass. The floor is waxed and polished to the last degree, and just before the bed is a small square of carpet, and one will do well to beware of a misstep, so slippery is the floor. in such an inn as this one is treated as an honored guest, and on the day of departure takes his leave often with a real regret.

Contrast this charming picture with that of our own country hotels.

Of course the faultfinder abroad will find food for faultfinding. But most things abroad are well done, and many things are certainly done better than we do them.

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Sterne, in his “Sentimental Journey,” wrote: “The learned Smelfungus travelled from Boulogne to Paris, from Paris to Rome, and so on; but he set out with spleen and jaundice, and every object he passed by was discolored or distorted. He wrote an account of them; but ‘twas nothing but the account of his own miserable feelings.”

Let me picture here the day of our own departure from this charming spot, when the swinging door of the old yellow-bodied carriage closed upon us and our impedimenta. The ambling fat mare waving her expressive ears excitedly because of the children gathered to bid us good-by; with Jan on the front seat leaning forward persuasively, holding the reins in both his great red hands, and the old curé waving his shovel hat and shouting to the children: “Allons! mes enfants— Heep!”

A faint response from the children: “Heep!” Their eyes are on the carriage, likewise their attention, because of the generous handful of copper coins with which Lady Anne is ready to shower them.

“Allons! encore! plus fort! Heep !“

A still smaller response.

“Allons! mes enfants! Comme un coup de tonnerre, hourah!”

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“Bon voyage, Monsieur et Madame,” from all the children, but the “Hourah” was not uttered, although it had been so well rehearsed by all of them. They surrounded the old yellow-bodied carriage which was to take us to the station, thrusting little brown hands filled with fresh flowers from the village gardens into Lady Anne’s lap. Then followed the shower of copper coins amid the shrill cries of the scrambling youngsters.

“Attention,” from the Cure.

They all stand up obediently and in place, the girls on one side, the boys on the other, and the Curé standing in the middle with his hat raised. Down it goes, and at the signal they sing a familiar tune, but what words are these’? To our amazed ears came:

—“Goat shave de gracieuse Kveene,

Longue leef de glorieuse Kveene—

Goat shave de Kveene !“

It was all in honor of Lady Anne, and her shining eyes showed that she well appreciated it.

“Now, then, my children,” said the Curé, “all attention, eyes front on my hat, all ready. ‘Heep! Heep! Hourah !—and Au revoir.” This time the children responded courageously.

Jan snapped the whip over the back of the fat mare,

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who jumped forward. And thus we passed into the shadows beneath the great trees on the winding, dusty road to the station.

[End of Section 4]

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