Grenoble

THE POET IN HIGH ALPS'

THE towns of France are generally led up to, with sufficient dignity, along broad roads, by avenues of trees. It is the distinction of Grenoble that it is led up to by avenues of mountains. North and south of the not too vast but ample city whose broad and quiet, half-deserted quays flank the Isère-whose bridges cross its waters to the old-world suburb that lies under the first of the hills-there stretch, not roads. of approach, but straight, wide valleys, green and rich, and civilised and Southern, and by either side of them a succession of mountains, symmetrical and similar, stand like sentinels posted along the stately way.

What city, I wonder, could be entirely worthy of such magnificence of approach? Would Rome be? Or Paris? Would either seem to us as quite the gem-stone for so superb a setting? There must be proportion and appropriateness. But somehow Grenoble, surrounded by a Nature splendid, august, has yet no air of being dwarfed or minimised. The great land that enfolds it that has the dignity of Poussin's world, and Puvis de Chavannes's-suits somehow the grey, widespread town with squares and towers, and with its broad stream sweeping on to so remote a sea.

The River

The river any river-is almost a personality. The Isère, here at Grenoble, is like some new acquaintance with a Past we wot not of-a Future that we cannot discern. We know the river's life no more than our last friend's-all that has brought it to the particular point at which we meet it and see its current rushing by the green fields, or the vineyards, or the quays, busy or silent, on which we chance to stand. And our impression of it-like our impression of a person-is formed less by itself than by whatever is about it-by the particular décor that gives to it its ugliness or charm. Then, again, it is itself changed, or it seems so, by each town, each countryside, it flows through. Indolent there and ineffectual, here it is given vivacity, impulse, and strength. And, again like the person or like

the person's inmost soul-it is in essentials the same, whatever phase or facet the circumstances lead it to present. Like the inmost soul, it is alone, itself, even when it seems most pressed upon by neighbouring things. The things that crowd about it now have still no part in it. It came from heights and under skies foreign to them, and passes on to lands that they have no relation with, and shores they never touch.

Hautes Alpes

Words-English words especially, which lack the quality of colour-cannot paint mountains that have eluded Turner's Art. Turner, indeed, succeeded better with mountains than did most men ; yet he succeeded only partially, and then when least elaborate. He failed most when bent on chronicling them with intricacy and exactness-failed least in brilliant, summary suggestions of his latest years those 1845 sketches-the visions which went begging, Ruskin relates, after the veteran's last journey.

Since then, what English painter-and I know of no French onewhat painter has dealt adequately with baffling giants that from immense bases lift themselves stage by stage to the translucent skies? I think pleasantly-yes, even gratefully-of William Stott of Oldham, who was poetic sometimes. The modern connoisseur admits, of course, Brabazon, who is poetic always; and, now that Watts's Landscape has come to be known, Watts, with whom dignity was a natural possession. Each of these painters saw the beauty, the ethereal charm, and touched the theme delicately. Each has given worthy hints. But how much lies altogether outside of and beyond their fine suggestions of the scale and majesty and strength of the hills!

The Magic South

The Genevese Töppfer, straying beyond Switzerland, to what was after all a neighbouring land to him-the Duchy of Savoy—was artist and observer sufficiently to recognise that in that land was charm unknown to his own-he saw a world that had 'Swiss mountains and an Italian sky,' he said.

But why great mountains should be always 'Swiss,' and soft and noble skies always 'Italian,' Töppfer did not explain-he chose his words, made his comparisons, with the small knowledge of his day. Seeing Savoy, he did not really see in it either Italy or Switzerland, or quite the blend he fancied of the two. Still less would he have seen either of these, or their best characteristics mixed, had he gone one step further, and passed from Annecy or Aix into Dauphiné. What he had really was a foretaste of the magic South; and in Dauphiné that foretaste is larger and more marked.

So much for Töppfer! One puts it that way perhaps, if one About it one feels differently.

considers, reasons, analyses. What I see in Savoy, as through a glass,' a little 'darkly,' and in Dauphiné with more divine distinctness, is just the least familiar side of the great face of France, turned gravely and benignantly towards her lover.

Partial Eclipse

A Paris newspaper, the Débats or the Matin, reaching these recesses of the hills, informed us that an eclipse of the Sun was happening to-day total near Barcelona, and very visible in many regions-even here. Particularly here, as far as its effects are concerned, as I should judge, having now experienced it: our little village of La Grave agog about it, all the heart of the afternoon: the smoked glasses of every school-child of the place reminding me how far had penetrated Science and curiosity; and a commotion, as it were, of Nature-a sensation, to say the least-having brought together, in affable accord, persons not previously accustomed to acknowledge each other: the raceglass of a German tourist, on whom I had not looked with favour, having been offered to me with civility, not to say with effusion. Thus is Mankind made one.

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Extraordinary were the physical effects '-extraordinary, without a shade or a suggestion of darkness. The world was suddenly livid. Violet hues, unearthly, weird-the presage, one might well have thought, of some great change undreamt of, that knew no precedent and had no certain end-passed into the Landscape. And not that alone. A something in the very blood, I felt, excited all one's being. I was elated: I must mount the hillside: I must walk with vigour.

What was it really happened? The weird light did not account for one's sensations. It was a change of temperature so rapid that it came like a shock-or a fillip. I had scarcely guessed at it. But my German tourist, learned, observant, assured me that here at La Grave in ten minutes the thermometer fell seven degrees--much more upon the actual mountain. And the landlord, standing by, bade me notice that on the other side of the valley, under the crests of the Meige, the long cascade that is in truth a slow and constant melting of the ice and snows had ceased to be-the snows congealed; the glacier silent, immovable, its coldness reaching us like a grip. That was the explanation of one's feeling. For the nonce, one was in different latitudes-or upon different summits.

That is now over. All is now as it was-again-the grip relaxed: the world released: one's pulses quieted: and the familiar sunshine of late Summer days flooding, as yesterday, these hills of France.

Monsieur Roblat

There have been placed by me at table-for what reason I am unaware-at what was my own table more or less-three people whom I like; and so I have not bargained for their removal; nay, quite alone for several days, I am thankful for their presence. One of them chiefly interests me-Monsieur Roblat. The others-Madame de Sabré, Madame de Vigne, both of them young—are decorative background to Monsieur Roblat's sad and noble gravity. They are his friends nothing more than his friends-but of a different world; and it might perhaps be the subject of a subtle inquiry, ' What brings them together?' The curiosity of the hotel is very likely roused at this moment on the theme. What brings them together is more than I can say. A common association with some fourth person, probably --who may be a figure, even a dominating figure, in Monsieur Roblat's Past. I drop that part of the matter.

But Monsieur Roblat himself? Although he listens with amiability and acquiescence to the views and the opinions they propound, you feel his real mind is not at all with his attractive friends. This poor, kind, noble Jewish gentleman is silent while they prattle-is tragic in the midst of their lightness. He comes to me, I confess— here within the field of my just momentary vision-a figure still shadowy, out of the dark. Curiously considerate-aiming always at doing people kindnesses-thoughtful for young and old, for bourgeois and peasant quite as much as for our rare great lady-I know it in a dozen ways already—his face, in quietude, looks ineradicably sorrowful. This hotel life and his attractive friends, the excursions he takes with them-for he has been a climber in his time, and knows this land and can be useful to them now-all that is but a passing show to him. Such things move on the mere surface of his life to-day.

I am not sure, however, that he is not visiting this land because of deeper memories of it, and more poignant hours. Or is he here that the remembrance of poignant hours, passed in far other scenes, may gradually be deadened? And will they be? I know nothing.

Only I know that learned, interesting, highly informed, sagacious as he is, the most profound impression on Monsieur Roblat's mind, at present, is that of his own suffering. And not bereavement onlydisillusionment. In the French phrase, which so imaginatively hints at that which is too much to define, il est revenu de bien des choses' come back from many things '-and what things who shall say? I know only, they are things that have bowed down his soul.

Napoleon

In the scraps of distantly gathered conversation in which Monsieur Roblat, Madame de Sabré and Madame de Vigne take part, Napoleon's name is often uttered. Frequent and deep appears their interest in

that historic figure. But now I have discovered that the personage the ladies are appraising with brightened eyes is not the Napoleon of History, but a Napoleon of the hills. Of all French guides the most intrepid and most certain, Napoleon has gently piloted these ladies among the shoals and quicksands of the mountains. And then, upon the morrow of some conspicuous triumph, he will walk slowly up from the village to the forecourt of the Hôtel, and while these ladies stand flatteringly about him-as women will, attendant on an oracleNapoleon slowly prophesies of weather, and advises programmes.

If their admiration had always been directed to as manly and as modest a figure! A little slow of speech, but with chosen words and clear-cut thought even-absolutely intelligent-Napoleon is in truth interesting company. This stalwart son of the High Alps, a mountaineer in Summer, is in Winter, Madame de Vigne tells mewell, not a Parisian, but an inhabitant of Paris. Some undefined department of the Leather trade-he is dans les cuirs,' he says, whatever that may mean-knows him as an expert. And so in Winter months I shall now picture this bronzed figure of the mountains as he goes his slow and steady way amidst the alertness, the excitability, the pallor of Belleville.

Italian Youth

Everywhere in evidence in this Le Lautaret Hotel-about its rooms, its terraces at breakfast time, about its gardens-is an Italian youth who affects my nerves prejudicially. Twenty years old, possibly well-dressed, well-groomed-he is presumably educated, but has nothing to do. The youth has ever the appearance of beginning; but he is never performing. His hat upon his head, his garments disposed as if for an excursion, nails driven into his boots probablysuch is his prowess !-at all events bearing with him at every hour, ostentatiously, a walking-stick with pointed iron at the end for high ascents-my youth prowls round with eyes in search apparently of somebody who never comes, and in this state of expectation, and, as it were, only momentary abeyance, passes the day, except at mealtimes, when he is seen in company of female relatives who, with him, in a tongue mellifluous but inexpressive, gabble incessantly of trivial things.

He represents, I fear, a type common enough in modern Italy, and straying here beyond its borders-the idler without opulence, but without obligation: Youth with no aim, no taste, no serious care, no impulse, no initiative-when urged at all, urged only from withoutthe prey of circumstance, the toy of chance, and the first-comer's puppet.

VOL. LXIV-No. 380

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