Which once had clasped Excalibur.
But I could not tell the difference between Margaux and any decent
claret with my eyes shut, so I did not feel any stir--unless, perhaps,
as a patriot, when we passed much the most imposing establishment, and
the Captain said, “That is Chateau Gilbey”! I looked with silent wonder,
for did I not remember years ago, when the Gladstone Grocers’ Licences
Bill was young, and the Christie Minstrels sung scoffingly--
Ten little niggers going out to dine,
One drank Gilbey, and then there were nine?
And here was Gilbey with the finest “caves” and the choicest vineyard
in the Bordelaise! Who can measure the competitive energy of the British
business-man?
I must end as I set out, with the birds. As we neared the mouth of
the Garonne, sixteen miles from land, the Captain said, two little
water-wagtails flitted into the rigging. There they rested a few
minutes, and then, to my grief, started off out to sea, but again
and again came hack to the ship. At last a sailor caught one, and the
Captain secured it and took it to his cabin, but thought it would be
sure to die. It was the hen-bird. She did not die, but flitted away
cheerfully when he brought her out and let her fly on the quay of
Bordeaux. But I fear she will never find her mate.
Lourdes, 15th April 1893.
The farthest point south in our Easter scamper was Lourdes, to which
I found that my companions were more bent on going than to any other
possible place within our range. The attractions even of the Pass of
Ronces-valles, of St. Sebastian, and the Pyrenean battle-fields of 1814,
faded with them before those of the nineteenth-century Port Royal. At
first I said I would not go. The fact is, I am one of the old-fashioned
folk who hold that some day the kingdoms of this world are to become the
kingdoms of Christ, and that all peoples are to be gathered “in one fold
under one Shepherd.” It has always seemed to me that one of the surest
ways of postponing that good time is to be suspicious of other faiths
than our own; to accuse them of blind superstition and deliberate
imposture; even to walk round their churches as if they were museums or
picture-galleries, while people are kneeling in prayer. So I said “No”;
I would stop on the terrace at Pau, with one of the most glorious views
in the world to look at, and carefully examine Henry IV.’s château,
or go and get a round of golf with my hibernating fellow-countrymen. I
thought that the probable result of visiting Lourdes might be to make me
more inclined to think a large section of my fellow-mortals dupes, and
their priests humbugs--conclusions I was anxious to avoid. However, I
changed my mind at the last moment, and am heartily glad I did. It is an
easy twenty miles (about) from Pau, from which you run straight to the
Pyrenees, and pull up in a green nook of the outlying lower mountains,
where two valleys meet, which run back towards the higher snow-capped
range. They looked so tempting to explore, as did also the grim old keep
on the high rock which divides them and completely dominates the little
town, that twenty years ago I couldn’t have resisted, and should have
gone for an afternoon’s climb. But I am grown less lissom, if not wiser,
and so took my place meekly in the fly which my companions had chartered
for the grotto. We were through the little town in a few minutes, the
only noteworthy thing being the number of women who offered us candles
of all sizes to burn before the Madonna’s statue in the grotto, and the
number of relic-shops. Emerging from the street, we found ourselves in
front of a green lawn, at the other end of which was a fine white marble
church, almost square, with a dome--more like a mosque, I thought, than
a Western church; and up above this another tall Gothic church, with a
fine spire, to which the pilgrims ascend by two splendid semi-circular
flights of easy, broad steps, one on each side of the lower church, and
holding it, as it were, in their arms. We, however, drove up the steep
ascent outside the left or southern staircase, and got down at the door
of the higher church, which is built on the rock at the bottom of which
is the famous spring and grotto. We entered by a spacious porch, where
my attention was at once arrested by the mural tablets of white marble,
each of which commemorated the cure of some sufferer: “Reconnaissance
pour la guérison de mon fils,” “de ma fille,” etc., being at least as
frequent as those for the cure of the person who put up the tablet. I
thought at first I would count them, but soon gave it up, as not only
this big vestibule, but the walls of all the chapels, and of the big
church below (built, I was told, and hope, by the Duke of Norfolk at his
own cost), are just covered with them. This upper church was a perfect
blaze of light and colour, much too gorgeous for my taste; but what the
decorations were which gave this effect I cannot say, as I was entirely
absorbed in noting the votive offerings of all kinds which were hung
round each of the shrines, both here and in the lower church. The most
noteworthy of these, to my mind, are the number of swords, epaulettes,
and military decorations, which their owners have hung up as thank
offerings. I do not suppose that French officers and privates differ
much from ours, and I am bold to assert that Tommy Atkins would not part
with his cross or medal, or his captain, for that matter, with his
epaulettes or sword, if they had gone away from Lourdes no better in
body than when they went there hobbling from wounds, or tottering from
fever or ague.
When we had seen the upper church we went down a long flight of circular
stairs, and came out in the lower (Duke of Norfolk’s) church,--much more
interesting, I think, architecturally, and decorated in better, because
quieter, taste than the upper one. From this we went round to the grotto
in the rock, on which the upper church stands, and in which the famous
spring rises, and over it a not unpleasant (I cannot say more) statue
of the Madonna; and all round candles alight of all sizes, from
farthing-dips to colossal moulds, many of which had been burning, they
said, for a week. A single, quiet old priest sat near the entrance
reading his Missal, but only speaking when spoken to. In front were
ranged long rows of chairs, on which sat or knelt some dozen pilgrims
with wistful faces, waiting, perhaps for the troubling of the waters.
These are carried from the grotto to a series of basins along the rock
outside, at one of which two poor old crones with sore eyes were bathing
them, and talking Basque (I believe)--at any rate some unknown tongue
to me. I should have liked to hear their experiences, but they couldn’t
understand a word of my Anglican French. Here, again, the most
striking object is the mass of crutches of all shapes and sizes, and
fearsome-looking bandages, which literally cover the rock on each
side of the entrance to the grotto, for the space (I should guess) of
fourteen or fifteen feet on one side, and ten or twelve on the other.
And so we finished our inspection, and went back to our fly, which we
had ordered to meet us at the end of the lawn above mentioned, which
lies between the churches and the town; and so to the railway station,
and back to Biarritz by Pau. I daresay that people who go there at the
times when the great bodies of pilgrims come, may carry away a very
different impression from mine. All I can say is, that I never was in
a place where there was less concealment of any kind; and there was no
attempt whatever to influence you in any way by priest or attendant.
There were all the buildings and the grotto open, and you could examine
them and their contents undisturbed for any time you chose to give to
them, and draw from your examination whatever conclusions you pleased.
So I, for one, can only repeat that I am heartily glad that I went; and
shall think better of my Roman Catholic brethren as the result of my
visit for the rest of my life.
Of course, the main interest of Lourdes lies in the world-old
controversy between the men of science and the men of faith, as to the
reality of the alleged facts--miracles, as many folk call them--of the
healing properties which the waters of this famous spring, or the air of
Lourdes, or the Madonna, or some other unknown influence, are alleged
to possess, and to be freely available for invalid pilgrims who care
to make trial of them. Every one in those parts that I met, at Lourdes
itself, at Pau, Biarritz, Bayonne, is interested in the question and
ready to discuss it. Perhaps I can best indicate the points of the
debate by formulating the arguments on each side which I heard, putting
them into the mouths of representative men--a doctor and a priest. I
was lucky enough to fall in with an excellent representative of the
scientific side, an able and open-minded M.D. on his travels. I had no
opportunity of speaking to one of the priests; but their side of the
argument is stoutly upheld by at least half of the people one meets.
_Dr._--They are nothing but what are called faith-cures, akin to those
which the Yankee Sequah effects when he goes round our northern towns
in his huge car, with his brass band and attendant Indian Sachems in the
costume of the prairie. Of course, here the surroundings are far more
impressive and serious; but the cures are the same for all that--some
action of the nerves which makes patients believe they are cured, when
they are not really. Probably nine-tenths are just as bad again in a few
months.
_Priest_.--Well, don’t we say they are faith-cures? We don’t pretend
that we can do them, as this Sequah you talk about does. You allow that
great numbers _think_ they are cured, and walk about without crutches or
bandages, or pains in their bodies, and enjoy life again for a time at
any rate; which is more than you can do for them, or they wouldn’t come
here to be healed.
_Dr_.--How long do they walk about without crutches or pains in their
limbs? Why don’t you take us behind the scenes, and let us test and
follow up some of these cures?
_Priest_.--We can’t take you behind the scenes, for there are no scenes
to go behind. We tell you _we_ don’t do the cures, or know precisely how
they are done. We can’t hinder your inquiries, and don’t want to hinder
them if we could. There are the tablets of “reconnaissance,” with names
and addresses; you can go to these, if you like, or talk to the patients
whom you see at the spring or in the chapels.
_Dr_.--Come, now! You don’t really mean to say you believe that our
Lord’s Mother appeared to this girl on 23rd March 1858, and told her
that this Lourdes was a specially favourite place with her; and that she
has since that time given these special healing qualities to the water
or air of Lourdes, or whatever it is that causes these effects at this
place?
_Priest_.--We mean to say that the girl thoroughly believed it, and we
hold that her impression--her certainty--didn’t come from the devil, as
it must if it was a lie; that it wasn’t the mere dream of a hysterical
girl, and was not given her for nothing. Else, how can one account
for these buildings, costing, perhaps, as much as one of your finest
cathedrals, all put up in thirty-five years?
_Dr_.--Yes; but that doesn’t answer my question. Did the Mother of our
Lord appear to this girl, and is it she who works the cures.
_Priest_.--If you mean by “appear,” “come visibly,” we don’t know. But
you should remember always that the French have a very different feeling
about the Madonna from you English. Perhaps you can’t help connecting
her with another French girl, Joan of Arc, who believed the Madonna had
appeared to her and told her she should turn you English out of France,
which she did--a more difficult and costly job even than building these
churches.
_Dr_.--Well, we won’t argue about the Madonna, and I am quite ready
to admit that the evidence you have here, in the tablets and votive
offerings, the crutches and bandages, are _primâ-facie_ proof that
numbers of pilgrims have gone away from Lourdes under the impression
that they were cured. What I maintain is, that you have not shown, and
cannot show, that your cures are not merely due to the absorption of
diseased tissue as the result of strong excitement--an effect not at all
common, but quite recognised as not unfrequent by some of the highest
authorities in medical science.
There the controversy rests, I think; at any rate, so far as I heard it
debated; and I must own that the scientific explanation does not seem to
me to hold water. To take one instance, would the absorption of diseased
tissue drive a piece of cloth out of a soldier’s leg or body? Perhaps
yes, for what I know; but would the excitement of a mother cure the
disease of her child? These two classes of cures (of which there are a
great number) struck me, perhaps, more than any of the rest. But I must
not take up more of your space, and can only advise all your readers who
are really interested in this problem to take the first opportunity they
can of going to Lourdes, and, if possible, as we did, at a time when the
great bodies of pilgrims are not there, and they can quietly examine the
facts there, for--_pace_ the doctors and men of science--these tablets,
swords, crutches, etc., are facts which they are bound to acknowledge
and investigate. I shall be surprised if they do not come away, as I
did, with a feeling that they have seen a deeply interesting sight for
which it is well worth while to come from England, and that there are
two sides to this question of the Lourdes miracles (so-called), either
of which any reverent student of the world in which he is living may
conscientiously hold.
Fontarabia, 22nd April 1893.
Every year the truth of Burns’s “the best-laid schemes o’ mice and men
gang aft a-gley,” comes more home to me. From the time I was ten the
Pass of Roncesvalles has had a fascination for me. Then the habit of
ballad-singing was popular, and a relative of mine had a well-deserved
repute in that line. Amongst her old-world favourites were “Boland the
Brave” and “Durandarté.” The first told how Boland left his castle
on the Rhine, where he used to listen to the chanting in the opposite
convent, in which his lady-love had taken the veil on the false
report of his death, and “think she blessed him in her prayer when the
hallelujah rose”; and followed Charlemagne in his Spanish raid, till “he
fell and wished to fall” at Boncesvalles. The second, how Durandarté,
dying in the fatal pass, sent his last message to his mistress by his
cousin Montesinos. In those days I never could hear the last lines
without feeling gulpy in the throat:--
Kind in manners, fair in favour,