ST. BERTRAND DE COMMINGES.
Keeping to old friends--Valley history--Entering the Garonne
valley--The picturesque St. Béat--St. Béat to Viella--Memories of the
lovely Thames--Baths of Ste. Marie--Loures--The cross-roads--Weak
walls--Entering St. Bertrand--An ancient house--The inn--A charming
garden--The cathedral--A national disgrace--"The Crocodile of St.
Bertrand"--The tomb of Hugues de Chatillon--Travelling desecraters--St.
Bertrand's rod--The ruined cloisters--Desolation--Swine
feeding--Montrejeau--The buffet--No milk!--French railway
officials--Trying experiences.
It was not many years ago that travellers with heavy luggage were
forced to travel in the clumsy diligence between Luchon and Montrejeau;
and, especially in the summer when the press for places was great, very
little comfort could be enjoyed during the journey, except perhaps on a
fine day, when for a short space the vehicle stopped at St. Bertrand de
Comminges. Now, the railway in an hour performs the whole distance; but
we preferred to keep to our old friends, a "landau and four horses,"
and with the weather still propitious, left the comfortable Hôtel
Canton at our favourite time, and were soon bowling down the Allée
d'Etigny. In a short time the Allée Barcugna and the station were left
behind, and we entered the broader part of the valley of Luchon. This
valley was originally--_on dit_--a huge lake, and afterwards
--presumably when it had ceased to be such--became peopled by a Gallic
race, whose "divinity," Ilixo, [Footnote: Ilixo has now become Luchon.]
has given his name to the surroundings. We presume in this derivation
"consonants are interchangeable and vowels don't count."
Cier de Luchon (four and a quarter miles), above which to the west
stands the Pic d'Antenac (6470 ft), was soon passed through, as we
crossed and recrossed the railway line, now following the River Pique,
and now, for a short space, keeping along the line. Five miles further,
and we left the Pique valley for that of the Garonne, passing through
the village of Cierp, which lies to the right of Marignac, the station
where passengers alight for St. Béat. This is a very picturesque
village, about three miles east, perched above the Garonne in a narrow
defile, possessing an ancient church and a good inn. The Pic de Gar
(5860 ft.), which rears up to the north of the village, is very rich in
flora; and the road passing through it (St Béat) afterwards leads by
the villages of Arlos, Fos, and Lès to Bosost (twelve miles), whence it
continues to Viella.
The valley at this point is particularly fertile and lovely, and as we
progressed, frequently following the windings of the Garonne, memories
of pleasant hours, both lively and dreamy, spent on some of the quiet
reaches on the dear old Thames, seemed naturally to recall themselves;
the similarity of the surroundings being in some parts so great.
At Saléchan (thirteen miles) the beautiful valleys of Siradan and
Barousse branch off, and the scenery in the vicinity is deliciously
bright and peaceful-looking. The bathing resort of Ste. Marie lies a
mile northwards, and barely a mile to the west of it, on the road to
Mauléon, the baths of Siradan are situated. Mauléon (1960 ft.) is three
and a quarter miles west from Siradan by the village of Cazaril,
standing at the head of the Barousse valley.
Still passing through charming country, we reached Loures (not to be
confounded with Lourdes), at which place--being the railway station for
St. Bertrand--carriages can be hired for the drive, a distance of six
miles there and back. Traversing the village and crossing the bridge,
we issued again on a vista of fields bright with trefoil and waving
flowers, and backed up by finely-wooded hills. Away to the right,
nestling among the trees, stands a pretty little village and castle,
and as we passed on, St. Bertrand came in view over the crest of a
wooded hill; and, arriving at the junction where the roads from Auch,
Toulouse, and Ax join in, we ascended the hill on which this ancient
town is situated.
Founded by Pompey the Great, B.C. 69, Lugdunum Convenarum, or Lyon,
or--as it is now called--St. Bertrand de Comminges, though standing
only 1690 ft. above the sea, seems from its isolated position, to be
much higher; as the accompanying sketch by M. Doré testifies, though
the latter exaggerates the proportions of the cathedral.
Though in a ruinous state, much of the old ramparts and fortifications
remain, while in some parts many of the old stones seemed to us to have
been used for ornamental walls, such as no one would consider fit to
resist even a very modest cannon-ball.
Bearing to the left, we passed beneath the "Porte Cabirole," opposite
to which stands a small kiosque, built, on account of the beauty of the
view, at that point The road continues between high walls underneath
another archway, past the ruins of a curious house, with a winding
staircased tower of the 13th century, which alas! before this appears
in print, will probably have disappeared altogether; then bending to
the left, and again to the right after a few yards, we drew up at the
Café (called by courtesy Hôtel) de Comminges, with the ancient
cathedral in full view. Having sent a telegram early in the morning, we
found lunch ready for us, and though we had fared better elsewhere, we
did not consider that for a "primitive Roman town" the meal was to be
found fault with while as to the garden belonging to the inn, it was
indeed a charming little spot. Although in truth but little more than a
"spot," the bright and varied hues of its stocks, columbines, pansies,
and sweet peas, with here and there a particularly fine iris,
contrasting so effectively with the dark green of the ivy leaves and
the blackness of the berries clustering over the old wall, gave it a
charm which we could not fail to feel; and the view from the
creeper-grown arbour over the richly-wooded hills and brilliant fields,
with the bright garden as a background, made a scene to remember and
enjoy.
[Illustration: St. Bertrand De Comminges.]
Notre Dame, or Sainte Marie, as the cathedral is called, attracted our
attention most, and though the front view is perfectly spoilt by the
lofty scaffolding erected before it, the inside fully compensates for
this defect, although it is impossible to view the ruinous state of
some portions without great regret.
The English are supposed to be a very lucky people, and at any rate we
have reason to be thankful that we are not a republic, nor as a rule
neglectful of old historical buildings; and the sight of this
magnificent old place, mouldering away with no apparent aid
forthcoming--except such as the liberality of occasional visitors
provides, and that, for such a work, is practically _nil_--did not
provoke any wish to change our nationality. It is not as if the French
said, "We are becoming a Protestant people, and therefore wish to
destroy all signs of our having once followed the faith of Rome;" for
in that case censure would be utterly misplaced; but surely if the
national religion remains Roman Catholic, an ancient and wonderfully
interesting old cathedral like this ought to be suitably preserved.
Having been built at two different periods (viz. the close of the 11th
and the middle of the 14th centuries), the architecture presents two
distinct styles, which in parts, are particularly incongruous. The
organ and pulpit combined, which are on the left of the entrance,
constitute a very handsome work of the "Renaissance" period, and are
most unique. On the opposite side of the building a crocodile--or the
remains of one--hangs from the wall, doubtless brought, as M. Joanne
suggests, from some Egyptian crusade; but the "church" puts a very
different complexion on the subject, as will be seen from the
following, which--with all its faults--will be, we trust, pardoned,
since it issues from the mouth of so badly-treated a reptile as
"THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND."
A crocodile truly, there's no one could doubt,
On taking a look at my skin:
It's as dry and as tough as a petrified clout,[1]
Though, alas! there is nothing within.
I've been here on this wall for a jolly long time,
And the "cronies" a legend will tell
Of the wonderful things, void of reason and rhyme,
That during my lifetime befell.
They'll tell you I lived in "this" beautiful vale,
And found in the river a home;
While even the bravest would start and turn pale,
If they chanced in my pathway to roam.
They'll tell how I swallow'd the babies and lambs,
And harassed the cows in the mead;
And such slander completely my character damns,
While I've no one to help _me_ to plead.
And they'll whine how I met the great Bertrand himself,
The miracle-worker and saint.
But those women will tell any "walkers" for pelf,
And swear I'm all black--when I ain't.
Yes! they actually say that St. Bertrand came by,
And lifted his ivory stick,
Then dealt me a terrible blow in the eye,
Which levell'd me flat as a brick.
But it's false! Just as false
as that "here" I was
brought
On the back of that
wonderful man.
But the crones just repeat
what the "priesthood"
have taught,
And it's part of a regular
plan.
Why, believe me, they
caught me afloat on
the Nile
As my dinner I just had
begun;
I was chased by a host of
the picked "rank
and file,"
And to them my destruction
seem'd fun.
And when I was dead they
anointed my bones,
And placed me up here
on the wall;
But that organ at first was
so loud in its tones,
Of rest I found nothing
at all.
A crocodile truly. You've
heard my sad tale,
And I say that such lies
are a sin;
While the protests I make,
seeming nought to
avail,
Are enough to make any
one thin!
[Footnote 1: This is a Yorkshire word, meaning "cloth."]
[Illustration: THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND.]
Turning away from this "priestly" monument to St. Bertrand's miraculous
powers, we passed along the side of the remarkable choir stalls--which
take up the greater part of the edifice--and turned inside at an
opening, near the high altar. The latter, decorated with the ordinary
display of 19th century tinsel, does not call for much comment, but in
a passage close behind it stands the mausoleum of St. Bertrand, built
in 1432. The stalls were erected in the 16th century, and are worthy of
much attention.
The rood loft, which is nearest the entrance to the cathedral, is
ornamented with figures of the Apostles and Saints, and the exterior
panels running along both sides, and divided by small choicely-carved
columns, represent a diversity of figures; none, however, seeming to
bear much, if at all, on religion. In the interior, besides the throne,
there is a remarkable "tree of Jesse "--near the first stall on the
right hand--which we thought was well done; but what with the different
figures above each stall, the arabesques uniting them, and the less
minute work under each seat, there was no lack of carving to be seen;
and even if it was not all of the highest order, the general effect was
strikingly good. It is worth noting that the cathedral, owing to some
great error, was built facing north instead of west, and that
consequently the east side is on the left of the entrance. Half-way up
this side is the small chapel of Notre Dame de Pitié, in which the fine
marble tomb of Hugues de Chatillon lies. The sculpture is especially
fine, though the beauty is somewhat marred by names scratched with a
pin or written in pencil, wherever sufficient level space is afforded.
Since English people as a rule are credited with being by far the most
numerous of this class of travelling desecraters, it was at least a
satisfaction to notice that most of the individuals, who had chosen
this objectionable--though probably the only--method of handing their
names down to posterity, were French. This tomb was only erected in the
15th century, although the good bishop died in 1352, the same year in
which the edifice was finished.
Several relics may be seen in the sacristy, and amongst them is the
wonderful ivory rod with which the great St. Bertrand is supposed to
have slain the much-maligned crocodile.
Close to the entrance to the sacristy a door leads into the cloisters,
where the scene of ruin and desolation is painfully evident. In the
portion nearest the church, which is roofed over, several curious
_sarcophagi_ may be seen; the rest is a series of pillars and
arches from which the roof has long vanished. In the photographs (which
may be bought at the inn) there is some appearance of order even in the
midst of the decay, but this was probably carefully effected prior to
the artist's visit; for when we were there the whole space was
overgrown completely with weeds, among which a rose-bush and a few
other flowers struggled to bloom, untended and apparently unthought of.
Passing again through the cathedral, whose windows are well worthy of
mention, we made a detour round the town, and then started for
Montrejeau.
The road does not pass through such charming country as we had seen in
the morning, but at times there are some pleasing little bits. At one
spot, where a grove of trees skirted the way, we noticed a large herd
of swine, watched over by a solitary and silent female, to whom they
appeared to give no trouble, never seeming to stray far.
Going at a fairly fast pace, we only took forty-five minutes to reach
the ancient town of Mons Regalis, now completely modernised into
Montrejeau. The advancing years have not only altered it in name, for,
with the exception of the ruins of a twelfth-century castle, there is
nothing to indicate its mediaeval origin; and as to the old-world look
that is so pleasant to meet with, but now so rare, this town of the
"Royal Mount" has no trace of it. The "buffet" at the station, however,
can be recommended, although the "lacteal fluid," either in its pure or
watered form, is decidedly scarce there. The dinner and coffee are
good, and, like most dinners at the stations (always excepting such
places as Amiens and Tours), moderate, when taken at the table d'hôte.
We had plenty of time for a meal before the train destined to carry us
on to Pau was due, but in spite of that, through the boorishness of the
station porters and staff generally, we did not depart without a lively
experience.
It is well known that ladies as a rule are wont to travel with numerous
small parcels, and there was no exception in our party to this rule,
while Mr. Sydney and myself were not without _impedimenta_ as
well. In all, there were about a dozen--to put a familiar figure--too
small or too fragile to share the dangers of the luggage-van. These,
three respective porters promised to bring to the train, but as every
porter broke his word, they remained _in statu quo_. And we may
here remark how noticeable it is, that whereas English porters are
always on the alert to earn a few coppers, their French representatives
will rarely if ever help with anything but the registered luggage
(which of course is in the company's charge), while a higher official,
such as you would never ask in England, will occasionally assist--if
desired to do so with politeness--but only occasionally. It is evident
that the French Government reduce the staff to the narrowest limits,
and do not intend porters to help in transporting any luggage but that
which has been paid for in registration; and on the same principle as
armies are organised in South America, for every "porter" there will be
two or three superintendents.
To resume.--This perfidy of the porters placed us in a very unenviable
position; the train was due to start, the ladies were in the carriage,
but the luggage was in a pile at the other side of the station, and Mr.
Sydney, thinking all was well, had followed the ladies. I was requested
to do likewise, as the train was off; but instead of so doing, launched
such a tirade at the head of every official within reach, that they
kept the train waiting to return it; at last, seeing I was obdurate, at
least half a dozen rushed to the offending pile, collared the various
items, and bore them towards our compartment. As the first instalment
arrived I got up, and the train started. The rest of the laden
officials were ranged a few yards apart, and as our carriage passed,
the packages and cloaks were thrown in. The scene they presented when
the door was first shut was unique, but very deplorable, and it
required the whole of the journey of four and a half _hours_ to
Pau, to calm our troubled minds, cool our heated frames, and make us
look with equanimity on our experience. It would require _years_
to efface the opinion formed on "French railway station" management; so
in that we followed a method often pursued by schoolboys in early life,
over the "Pons asinorum," and gave it up.