I.
From Luz to Gavarnie is eighteen miles. It is enjoined upon every living
creature able to mount a horse, a mule, or any quadruped whatever, to
visit Gavarnie; in default of other beasts, he should, putting aside
all shame, bestride an ass. Ladies and convalescents are taken there in
sedan-chairs.
Otherwise, think what a figure you will make on your return.
“You come from the Pyrenees; you’ve seen Gavarnie?”
“No.”
What then did you go to the Pyrenees for?
You hang your head, and your friend triumphs, especially if he was
bored at Gavarnie. You undergo a description of Gavarnie after the last
edition of the guide-book. Gavarnie is a sublime {327}sight; tourists
go sixty miles out of their way to see it; the Duchess d’Angoulême had
herself carried to the furthest rocks; Lord Bute, when he saw it for
the first time, cried: “If I were now at the extremity of India,
and suspected the existence of what I see at this moment, I should
immediately leave in order to enjoy and admire it!” You are overwhelmed
with quotations and supercilious smiles; you are convicted of laziness,
of dulness of mind, and, as certain English travellers say, of
_unæsthetic insensibility._
There are but two resources: to learn a description by heart, or to
make the journey. I have made the journey, and am going to give the
description.
II.
We leave at six o’clock in the morning, by the road to Scia, in the fog,
without seeing at first anything beyond great confused forms of trees
and rocks. At the end of a quarter of an hour, we hear along the pathway
a noise of sharp cries drawing near: it was a funeral procession coming
from Scia. Two men bore a small coffin under a white shroud; behind
came four herdsmen in long cloaks and brown capuchons, silent, with
bent heads; four women followed in black mantles. It was they {328}who
uttered those monotonous and piercing lamentations; one knew not if they
were wailing or praying. They walked with long steps through the cold
mist, without stopping or looking at any one, and were going to bury the
poor body in the cemetery at Luz.
[Illustration: 354]
At Scia the road passes over a small bridge very high up, which commands
another bridge, gray and abandoned. The double tier of arches bends
gracefully over the blue torrent; meanwhile a pale light already floats
in the diaphanous mist; a golden gauze undulates above the {329}Gave;
the aërial veil grows thin and will soon vanish.
[Illustration: 356]
{330}
{331}Nothing can convey the idea of this light, so youthful, timid and
smiling, which glitters like the bluish wings of a dragon-fly that is
pursued and is taken captive in a net of fog. Beneath, the boiling water
is engulfed in a narrow conduit and leaps like a mill-race. The column
of foam, thirty feet high, falls with a furious din, and its glaucous
waves, heaped together in the deep ravine, dash against each other and
are broken upon a line of fallen rocks. Other enormous rocks, debris of
the same mountain, hang above the road, their squared heads crowned with
brambles for hair; ranged in impregnable line, they seem to watch the
torments of the Gave, which their brothers hold beneath themselves
crushed and subdued.
III.
We turn a second bridge and enter the plain of Gèdres, verdant and
cultivated, where the hay is in cocks; they are harvesting; our horses
walk between two hedges of hazel; we go along by orchards; but the
mountain is ever near; the guide shows us a rock three times the height
of a man, which, two years ago, rolled down and demolished a house.
{332}We encounter several singular caravans: a band of young priests
in black hats, black gloves, black cassocks tucked up, black stockings,
very apparent, novices in horsemanship who bound at every step, like the
Gave; a big, jolly round man, in a sedan-chair, his hands crossed over
his belly, who looks on us with a paternal air, and reads his newspaper;
three ladies of sufficiently ripe age, very slender, very lean, very
stiff, who, for dignity’s sake, set their beasts on a trot as we
draw near them. The cicisbeo is a bony cartilaginous gentleman, fixed
perpendicularly on his saddle like a telegraph-pole. We hear a harsh
clucking, as of a choked hen, and we recognize the English tongue.
As for the French nation, it is but poorly represented at Gèdres. First
appears a long, mouldy custom-house officer, who indorses the permission
to pass of the horses; with his once green coat the poor man had the
air of having sojourned a week in the river. No sooner has he let us go,
than a blackguard band, boys and girls, pounces upon us; some stretch
out their hands, others wish to sell stones to us; they motion to the
guide to stop; they claim the travellers; two or three hold the bridle
of each horse, and all cry in chorus: “The grotto! the grotto!” There is
nothing for it but to resign ourselves and see the grotto.{333}
[Illustration: 359]
{334}
{335}A servant opens a door, makes us descend two staircases, throws
a lump of earth in passing into a lagune, to awaken the sleeping
fish, takes half-a-dozen steps over a couple of planks. “Well, the
grotto?”--“Behold it, Monsieur.” We see a streamlet of water between two
rocks overhung with ash-trees. “Is that all?” She does not understand,
opens her eyes wide and goes away. We ascend again and read this
inscription: _The charge for seeing the grotto is ten cents._ The
matter is all explained. The peasants of the Pyrenees are not wanting in
brains.
IV.
Beyond Gèdres is a wild valley called Chaos, which is well named.
After quarter of an hour’s journey there, the trees disappear, then the
juniper and the box, and finally the moss; the Gave is no longer seen;
all noises are hushed. It is a dead solitude peopled with wrecks. Three
avalanches of rocks and crushed flint have come down from the summit
to the very bottom. The horrid tide, high and a quarter of a league in
length, spreads out like waves its myriads of sterile stones, and the
inclined sheet seems still to glide towards inundating the gorge. These
stones are shattered and pulverized; their living fractures and thin
harsh points wound the eye; they are still bruising and crushing
{336}each other. Not a bush, not a spear of grass; the arid grayish
train burns beneath a sun of brass; its débris are scorched to a dull
hue, as in a furnace. A ruined mountain is more desolate than any human
ruin.
A hundred paces further on, the aspect of the valley becomes formidable.
Troops of mammoths and mastodons in stone lie crouching over the eastern
declivity, one above another, and heaped up over the whole slope. These
colossal ridges shine with a tawny hue like iron rust; the most enormous
of them drink the water of the river at their base. They look as if
warming their bronzed skin in the sun, and sleep, turned over, stretched
out on their side, resting in all attitudes, and always gigantic and
frightful. Their deformed paws are curled up; their bodies half buried
in the earth; their monstrous backs rest one upon another. When you
enter into the midst of the prodigious band, the horizon disappears, the
blocks rise fifty feet into the air; the road winds painfully among the
overhanging masses; men and horses seem but dwarfs; these rusted edges
mount in stages to the very summit, and the dark hanging army seems
ready to fall on the human insects which come to trouble its sleep.
Once upon a time, the mountain, in a paroxysm of fever, shook its
summits like a cathedral that is falling in.{337}
[Illustration: 363]
{338}
{339}A few points resisted, and their embattled turrets are drawn out
in line on the crest; but their layers are dislocated, their sides
creviced, their points jagged.
[Illustration: 365]
The whole shattered ridge totters. Beneath them the rock fails suddenly
in a living and still bleeding wound. The splinters are lower down,
strewn over the declivity. The tumbled rocks are sustained one upon
another, and man today passes in safety amidst the disaster. But what a
day was that of the ruin! It is not very ancient, perhaps of the sixth
century, and the year of the terrible earthquake told of by Gregory
of Tours. If a man could without perishing have seen the {340}summits
split, totter and fall, the two seas of rock come bounding into the
gorge, meet one another and grind each other amidst a shower of sparks,
he would have looked upon the grandest spectacle ever seen by human
eyes.
On the west, a perpendicular mole, crannied like an old ruin, lifts
itself straight up towards the sky. A leprosy of yellowish moss has
incrusted its pores, and has clothed it all over with a sinister livery.
This livid robe upon this parched stone has a splendid effect. Nothing
is uglier than the chalky flints that are drawn from the quarry; just
dug up, they seem cold and damp in their whitish shroud; they are not
used to the sun; they make a contrast with the rest. But the rock that
has lived in the air for ten thousand years, where the light has every
day laid on and melted its metallic tints, is the friend of the sun, and
carries its mantle upon its shoulders; it has no need of a garment of
verdure; if it suffers from parasitic vegetations, it sticks them to
its sides and imprints them with its colors. The threatening tones with
which it clothes itself suits the free sky, the naked landscape, the
powerful heat that environs it; it is alive like a plant; only it is
of another age, one more severe and stronger than that in which we
vegetate. {341}
V.
Gavarnie is a very ordinary village, commanding a view of the
amphitheatre we are come to see. After you have left it, it is still
necessary to go three miles through a melancholy plain, half buried in
sand by the winter inundations; the waters of the Gave are muddy and
dull; a cold wind whistles from the amphitheatre; the glaciers, strewn
with mud and stones, are stuck to the declivity like patches of dirty
plaster. The mountains are bald and ravined by cascades; black cones of
scattered firs climb them like routed soldiers; a meagre and wan turf
wretchedly clothes their mutilated heads. The horses ford the Gave
stumblingly, chilled by the water coming from the snows. In this wasted
solitude you meet, all of a sudden, the most smiling parterre. A throng
of the lovely iris crowds itself into the bed of a dried torrent: the
sun stripes with rays of gold their velvety petals of tender blue; the
harvest of plumes winds with the sinuosities of the bank, and the eye
follows over the whole plain the folds of the rivulet of flowers.
We climb a last eminence, sown with iris and with stones. There is a hut
where you breakfast and leave the horses. You arm yourself with a stout
stick, and descend upon the glaciers of the amphitheatre. {342}
[Illustration: 368]
These glaciers are very ugly, very dirty, very uneven, very slippery; at
every step you run the risk of falling, and if you fall it is on sharp
stones or into deep holes. They look like heaps of old plaster-work, and
those who have admired them have a stock of admiration for sale.
The water has pierced them so that you walk upon bridges of snow. These
bridges have the appearance of kitchen air-holes; the water is swallowed
up in a very low archway, and, when you look closely, you get a distinct
sight of a black hole. An Englishman who wished to enjoy the view,
allowed himself to fall, and came out half dead, “with the rapidity of a
trout.” We left such experiments to the trout and the English. {343}
VI.
[Illustration: 369]
After the glaciers we find a sloping esplanade; we climb for ten minutes
bruising our feet upon fragments of sharp rock. Since leaving the hut we
have not lifted our eyes, in order to reserve for ourselves an unbroken
sensation. Here at last we look. {344}A wall of granite crowned
with snow hollows itself before us in a gigantic amphitheatre. This
amphitheatre is twelve hundred feet high, nearly three miles in
circumference, three tiers of perpendicular walls, and in each tier
thousands of steps.
[Illustration: 370]
The valley ends there; the wall is a single block, and impregnable. The
other summits might fall, but its massive layers would not be moved. The
mind is overwhelmed by the idea of a stability that cannot be shaken
and an assured eternity. There is the boundary of two countries and two
races; this it is that Roland wanted to break, when with a sword-stroke
he opened a breach in the summit. But the immense wound disappeared in
the immensity of the conquered wall.{345}
[Illustration: 372]
{346}
{347} Three sheets of snow are spread out over the three tiers of
layers. The sun falls with all its force upon; this virginal robe
without being able to make it shine. It will preserve its dead
whiteness. All this grandeur is austere; the air is chilled beneath the
noonday rays; great, damp shadows creep along the foot of the walls.
It is the everlasting winter and the nakedness of the desert. The sole
inhabitants are the cascades assembled to form the Gave.
[Illustration: 373]
The streamlets of water come by thousands from the highest layer, leap
from step to step, cross their stripes of foam, wind, unite and fall by
a dozen brooks that slide from the last layer in flaky streaks to lose
themselves in the glaciers of the bottom. The thirteenth cascade on the
left is twelve hundred and sixty-six feet {348}high. It falls slowly,
like a dropping cloud, or the unfolding of a muslin veil; the air
softens its fall; the eye follows complacently the graceful undulation
of the beautiful airy veil. It glides the length of the rock, and seems
to float rather than to fall. The sun shines, through its plume, with
the softest and loveliest splendor. It reaches the bottom like a bouquet
of slender waving feathers, and springs backward in a silver dust; the
fresh and transparent mist swings about the rock it bathes, and its
rebounding train mounts lightly along the courses. No stir in the
air; no noise, no living creature in this solitude. You hear only the
monotonous murmur of the cascades, resembling the rustle of the leaves
that the wind stirs in the forest.
On our return, we seated ourselves at the door of the hut. It is a
poor, squat little house, heavily supported upon thick walls; the knotty
joists of the ceiling retain their bark. It is indeed necessary that it
should be able to stand out alone against the snows of winter. You find
everywhere the imprint of the terrible months it has gone through. Two
dead fir-trees stand erect at the door. The garden, three feet square,
is defended by enormous walls of piled-up slates. The low and black
stable leaves neither foot-hold nor entry for the winds. A lean colt was
seeking a little grass among the stones. {349}
[Illustration: 375]
{350}
{351}A small bull, with surly air, looked at us out of the sides of
his eyes; the animals, the trees and the site, wore a threatening
or melancholy aspect. But in the clefts of a rock were growing some
admirable buttercups, lustrous and splendid, which looked as if painted
by a ray of sunshine.
At the village we met our companions of the journey who had sat down
there.. The good tourists get fatigued, stop ordinarily at the inn, take
a substantial dinner, have a chair brought to the door, and digest while
looking at the amphitheatre, which from there appears about as high as a
house. After this they return, praising the sublime sight, and very glad
that they have come to the Pyrenees.
[Illustration: 377]
{352}
[Illustration: 378]