method in vogue a hundred years ago. "Here," wrote Arthur Young, when
riding from Toulouse to St. Martory on his way to Luchon, "for the first
time I see rows of maples with vines trained in festoons from tree to
tree"; and farther on he adds, "medlars, plums, cherries, maples in
every hedge with vines trained." The straggling vine-branches have a
curious effect, but the brightness of the leafage is pleasant to the
eye. No matter how it grows, to my thinking the vine is a lovely thing.
The rich plain passed, we reach the slopes of the Pyrenees, their wooded
sides presenting a strange, even grotesque, appearance, owing to the
mathematical regularity with which the woods are cut, portions being
close shaven, others left intact in close juxtaposition, solid phalanxes
of trees and clearings at right angles. The fancy conjures up a
Brobdingnagian wheat-field partially cut in the green stage. Sad havoc
is thus made of once beautiful scenes, richly-wooded slopes having lost
half their foliage.
A hundred years ago Lourdes was a mere mountain fortress, a State prison
to which unhappy persons were consigned by _lettres de cachet_.
Apologists of the Ancien Régime assert, in the first place, that these
Bastilles were comfortable, even luxurious retreats; in the second, that
_lettres de cachet_ were useful and necessary; in the third, that
neither Bastilles nor _lettres de cachet_ were resorted to on the eve
of the Revolution. Let us hear what Arthur Young has to say on the
subject. "I take the road to Lourdes," he writes in August 1787, "where
is a castle on a rock, garrisoned for the mere purpose of keeping State
prisoners, sent hither by _lettres de cachet_. Seven or eight are known
to be here at present; thirty have been here at a time; and many for
life--torn by the relentless hand of jealous tyranny from the bosom of
domestic comfort, from wives, children, friends, and hurried, for crimes
unknown to themselves, most probably for virtues, to languish in this
detested abode, and die of despair. Oh liberty, liberty!"
Great is the contrast between the lovely entourage of this notorious
place and the triviality and vulgar nature of its commerce. The one
long, winding street may be described as a vast bazaar, more suited to
Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims than to holders of railway tickets and
contemporaries of the Eiffel Tower.
A brisk trade is done here, the place wearing the aspect of a huge fair.
Rosaries, crosses, votive tablets, ornamental cans for holding the
miraculous waters, drinking-cups, candles, photographs, images, medals
are sold by millions. The traffic in these wares goes on all day long,
the poorest "pilgrim" taking away souvenirs.
The Lourdes of theology begins where the Lourdes of bartering ends. As
we quit the long street of bazaars and brand-new hotels, the first
glimpse gives us an insight into its life and meaning, makes us feel
that we ought to have been living two or three hundred years ago. We
glance back at the railway station, wondering whether a halt were wise,
whether indeed the gibbet, wheel, and stake were not really prepared for
heretics like ourselves!
The votive church built on the outer side of the rock from which flows
the miraculous fountain is a basilica of sumptuous proportions,
representing an outlay of many millions of francs. Its portico, with
horse-shoe staircase in marble, spans the opening of the green hills,
behind which lie grotto and spring. We are reminded of the enormous
church now crowning the height of Montmartre at Paris; here, as there
and at Chartres, is a complete underground church of vast proportions.
The whole structure is very handsome, the grey and white building-stone
standing out against verdant hills and dark rocks. A beautifully
laid-out little garden with a statue of the miracle-working Virgin lies
between church and town.
Looking from the lofty platform on the other side of the upper church,
we behold a strange scene. The space below is black with people,
hundreds and thousands of pilgrims, so called, priests and nuns being in
full force, one and all shouting and gesticulating with fierce zealotry,
a priest or two holding forth from a temporary pulpit.
Between these closely-serried masses is a ghastly array. On litters,
stretchers, beds, chairs, lie the deformed, the sick, the moribund,
awaiting their turn to be sprinkled with the miraculous waters or
blessed by the bishop. These poor people, many of whom are in the last
stage of illness, have for bearers, volunteers; these are priests, young
gentlemen of good family, and others, who wear badges and leather
traces, by which they attach themselves to their burden.
All day long masses are held inside the church and in the open air; at a
given signal the congregation stretching out their arms in the form of a
cross, prostrating themselves on the ground, kissing the dust.
We must descend the broad flight of steps in order to obtain a good view
of the grotto, an oval opening in the rocks made to look like a
stalactite cave, with scores and hundreds of _ex-votos_ in the shape
of crutches. Judging from this display, there should be no more lame folks
left in France. The Virgin of Lourdes must have healed them all. In a
niche of the grotto stands an image of the Virgin, and behind,
perpetually lighted with candles, an altar, at which mass is celebrated
several times daily.
On one side, the rock has been pierced in several places, deliciously
pure, cool water issuing from the taps. Crowds are always collected
here, impatient to drink of the miraculous fountain, and to fill vessels
for use at home. We see tired, heated invalids, and apparently dying
persons, drinking cups of this ice-cold water; enough, one would think,
to kill them outright. Close by is a little shop full of trifles for
sale, but so thronged at all hours of the day that you cannot get
attended to; purchasers lay down their money, take up the object
desired, and walk away. Here may be bought a medal for two sous, or a
crucifix priced at several hundred francs.
The praying, chanting, and prostrating are at their height when the
violet-robed figure of a bishop is caught sight of, tripping down a
side-path leading from the town. Blessing any who chance to meet him on
the way, chatting pleasantly with his companion, a portly gentleman
wearing the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour, the bishop hastens
towards the grotto, dons his sacerdotal robes of ivory-white and gold,
and celebrates mass. The ceremony over, there is a general stir.
Adjusting their harness, the bearers form a procession, the bishop
emerges from the grotto, and one by one the thirty and odd litters are
drawn before him to be sprinkled, blessed--and healed! alas, such,
doubtless, is the fond delusion of many.
The sight of so many human wrecks, torsos and living skeletons all agog
for life, health, and restoration, is even less heart-breaking than that
of their companions. Here we see a mother bending with agonized looks
over some white-faced, wasted boy, whose days, even hours, are clearly
numbered; there a father of a wizen-faced, terribly deformed girl, a
mite to look at, but fast approaching womanhood, brought hither to be
put straight and beautiful. Next our eye lights on the emaciated form of
a young man evidently in the last stage of consumption, his own face
hopeful still, but what forlornness in that of the adoring sister by his
side! These are spectacles to make the least susceptible weep. Grotesque
is the sight of a priest who must be ninety at least; what further
miracle can he expect, having already lived the life of three
generations?
The last litter drawn by, the enormous crowd breaks up; tall candles are
offered to those standing near, and a procession is formed, headed by
the bishop under his gold and white baldachin, a large number of priests
following behind, then several hundred men, women, and children, the
black and white robes of the priests and nuns being conspicuous.
Chanting as they go, outsiders falling on their knees at the approach of
the baldachin, the pilgrims now wind in solemn procession round the
statue in front of the church, and finally enter, when another religious
celebration takes place. Services are going on all day long and late
into the night. Hardly do these devotees give themselves time for meals,
which are a scramble at best, every hotel and boarding-house much
overcrowded. The _table d'hôte_ dinner, or one or two dishes, are
hastily swallowed, and the praying, chanting, marching and prostrating
begin afresh. At eight o'clock from afar comes the sound of pilgrims'
voices as the procession winds towards the grotto.
There is picturesqueness in these nocturnal celebrations, the tapers
twinkling against the dark heavens, the voices dying away in the
distance. Superstition has its season as well as sulphur-baths and
chalybeate springs. The railway station is a scene of indescribable
confusion; enormous contingents come for a few hours only, the numbered
trains that brought them are drawn up outside the main lines awaiting
their departure. Here we are hustled by a motley throng; fashionable
ladies bedizened with rosaries, badges, and medallions; elegant young
gentlemen, the _jeunesse dorée_ of a vanished _régime_, proudly
wearing the pilgrim's badge, all travelling third-class and in humble
company for their soul's good; peasant women from Brittany in charming
costumes; a very, very few blue blouses of elderly civilians'; enormous
numbers wearing religious garb.
It seems a pity that a bargain could not be struck by France and
Germany, the Emperor William receiving Lourdes in exchange for Metz or
Strasburg! Lourdes must represent a princely revenue, far in excess, I
should say, of any profit the Prussian Government will ever make out of
the annexed provinces; and as nobody lives there, and visitors only
remain a day or two, it would not matter to the most patriotic French
pilgrim going to whom the place belonged.
The tourist brings evil as well as good in his track, and the tax upon
glorious scenery here is not the globe-trotter but the mendicant.
Gavarnie is, without doubt, as grandiose a scene as Western Europe can
show. In certain elements of grandeur none other can compete with it.
But until a balloon service is organized between Luz and the famous
Cirque it is impossible to make the journey with an unruffled temper.
The traveller's way is beset by juvenile vagrants, bare-faced and
importunate as Neapolitans or Arabs. Lovers of aerial navigation have
otherwise not much left to wish for. Nothing can be more like a ride in
cloudland than the drive from Pierrefitte to Luz and from Luz to
Gavarnie. The splendid rock-hewn road is just broad enough to admit of
two carriages abreast. On one side are lofty, shelving rocks, on the
other a stone coping two feet high, nothing else to separate us from the
awful abyss below, a ravine deep as the measure of St. Paul's Cathedral
from base to apex of golden cross. We hear the thunder of the river as
it dashes below by mountains two-thirds the height of Mont Blanc, their
dark, almost perpendicular sides wreathed with cloud, on their summits
gleaming never-melted snow, here and there the sombre parapets streaked
with silvery cascades. At intervals the Titanic scene is relieved by
glimpses of pastoral grace and loveliness, and such relief is necessary
even to those who can gaze without giddiness on such awfulness. Between
gorge and gorge lie level spaces, amid dazzlingly-green meadows the
river flows calm and crystal clear, the form and hue of every pebble
distinct as the pieces of a mosaic. Looking upwards we see hanging
gardens and what may be called farmlets, tiny homesteads with minute
patches of wheat, Indian corn, and clover on an incline so steep as to
look vertical. Most beautiful and refreshing to the eye are the little
hayfields sloping from the river, the freshly-mown hay in cocks or being
turned, the shorn pasture around bright as emerald. Harvest during the
year 1891 was late, and in the first week of September corn was still
standing; nowhere, surely, corn so amber-tinted, so golden, nowhere,
surely, ripened so near the clouds. In the tiny chalets perched on the
mountain ridges, folks literally dwell in cloudland, and enjoy a kind of
supernal existence, having for near neighbours the eagles in their
eyries and the fleet-footed chamois or izard.
These vast panoramas--towering rocks of manifold shape, Alp rising above
Alp snow-capped or green-tinted, terrace upon terrace of fields and
homesteads--show every variety of savage grandeur and soft beauty till
we gradually reach the threshold of Gavarnie. This is aptly called
"chaos" which we might fancifully suppose the leavings, "the fragments
that were left," of the semicircular wall now visible, thrown up by
transhuman builders, insurmountable barrier between heaven and earth. No
sooner does the awful amphitheatre break upon the view, than we discern
the white line of the principal fall, a slender silvery column reaching,
so it seems, from star-land and moon-land to earth; river of some upper
world that has overleaped the boundaries of our own. No words can convey
the remotest idea of such a scene.
We may say with regard to scenery what Lessing says of pictures, we only
see in both what we bring with us to the view. More disconcerting than
the importunities of beggars and donkey-drivers are the supercilious
remarks of tourists. To most, of course, the whole thing is "a sad
disappointment." Everything must necessarily be a disappointment to some
beholders; and with critics of a certain order, the mere fact of not
being pleased implies superiority. The hour's walk from the village to
the Cirque is an event also in the life of the flower-lover. We have
hardly eyes for Gavarnie, so completely is our gaze fascinated by the
large luminous gold and silver stars gleaming conspicuously from the
brilliant turf. These are the glorious flower-heads of the white and
yellow Pyrenean thistle that open in sunshine as do sea-anemones,
sending out lovely fringes, sunrays and moonbeams not more strikingly
contrasted. As we rush hither and thither to gather them--if we
can--their roots are veritable tentaculae, other lovely flowers are to
be had in plenty, the beautiful deep-blue Pyrenean gentian, monk's-hood
in rich purple blossom, rose-coloured antirrhinum, an exquisite little
yellow sedum, with rare ferns. On one side, a narrow bridle-path winds
round the mountain towards Spain; on the other, cottage-farms dot the
green slopes; between both, parting the valley, flows the Gave, here a
quietly meandering streamlet, whilst before us rises Gavarnie; a scene
to which one poet only--perhaps the only one capable of grappling with
such a subject--has done justice--
"Cirque, hippodrome,
Stage whereon Stamboul, Tyre, Memphis, London, Rome,
With their myriads could find place, whereon Paris at ease
Might float, as at sundown a swarm of bees,
Gavarnie, dream, miracle!"
[Footnote: "Un cirque, un hippodrome,
Un théâtre où Stamboul, Tyre, Memphis, Londres, Rome,
Avec leurs millions d'hommes pourraient s'asseoir.
Ou Paris flotterait comme un essaim du soir.
Gavarnie!--un miracle! un rêve!"--Victor Hugo, "Dieu."]
How to give some faint conception of the indescribable? Perhaps the
great French poet has best succeeded in a single line--
"L'impossible est ici debout."
We feel, indeed, that we are here brought face to face with the
impossible.
Let the reader then conjure up a solid mass of rock threefold the
circumference of St. Paul's Cathedral; let him imagine the façade of
this natural masonry of itself exceeding the compass of our great
Protestant minster; then in imagination let him lift his eyes from stage
to stage, platform to platform, the lower nearly three times the height
of St. Paul's from base to apex of golden cross, the higher that of four
such altitudes; their gloomy parapets streaked with glistening white
lines, one a vast column of water, although their shelving sides show
patches of never-melted snows; around, framing in the stupendous scene,
mountain peaks, each unlike its majestic brother, each in height
reaching to the shoulder of Mont Blanc. Such is Gavarnie.
My next halting-place was a remote Pyrenean village admirably adapted
for the study of rural life. Within a few hours' journey of the Spanish
frontier, Osse lies in the beautiful valley of Aspe, and is reached by
way of Pau and Oloron. At the latter town the railway ends, and we have
to drive sixteen miles across country, a delightful expedition in
favourable weather. The twin towns, old and new Oloron, present the
contrast so often seen throughout France, picturesque, imposing
antiquity beside utilitarian ugliness and uniformity. The open suburban
spaces present the appearance of an enormous drying-ground, in which are
hung the blankets of the entire department. Blankets, woollen girdles or
sashes, men's bonnets are manufactured here. "Pipers, blue bonnets, and
oatmeal," wrote an English traveller a hundred years ago, "are found in
Catalonia, Auvergne, and Suabia as well as in Lochaber." We are now in
the ancient kingdom of Beam, with a portion of Navarre added to the
French crown by Henry IV, and, two hundred years later, named the
department of the Basses Pyrenées.
[Illustration: OSSE]
Every turn of the road reveals new features as we journey towards Osse,
having always in view the little Gave d'Aspe, after the manner of
Pyrenean rivers, making cascades, waterfalls, whirlpools on its way.
Most beautiful are these mountain streams, their waters of pure, deep
green, their surface broken by coruscations of dazzlingly white foam and
spray, their murmur ever in our ears. When far away we hardly miss the
grand contours of the Pyrenees more than the music of their rushing
waters. No tourists meet us here, yet whither shall we go for scenes
sublimer or more engaging? On either side of the broadening velvety
green valley, with its tumbling stream, rises a rampart of stately
peaks, each unlike its neighbour, each having a graciousness and
grandeur of its own. Here and there amid these vast solitudes is seen a
white glittering thread breaking the dark masses of shelving rock,
mountain torrent falling into the river from a height of several hundred
feet. Few and far between are the herdsmen's châlets and scattered
cornfields and meadows, and we have the excellent carriage road to
ourselves. Yet two or three villages of considerable size are passed on
the way; of one, an inland spa much frequented by the peasants, I shall
make mention presently.
For three hours we have wound slowly upward, and, as our destination is
approached, the valley opens wide, showing white-walled, grey-roofed
hamlets and small towns all singularly alike. The mountains soon close
round abruptly on all sides, making us feel as if we had reached the
world's end. On the other side of those snow-capped peaks, here so
majestically massed before our gaze, lies Spain. We are in a part of
France thoroughly French, yet within a few hours of a country strikingly
contrasted with it; manners, customs, modes of thought, institutions
radically different.
[Illustration: NEAR THE SPANISH FRONTIER]
The remoteness and isolation of Osse explain the existence of a little
Protestant community in these mountain fastnesses. For centuries the
Reformed faith has been upheld here. Not, however, unmolested. A tablet
in the neat little church tells how the original place of Protestant
worship was pulled down by order of the king in 1685, and only
reconstructed towards the close of the following century. Without
church, without pastor, forbidden to assemble, obliged to bury their
dead in field or garden, these dales-folk and mountaineers yet clung
tenaciously to their religion. One compromise, and one only, they made.
Peasant property has existed in the Pyrenees from time immemorial, and
in order to legitimize their children and enjoy the privilege of
bequeathing property, the Protestants of the Vallée d'Aspe were married
according to the rites of the Romish Church. In our own days, here as
elsewhere throughout France, the religious tenets handed down from
father to son are adhered to without wavering, and at the same time
without apparent enthusiasm. Catholics and Protestants live amicably
side by side; but intermarriages are rare, and conversions from Rome to
rationalism infrequent. The Sunday services of the little Protestant
church are often attended by Catholics. Strangers passing through Osse,
market-folk, peasants and others, never fail to inspect it curiously.
The Protestant pastor is looked up to with respect and affection alike
by Catholic and Protestant neighbours. The rival churches neither lose
nor gain adherents to any extent. This fact is curious, especially in a
spot where Protestantism is seen at its best. It shows the extreme
conservatism and stability of the French character, often set down as
revolutionary and fickle. In England folks often and avowedly change
their religion several times during their lives. Is not the solemn
reception into Rome of instructed men and women among ourselves a matter
of every day? In France it is otherwise, and when a change is made we
shall generally find that the step is no retrograde one.
If the social aspect is encouraging at Osse, the same may be said of
peasant property. Even a Zola must admit some good in a community
unstained by crime during a period of twenty years, and bound by ties of
brotherhood which render want impossible. A beautiful spirit of
humanity, a delicacy rare among the most polished societies,
characterize these frugal sons and daughters of the soil. Nor is
consideration for others confined to fellow-beings only. The animal is
treated as the friend, not the slave of man. "We have no need of the Loi
Grammont here," said a resident to me; and personal observation
confirmed the statement.
As sordidness carried to the pitch of brutality is often imputed to the
French peasant, let me relate an incident that occurred hereabouts, not
long before my visit. The land is minutely divided, many possessing a
cottage and field only. One of these very small owners was suddenly
ruined by the falling of a rock, his cottage, cow and pig being
destroyed. Without saying a word, his neighbours, like himself in very
humble circumstances, made up a purse of five hundred francs, a large
sum with such donors, and, too delicate-minded to offer the gift
themselves, deputed an outsider to do it anonymously. Another instance
in point came to my knowledge. This was of a young woman servant, who,
during the illness of her employer, refused to accept wages. "You shall
pay me some other time," said the girl to her mistress; "I am sure you
can ill afford to give me the money now."
Peasant property and rural life generally here presented to me some
wholly new features; one of these is the almost entire
self-sufficingness of very small holdings, their owners neither buying
nor selling, making their little crops and stock almost completely supply
their needs. Thus on a field or two, enough flax is grown with which to
spin linen for home use, enough wheat and Indian corn for the year's
bread-making, maize being mixed with wheaten flour; again, pigs and
poultry are reared for domestic consumption--expenditure being reduced
to the minimum. Coffee is a luxury seldom indulged in, a few drink
home-grown wine, but all are large milk-drinkers. The poorest is a good
customer of the dairy farmer.
I was at first greatly puzzled by the information of a neighbour that he
kept cows for the purpose of selling milk. Osse being sixteen miles from
a railway station, possessing neither semi-detached villas, hotels,
boarding-houses, convents, barracks, nor schools, and a population of
from three to four hundred only, most of these small farmers--who were
his patrons?