CHAPTER III.
LOURDES.
The Journey to Tarbes—The Buffet and the Nigger—Lourdes Station in the Wet—Importunate "Cochers"—Hôtel des Pyrénées—"Red tape" and Porters—Lourdes in Sunshine—Sightseeing—The "Rue de la Grotte"—"The Cry of the Lourdes Shopkeepers"—Candle-sellers—The Grotto—Abject Reverence—The Church—St. Bernard—Interior of Church—The Panorama—Admirable Effect—Rue du Fort—The Castle— The View from the Tower—Pie de Mars, or Ringed Ousels.
The railway run from Bigorre to Lourdes is by no means a long one, the actual distance being only twenty-six and a quarter miles, and actual time in the train about one and a half hours, but the break at Tarbes considerably prolongs it.
The early morning had been wet, and showers continued till the afternoon, but the sun condescended to come out as the train wound slowly out of the station, and the lights and shades up the valley and hillsides were delightful. Having the anticipatory pleasure of meeting Mrs. and Miss Blunt and Mr. Sydney again at Lourdes; and a lovely view of the beauties of spring when I looked out of the window, the time did not take long to pass. One particularly pretty bit of meadow, trees, and stream led to the building of an airy castle, which the sudden appearance of the spires and roofs of Tarbes—suggesting the return to bustle and the haunts of men—soon banished, and the arrival in the station and the necessary change eradicated completely.
Thirty-five minutes to wait. Too little to see the town, too much for twiddling one's thumbs. Then what? Glorious inspiration! The Buffet! Capital; and into the Buffet I accordingly went. Seated at a table, a nigger, slightly white about the finger tips, but otherwise quite genuine—no Moore and Burgess menial—appeared to do my bidding. "What would Monsieur take? Café?"—"Oui." "Café noir ou café au lait?" I decided on taking the coffee with milk, adding that anything in the biscuit line would not be amiss, and away he went grinning. He soon returned with cakes and coffee, and by dint of taking my time I had barely finished when it was time to start.
Again I managed to secure a carriage to myself, but this time it proved a very badly coupled one which jolted considerably. Lourdes was reached in a wretched drizzle, and the benefit conferred on passengers by having the station quite free from any covering whatever, was apparent to all. A sudden activity on the part of the "cochers" to entrap me to their respective (but by no means necessarily respectable) hotels, as I emerged from the station— which proved useless—and I was jolting onward to the Hôtel des Pyrénées. When arrived, inspected rooms, ordered fires and dinner, and whiled away an hour till it was time to repair again to the station, to meet Mrs. and Miss Blunt and Mr. Sydney, "Red tape"-ism dominant there, as it is everywhere in France. In fact, "red tape" is the French official's refuge. Whenever a system is weak or underhand, they seek protection behind a maze of stupidity and fuss. I wanted to see the station-master, to obtain permission to perambulate the platform till the arrival of the train. No porter would bestir himself to find this great official, but whichever way I turned one was always ready with his "Où allez-vous, Monsieur?" to which the only sensible reply would have been "Pas au ——, comme vous," but silence and an utter indifference were better still, and armed with these I ran the gauntlet of the pests, and finding the "Chef de Gare" in his "bureau," at once received the desired permission. There was not much time for perambulation, as the train soon steamed in, though without Mr. Sydney, who was detained for a day or two longer, and once more, but now a triangular party, we jolted back to the hotel. The rest of the evening was passed with dinner, and an endeavour to get warm; the rain and wind still enjoying themselves without.
[Illustration]
However, with the morn all these miseries vanished, and the sun shone from a blue sky flecked with a few films of snow. Lourdes looked very charming under such auspices, and Miss Blunt availed herself of the balmy air of the morning to wander round the stables and garden with a speckled pointer and a Pyrenean puppy, between which and the mountains her attention was divided, though the last named had certainly the least of it.
Then out we sallied to see the sights, which are more of quality than quantity. Turning to the right from the hotel door, through the Place de Marcadal, where the fountain was playing in delightful imitation of the previous night's rain, we gained the commencement of the Rue de la Grotte (which bears sharply to the left by the Hôtel de Paris), and followed its muddy ways with more or less danger owing to absence of footpath, and presence of numerous carriages. However, having passed the Hôtel d'Angleterre and the end of Rue du Fort (leading to the ancient castle), footpaths came into view, but the joy of the discovery was much minimized at the sight of the shops and shopkeepers, as the latter gave us no peace. It was one ceaseless bother to buy, mostly in French; but one damsel, confident of success assailed us in whining English, running up and down before her wares, and seizing different objects in quick succession, while continuing to praise their beauty and cheapness. Every shop or stall we passed—and there were a good many—had an inmate more or less importunate, but as what they had to say was very similar, it can be all embodied in the following
"CRY OF THE LOURDES SHOPKEEPERS."
This way, if you please, miss; and madame, this way;
Kind sir, pause a moment, and see.
Oh! tell me, I beg, what's your pleasure to-day?
Pray enter—the entrance is free.
Some candles? I've nice ones at half a franc each,
Or thirty centimes, if you will.
Some tins, each with lids fitted tight as a leech,
For you, with blest water to fill.
And look at these beads, only forty centimes,
All carved, and most beautif'ly neat.
I've "charms" that will give you the sweetest of dreams,
And bénitiers lovely and sweet.
A cross of pure ivory. Photographs too.
—No good?—You want nothing to-day?—
Alas! what on earth must poor shopkeepers do?
Oh, kindly buy something, I pray!
One candle? You must have one candle to burn
When into the grotto you tread.
Not one? Not a little one? Onward you turn!
Bah! may miseries light on your head!!
As soon as the shops were passed, and even before, women besieged us with packets of candles, and it was with great difficulty we made them understand the word No! Then, leaving the Hôtels de la Grotte and Latapie on the right, and the "Panorama" on the opposite side, we wound down towards the river and the grotto.
To us, it would be hard to conceive anything more pitiable or repulsive than the scene which met our gaze as we passed at the base of the church and came in full view of the grotto. An irregular opening in the dull grey stone going back only a few feet, with the moisture oozing over it here and there, and the ivy and weeds adding picturesqueness to what would otherwise be commonplace; in an elevated niche on the right, a figure of the Virgin in white robes and blue sash; in front, on the left, a covered marble cistern, with taps; and innumerable crutches and candles, were all the unsuperstitious eye could see. But to those poor wretches gathered round in prayer, influenced by the "light- headed" dreams of a poor swineherd, the spot was the holiest of holy ground. The abject reverence of their attitudes, the stand of flaming and guttering candles, the worship and kissing of the rough wet stones, the pious drinking of the cistern's water as they came away—a few pausing to buy some "blest" token of their visit at the adjacent shop—and the solemn silence that reigned over all, were the chief features that made the scene one from which we were only too glad to turn away. Taking the zigzag path among the pleasant trees and shrubs, on the right, we soon reached the level of the Gothic church, which we entered from the farther end. Ascending the steps, the two statues on either side of the porch came in view, but neither repaid a nearer inspection; St. Bernard, on the left, looking about as dejected and consumptive as anyone, priest or layman, well could. The church itself, from a Roman Catholic standpoint, must be considered very fine, but the adoration of the Virgin to the almost complete disregard of her subjection to "Our Saviour" is most apparent. The windows and many of the altars are beautiful, and so are many of the banners, while the high altar is a great work of art; but the unreligious tone that this striving after effect produces, but without which the religion—or so-called religion—would soon cease to exist, struck us as we entered, and increased with every step. It was as if to say, "Look at these lovely things, feast your eyes on them, and let their beauty be the mainspring to inspire you with faith." There was no appeal to the true religion of the soul, that springs from the heart in a clear stream, and which no tinsel banners, no elaborate statues, and no flaming candles, can quicken or intensify!
Leaving the church by the high road, with the Convent and "Place," —with its neat walks and grass plots,—on the left, we proceeded to the "Panorama," where, our admiration having been tempered by the payment of a franc each, we spent an enjoyable quarter of an hour. The painting as a whole—representing Lourdes twenty-five years ago—is most effective, and the effect is heightened by the admirable combination with real earth, and grass, and trees. The grouping of the figures round the grotto, representing the scene at the eighteenth appearance of the Virgin to Bernadette—who is the foremost figure kneeling in the grotto—is particularly fine; but how that huge crowd standing there were content with Bernadette's assertion that she saw the vision, when none of them saw anything but the stones, is a practical question that few probably could answer, and least of all the priests. [Illustration] Returning by the way we had come, we bore up the Rue du Fort to inspect the old castle—or all that remained of it—and enjoy the view. After some two hundred yards of this narrow street, painfully suggestive, in the vileness of its odours, of Canton's narrower thoroughfares, we reached the steps leading up on the left, and commenced the ascent. As it was, we did not find it very difficult work, though if a rifle had been levelled from every slit in the two-foot walls, it is probable that before two of the nearly two hundred steps had been surmounted, we would have been levelled also. Passing between once impregnable walls (where English soldiers also passed in days of yore), we crossed the now harmless-looking drawbridge and rang the bell. A woman opened the door and requested us to enter, a request which evidently met with the approbation of two diminutive youngsters, whose faces were dimpled with smiles wherever the fat would allow. Keeping along the right wall in the direction of the pig-sties (O! shades of the Black Prince!!!) we were greeted with the musical tones of the "porkers" and many sweet odours. Having entered one of the prisons at the base of the tower for a moment, we next followed the ever-winding steps till fairly giddy, and reached the top. Thence the view was exceedingly fine. We seemed to be at the meeting-point of four valleys, and the snow peaks in the direction of Argelès were free from clouds. The whole of Lourdes lay like a map beneath; the church with the "Calvary" on the hill over against it, the river sparkling in the sunlight, the Pic de Jer with its brown sides, and the winding roads with the green fields and budding trees, joining to make a pleasant picture.
Descending again to the hotel, we partook of a capital lunch, of which the "pie de mars," or ringed ousel—a bird of migratory habits, little known in our isles (except in a few parts of Scotland), but considered a great delicacy here—formed a part. After this, Miss Blunt once again devoted herself to the Pyrenean puppy, till the carriage came round and we took our departure.