Luchon, 9th September, 1862.
The day before yesterday we ascended the Col de Venasque from this place; first two hours through magnificent beech woods, full of ivy, rocks, and waterfalls; then to a hospice, then two hours of steep riding on horseback in the snow, with great views, quiet deep lakes between snow and cliffs, and at a height of 7500 feet a narrow portal opened in the sharp comb of the Pyrenees by which Spain is entered. The land of chestnuts and palms here shows itself as a rocky basin, surrounded by the Maladetta, which lay before us, Pic de Suavegarde, and Pic de Picade; to the right rushed the waters to the Ebro, to the left to the Garonne, and towards the horizon one glacier and snow-cap after another stared at us, far into Catalonia and Aragon. There we breakfasted, pressed closely to the rocks—red partridges without salt and water; and then rode down again upon giddy declivities, but with splendid weather. Yesterday we had a similar expedition to Superbagnères and to the gates of hell (le gouffre d’enfer), into the abysses of which a magnificent waterfall precipitated itself between beeches, oaks, chestnuts, and ashes. The waterfalls of the Pyrenees are certainly superior to those of the Alps, although the latter are decidedly more imposing. To-day we saw the Lake of Oo, a rock basin like the Obersee, near Berchtesgaden, but animated by a tremendous waterfall which tumbles into it. We rowed upon it, singing French chansonnettes, alternately with Mendelssohn—i.e., I listened. We then rode home in a pouring rain, and are now dry again and hungry. No day passes without being six or eight hours on horseback. To-morrow the jest is over, and “How so soon it vanishes,” etc., was the order of the day. To-morrow evening we shall be in Toulouse, where I hope to find letters from you, viâ Paris. The last I received was yours of the 29th, sent to me by R. It is my fault, as I had appointed that they were only to send on from Paris from the 4th, and then to Toulouse. I thought I should have left Luchon on the 6th, and arrived at T. I know nothing from Berlin; have not read a newspaper for a fortnight, and my leave is up. I expect a letter from —— in Toulouse, and that I shall be sent for to Berlin, without definitive conclusion.
Toulouse, 12th September, 1862.
By some blunder of my own, and post-office pedantry, I somehow got into a mess with your letters, and I am very rejoiced and thankful to receive here your dear letter of the 4th, with good news. I also anticipated a letter from ——, with some clear indications of the future, but only got one from ——. I had no notion of the King’s journey to Doberan and Carlsruhe; in happy forgetfulness of the world have I ranged mountains and forests, and am somewhat upset at finding myself, after six weeks, for the first time in a large city. I am going in the first instance with —— to Montpellier, and must reflect whether I shall proceed thence to Paris to make purchases, or whether I shall accompany —— to Geneva, and thence make direct for Berlin. My leave is up; —— writes that the King would be in Carlsruhe on the 9th, but according to your letter it is the 13th. The best thing would be, if I requested extension of leave from here for further—weeks to Pomerania, and await the answer in Paris, as well as the return of the King to Berlin, before I set out, for certainty is now a necessity, or I shall send in my resignation. At this moment I am not in a state to decide; I will first take a walk, and perhaps I shall get an idea what to do. I wonder my letters have not reached you regularly. The longest interval I have ever allowed was four days between my last letter from Luchon and the last but one from Bayonne, because we were riding every day from morning till night, eating or sleeping, and paper was not always at hand. Yesterday was a rainy day, fitted for railway travelling, bringing us from Montrejeau to this place—new and bad, a flat country with vines and meadows. I am now writing to —— and ——. If possible, I shall remain in Paris.
With these letters the Apprentice and Journeyman years of Bismarck are at an end; the next few days conducted him from Avignon to Berlin, to prove his Mastership.