Vichy is a dull small place, full of sickly people with liver complaints. Like all other places, the baths and the water-drinking fountains are the principal rendezvous. There is the usual band, promenade under the trees, casino, garden, and theatre.
They were very happy days. We made excursions in the day, and in the evenings the conversation, I need not say, was brilliant; everybody contributed something that made him or her valuable. Swinburne recited poetry, Mrs. Sartoris sang to us. All will remember her exquisite contralto voice, and she sang en intime without accompaniment.
We went to the Château Bourbonnais at Bussy, and then to Ardoisière cascade and cave, and lovely walks to Malavaux, where there is a châlet at the foot of the mountain and a steep ascent. Here is the ruin of a convent of Templars, who are said to have committed atrocities, who blew up a château containing their only neighbours with gunpowder. There were no roads this way, and they were Lords of the soil. There is a cemetery in the distance, and close to us the Devil's Well, said to have no bottom, and also the Blessed Virgin's Well. Whilst we were at the top, the harvest moon arose; there was a glorious scene of beautiful lights and shadows. Swinburne has lately celebrated this journey in a glorious elegy, of which I quote three verses (the Fortnightly Review, July, 1892)—
"The huddled churches clinging on the cliffs
As birds alighting might for storm's sake cling,
Moored to the rocks as tempest-harried skiffs
To perilous refuge from the loud wind's wing;
* * * * *
"Deep down the Valley of the Curse, undaunted
By shadow and whisper of winds with sins for wings,
And ghosts of crime wherethrough the heights live haunted
By present sense of past and monstrous things."
The elegy ends—
"But not the soul whose labour knew no end—
But not the swordsman's hand, the crested head—
The royal heart we mourn, the faultless friend,
Burton—a name that lives till fame be dead."
From St. Armand there is a splendid view of Vichy, and also for forty-four leagues, if it is clear enough to see around; and the drives are lovely through the mountains and ravines. There was another splendid view from the Montagne Vert. We went to St. Germain des Fosses, and drove all over Clermont, where we visited the Cathedral, all the Churches, Museums, and springs, and bought some of the wonderful petrifactions.[7] We then made our way to Langéac, from whence we drove thirty-six miles through a most interesting country to Puy. The descent to Puy is very beautiful. It is a curious and striking-looking town; mountains of rock, like huge combs, rise out of its heart. On the top of one of these is a huge statue of the Blessed Virgin, sixteen metres high, cast in iron from the metal cannons of Sebastopol, and we got up into its head to look out of the eyes. When we were in the head we were nearly five hundred feet high from the plain. The Child's head holds three people. The Cathedral has a miraculous black Virgin, and St. Michael has his church too. All these great heights mean climbing five hundred feet, and then ascending two or three hundred steps. On another cone stands an old church. There are basaltic masses just like organ-pipes. We drove to the old Castle and Fortress of Polignac, and to the basaltic rocks, and then we went to see the Museum of Puy. We made our way by the train to Lyons. The country was beautiful, with mountains, gorges, rivers, and old ruined castles, which spoke of feudal times; but two hours before reaching Lyons it is as bad as the black country in Lancashire. Here Swinburne left us for Paris. Richard and I went to Fourvières to make a pilgrimage.[8] We went to the Cathedral, and the great shrine of Notre Dame de Fourvières. From here Lyons spreads out under your feet like a map; on a clear day you may see Mont Blanc. We visited the source of the Rhone and Saone, and then went on to Culoz; thence to Aix les Bains, where we went to look at the Roman ruins. We changed trains at S. Michel for "Fell's Company" across the Mont Cenis (the railway not being made in those days as it is now). Mr. Bayless, the superintendent, and his secretary met us, and took us on the engine, and showed us everything. The scenery was splendid all day; the rise began from S. Michel to Lanslebourg, which is four thousand four hundred feet high. The ascent was most amusing; we whisked about in the most frolicsome way, close to frightful gorges and over ravines. From inside, you could sometimes hear little hysterical squeaks, or people taken worse, as the curves were very sharp and the pace good. Lanslebourg is a group of old broken-down châlets, and two broken-down chapels, grouped in a corner. It has a new chapel now. A mountain-torrent sweeps through the village, and the new railway runs by it. Magnificent piles of mountains rose on all sides; the lower range are pine-covered, the higher by snow and glaciers—the snow and fresh mountain air are most exhilarating. I can remember passing this place ten years before, in March, with a carriage and eleven mules, and, owing to the snow, we were five days and nights travelling from Venice to Geneva. It was then a savage country; now every available spot is cultivated in little patches. We had a charming evening at the inn, and dined on fresh mountain trout. The descent next day was marvellous. How little Napoleon I. thought, when he was making a road, that he was only the pioneer for an English railway, thereby making their labour and expense only half of what it would have been! We went from here to Susa and Turin, and from Turin we drove up the Collina, and got a splendid view of the City and of Mount Rosa before going to bed. Here I saw Richard off to Damascus; he was to catch the P. and O. at Brindisi. My train Londonwards left a few hours after, and I did not stop till I reached Paris.