They paint the rocks at the corners of the tracks, among the mountains;
a blue and white ring for the road to Ginzling, a red smear for the way
to St Jakob. So one follows the blue and white ring, or the three
stripes of blue and white, or the red smear, as the case may be. And the
red on the rocks, the dabs of red paint, are of just the same colour as
the red upon the crucifixes; so that the red upon the crucifixes is
paint, and the signs on the rocks are sensational, like blood.
I remember the little brooding Christ of the Isar, in his little cloak
of red flannel and his crown of gilded thorns, and he remains real and
dear to me, among all this violence of representation.
'_Couvre-toi de gloire, Tartarin--couvre-toi de flanelle._' Why should
it please me so that his cloak is of red flannel?
In a valley near St Jakob, just over the ridge, a long way from the
railway, there is a very big, important shrine by the roadside. It is a
chapel built in the baroque manner, florid pink and cream outside, with
opulent small arches. And inside is the most startling sensational
Christus I have ever seen.
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