Glories of Spain
by Charles W. Wood · English · Gutenberg #33833 · 840,697 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Glories of Spain
Author: Charles W. Wood
Release date: October 3, 2010 [eBook #33833]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33833
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net, the Internet Archive & Google
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLORIES OF SPAIN ***
Produced by Chuck Greif, the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net, the Internet Archive & Google
Books.
GLORIES OF SPAIN
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF ZARAGOZA CATHEDRAL.]
GLORIES OF SPAIN
BY
CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S.,
AUTHOR OF
"LETTERS FROM MAJORCA," "IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHONE,"
ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
WITH EIGHTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1901
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
AT THE GARE D'ORLEANS.
On Calais quay--At the Custom-house--A lady of the past--Ungallant
examiner--Better to reign than serve--Paris--Vanity Fair--Sowing and
reaping--Laughing through life--At the Hotel Chatham--A pleasant
picture--In maiden meditation--M. Pascal is wise in his generation--The
secrets of the Seine--Notre Dame--Ile St. Louis--A mediaeval
atmosphere--Victor Hugo--Ghosts of the Hotel Lambert--H. C. again--His
little comedy--M. the Inspector--Outraged ladies--"En voiture,
messieurs!"--Mystery not cleared--The Orleanais--La Vendee--Garden of
France--A dilemma--Polite Chef de Gare--Crossing the Garonne--Land of
corn and wine 1
CHAPTER II.
A NARBONNE HOSTESS.
Carcassonne--In feudal times--Simon de Montfort--Canal du Midi--L'age
d'or et le Grand Monarque--A modern Golden Fleece--One of earth's fair
scenes--Choice of evils--M. le Chef yields--Narbonne--A woman of
parts--The course of true love runs smooth--_Diner de contrat_--Honey
_versus the lune de miel_--Madame's philosophy--_L'Allee des
Soupirs_--An unfinished cathedral--At the gloaming hour--Mystery and
devotion--The Hotel de Ville--A domestic drama--High festival and
champagne--The next morning--H. C. repentant--Madame at her
post--Ambrosial breakfast--"Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"--Dramatic
exit--Perpignan--Home of the kings of Majorca--Elne--"Adieu, ma chere
France!"--Over the frontier--Gerona--Crowded platform--What H. C.
thought--Unpoetical incident--From the sublime to the ridiculous 12
CHAPTER III.
BLACK COFFEE--AND A CONFESSION.
Continued uproar--H. C. disillusioned--A dark night--Not like another
Caesar--More crowds--A demon scene--Fair time--Glorious days of the
past--In marble halls and labyrinthine passages--Our excellent host--His
substantial partner--Contented minds--Picturesque court--Songless
nightingales--Conscription--H. C.'s modesty--Our host appreciative but
personal--Bears the torch of genius--A mistake--Below the salt--Host's
fair daughters--Catalonian women--The Silent Enigma--Remarkable
priest--Good intentions--Lecture on black
coffee--Confessions--Benjamin's portions--A gifted nature 27
CHAPTER IV.
A NIGHT VISION.
Wrong turnings--H. C.'s gifts and graces--Out at night--The arcades of
Gerona--At the fair--Ancient outlines--Demons at work--In the dry bed of
the river--Roasting chestnuts--Mediaeval outlines--In the
vortex--Clairvoyantes and lion-tamers--Clown's despair--Deserted
streets--Vision of the night--Haunted staircase--Dark and dangerous--A
small grievance--The reeds by the river--Cry of the watchmen--Hare and
hounds--Fair Rosamund--Jacob's ladder--New rendering to old
proverbs--Cathedral by night--H. C. oblivious--Scent fails--Return to
earth--Romantic story--Last of a long line--_El Sereno!_--The witching
hour--H. C. unserenaded--Next morning--Grey skies--A false
prophet--Magic picture--Cathedral by day--Mediaeval dreams 41
CHAPTER V.
GERONA THE BEAUTIFUL.
A Gerona senora--Grace and charm--Lord of creation--Morning
greeting--Arcades and ancient houses--Conscription--Gerona a
discovery--Streets of steps--Ancient eaves and rare ironwork--Old-world
corner--Desecrated church--Gothic cloisters--Ghosts of the past--Visions
of to-day--Soldiers interested--"Happy as kings"--Lingerings--Colonel
seeks explanation--No lover of antiquity--More conscription--Dramatic
scene--Pedro to the rescue--Mother and son--Sad story--Strong and
merciful--Pedro grateful--Restricted interests--Colonel becomes
impenetrable again 58
CHAPTER VI.
ANSELMO THE PRIEST.
Beauties of age--Apostles' Doorway--How the old bishops kept out of
temptation--Interior of cathedral--Its vast nave--Days of
Charlemagne--And of the Moors--A giant dwarfed--Rare choir--Surly
priest--And a more kindly--Our showman--Dazzling treasures--Father
Anselmo--Romantic story--Heaven or the world?--Doubts--The gentle
Rosalie decides--Sister Anastasia--Told in the sacristy--A
heart-confession--Anselmo's mysticism--Heresy--Charms of
antiquity--Scene of his triumph--Celestial vision--Church of San
Pedro--Pagan interior--Rare cloisters--Desecrated church--Singular
scene--Chiaroscuro--Miguel the carpenter--His opinions--Daily life a
religion--Anselmo improves his opportunity--"A reflected light"--Ruined
citadel--War of succession--Alvarez and Marshall--Gerona in decadence--A
revelation--Dreamland--Midday vision 72
CHAPTER VII.
A DAY OF ENCOUNTERS.
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"--The unexpected happens--Under the
probe--Wise reservation--Born to command--Contrasts--Nothing new under
the sun--The senora prepares for the fair--Grievance not very deep
seated--Bewitching appearance--Senora dramatic--Ernesto--Marriage a
lottery--Every cloud its silver lining--Gerona _en fete_--Delormais'
mission--Deceptive appearances--Evils of conscription--Ernesto's
ambition--Les beaux jours de la vie--Rosalie--A fair picture--Strange
similarity--Heavenwards--Anastasia or Rosalie--Her dreams and
visions--Modern Paul and Virginia--Eternal possession--A Gerona
saint--The better part--More heresy--Fenelon--One creed, one
worship--Not peace but a sword--Not dead to the world--Angel of
mercy--H. C. mistaken--Earthly idyll 99
CHAPTER VIII.
MOTHER AND SON.
Demons at work--In the crowd--Ernesto and his mother--Roasted
chestnuts--Instrument of torture--New school of anatomy--Rhine-stones or
diamonds?--Happy mother--Honest confession--Danger of edged
tools--Cayenne lozenges for the monkeys--Joseph--Early
compliments--Ernesto pleads in vain--Down by the river--Music of the
reeds--Rich prospect--Faust--Singers of the world--Joseph takes
tickets--Gerona keeps late hours--Its little great world--Between the
acts--Successful evening--In the dark night--On the bridge--Silence and
solitude--Astral bodies--Joseph turns Job's
comforter--Magnetism--Delormais psychological--Alone in the
streets--Saluting the Church militant--Haunted staircase again--Sighs
and rustlings--H. C. retires--"Drink to me only with thine
eyes"--Delormais' challenge--Leads the way--Illumination--Coffee
equipage--"Only the truth is painful"--Lost in reverie 114
CHAPTER IX.
DELORMAIS.
Magnetism--Past life--Impulsive nature--First impressions--Perfumed
airs--A gentle spirit--Haunted groves--Blue waters of the Levant--Great
devotion--A rose-blossom--Back to the angels--Special Providence--Fair
Provence--Charmed days--Excursions--Isles of Greece--Ossa and
Pelion--City of the violet crown--Spinning-jennies have something to
answer for--Olympus--AEgina--Groves of the Sacred Plain--Narrow
escapes--Pleasures of home-coming--Rainbow atmosphere--Orange and lemon
groves--The nightingales--Impressionable childhood--Fresh plans--The
Abbe Riviere--Rare faculty--Domestic chaplain--Debt of
gratitude--Treasure-house of strength Given to hospitality--First great
sorrow--Passing away--Resolve to travel--"I can no more"--The old Adam
dies hard--Chance decides 130
CHAPTER X.
DELORMAIS' ROMANCE.
Rome--Count Albert--Happy months--Sweets of
companionship--Egypt--Strange things--Quiet weeks--Sinai--Freedom of the
desert--Crossing the Red Sea--Mount Serbal--Convent of St. Catherine--In
the Valley of the Saint--Tomb of Sheikh Saleh--Pools of
Solomon--Jerusalem the Golden--Bethel--Lebanon--Home again--Fresh
scenes--Algeria--Hanging gardens of the Sahel--Mount Bubor and its
glories--Rash act--At the twilight hour--Earthly paradise--Fair
Eve--Fervent love--Arouya--Nature's revenge--Not to last--Eternal
requiem of the sea--In the backwoods--Hunting wolves--Prairies of
California--Honolulu--Active volcanoes--Lake of fire--Rare birds and
wild-flowers--Worship of Peleus--An eruption--Mighty upheaval--Coast of
Labrador--Shooting bears 143
CHAPTER XI.
MONSEIGNEUR.
Great conflict--Returning to Paris--Count Albert married--Marriages
declined--Love buried in the grave of Arouya--Frivolities--Napoleon at
the Tuileries--Illness--Doctors' errors--Days of horror--Vow
registered--Between life and death--Victory--Home again--Abbe's
objections--Resolve strengthened--Death of the Abbe--Taking vows--Life
of energy and action--Rapid sketch--Sympathies--All
ordained--"Monseigneur"--"Mon ami"--Cry of the watchmen--Candles wax dim
and blue--Wandering in dreams--False prophet--H. C. rises with the
lark--Beauty of Gerona--Pathetic scene--Colonel administers
consolation--Widow's heart sings for joy--In the cloisters
again--Good-bye--In the cathedral--Anselmo--Sunshine over
all--Miguel--On the ruined citadel--Anselmo's signal--A glory departs 154
CHAPTER XII.
A MINISTERING SPIRIT.
Sweet illusions--Everything seen and done--True devotion--In the
vortex--Sunshine and blue skies--Less demon-like pit--Lights and
shadows--Arcades lose their gloom--Rosalie--Charm of Anselmo--Romance
not dead--H. C. in ecstasy--Escorting an angel--Cathedral steps--San
Filiu--A lovely spot--Ancient house--Mullions and latticed
windows--Passing away--Rosalie's ministrations--Resignation--Rosalie's
farewell--"Consuelo"--Taken from the evil to come--The door
closed--Ernesto's world topsy-turvy--Ernesto turns business-like--The
catapult again--Up the broad staircase--Not the ghostly hour--Madame in
her bureau--Posting ledger--Balance on right side--Madame
philosophises--Shrieks to the rescue--"My dear daughter"--Our host and
the nightingales--Waiting for next year's leaves--The Senorita
Costello--Delormais on the wing--Another vigil--Promise
given--Departure--Inspector quails--H. C. collapses--The susceptible
age--Lady Maria alters her will--Possession nine-tenths of the law 168
CHAPTER XIII.
A WORLD'S WONDER.
Barcelona--H. C.'s anxiety--Mutual salutes--Old
impressions--Disappointment--Familiar cries and
scenes--Flower-sellers--Perpetual summer--Commercial element--Manchester
of Spain--Surrounding country--Where care comes not--Barcelonita--The
quays--A land of corn and wine--Relaxing air--Lovely ladies--Ancient
element conspicuous by its absence--Historical past--Great in the Middle
Ages--Wise and powerful--Commerce of the world--Wealth and
learning--Waxes voluptuous--Ferdinand and Isabella--Diplomatic but not
grateful--Brave and courageous--Fell before Peterborough--Napoleon's
treachery--Republican people--Prosperous once more--Ecclesiastical
treasures--Matchless cathedral--Inspiration--Influence of the
Moors--Work of Majorcan architect--Dream-world--Imposing scene 184
CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE CLOISTERS OF SAN PABLO.
In the cloisters--Sacred geese--Bishop's palace--House of the
Inquisition--Striking quadrangles--_Ajimez_ windows--A rare
cloister--Desecration--Library--Rare MSS.--Polite librarian--Romantic
atmosphere--Santa Maria del Mar--Cloisters of Santa Anna--Sister of
Mercy--San Pablo del Campo--More dream cloisters--Communing with ghosts
and shadows--Spring and winter--Constant visitor--Centenarian--Chief
architect--Cathedrals of Catalonia--Barbarous town-council--Hard fight
and victory--Failing vision--Emblems of death--Laid aside--Wholesome
lessons--Placing the keystone--_Finis_--_Resurgam_--Charmed
hour--Possessing the soul in patience--City of Refuge 203
CHAPTER XV.
MONTSERRAT.
Early rising--Imp of darkness--Death warrant--The men who fail--Ranges
of Montserrat--Sabadell--Labour and romance--The
Llobregat--Monistrol--Summer resort--Sleeping village--Empty
letter-bags--Ascending--Splendid view--Romantic element--Charms of
antiquity--Human interests--Mons Serratus--A man of letters--_Solitude a
deux_--Fellow-travellers--Substantial
lady-merchant--Resignation--Military policeman--"Nameless here for
evermore"--Round man in square hole--Romantic history--_Cherchez la
femme_--Woman a divinity--Good name the best inheritance--No fighting
against the stars--Fascinations of astrology--Love and fortune--Too good
to last--Taste for pleasure--Ruin--Sad end--Truth reasserts
itself--Fortune smiles again--Ceylon--Philosophical in misfortune--A
windfall--Approaching Montserrat--Paradise of the monks--Romance and
beauty--New order of things--Gipsy encampment 214
CHAPTER XVI.
A HIDDEN GENIUS.
Monk's face--Superfluous virtue--"Welcome to Montserrat"--Mean
advantage--Exacting but not mercenary--Another Miguel--Missing
keys--Singular monk--Hospederia--Uncertainty--Monk's idea of
luxury--Rare prospect--Haunted by silence--Father Salvador
privileged--Monk sees ghosts--Under Miguel's escort--In the
church--Departed glory--The black image--Gothic and Norman
outlines--Franciscan monk or ghost?--Vision of the past--Days of
persecution--Sensible image--Great community--Harmony of the
spheres--Sad cypresses--Life of a hermit--Monk's story--Loving the
world--Penitence--Plucked from the burning--Talent developed--A world
apart--False interest--Salvador--Temptation and a compromise--Salvador
extemporises--"All the magic of the hour"--Salvador's belief--Waiting
for manifestations. 227
CHAPTER XVII.
SALVADOR THE MONK.
Gipsies--Picturesque scene--Love passages--H. C. invited to festive
board--Saved by Lady Maria's astral visitation--The fortune-teller--H.
C. yields to persuasion--Fate foretold--Warnings--Photograph
solicited--Darkness and mystery--Night scene--Gipsies depart--Weird
experiences--Troubled dreams--Mysterious sounds--Ghost appears--H. C.
sleeps the sleep of the just--Egyptian darkness--In the cold
morning--Salvador keeps his word--Breakfast by candle-light--Romantic
scene--Salvador turns to the world--Agreeable companion--Musician's
nature--Miguel and the mule--Leaving the world behind--Darkness
flies--St. Michael's chapel--Sunrise and glory--Marvellous scene--Magic
atmosphere--Salvador's ecstasy--Consents to take luncheon--Heavenly
strains--"Not farewell"--Departs in solitary sadness--Last of the funny
monk 249
CHAPTER XVIII.
A STUDY IN GREY.
Manresa--Tropical deluge--Rash judgment--Catalan hills and
valleys--Striking approach--Taking time by the forelock--Primitive
inn--Strange assembly--Unpleasant alternative--Sebastien--Manresa under
a cloud--Wonderful outlines--Disappointing church--Sebastien leads the
way--Old-world streets--Picturesque and pathetic--Popular
character--"What would you, senor?"--Sebastien's Biblical knowledge at
fault--Lesson deferred--A revelation--La Seo--Church cold and
lifeless--Cave of Ignatius Loyola--Hermitage of St. Dismas--Juan
Chanones--Fasting and penance--Visions and revelations--Spiritual
warfare--Eve of the Annunciation--Exchanging dresses--Knight turns
monk--Juan Pascual--Loyola comes to Manresa--Fanaticism--Vale of
Paradise--"Spiritual Exercises"--Founding the Jesuit Order--Dying to
self--The fair Anita--In the convent chapel--Two novices--Vision of
angels--The White Ladies--Agonising moment--Another Romeo and
Juliet--Back to the hotel--Sebastien disconsolate--"To-morrow the sun
will shine"--Building castles in the air--A prophecy fulfilled 263
CHAPTER XIX.
LERIDA.
Picturesque country--Approaching Lerida--Rambling inn--Remarkable
duenna--Toothless and voiceless--Smiles upon H. C.--Nearly
expires--Civilised chef--A procession--Lerida Dragon--City of the
dead--Night study--Charging dead walls--A night encounter--Armed
demon--Wise people--Watchman proves an old friend--No promotion--Locked
out--Rousing the echoes--Night porter appears on the scene--Also El
Sereno--Apologetic and repentant--The charming Rose--Porter
congratulates himself--Cloudless morning--H. C. confronted by the
Dragon--In the hands of the Philistines--A Lerida fine art--Boot-cleaner
in Ordinary--Remarkable character--H. C. hilarious--Steals a march 285
CHAPTER XX.
THE STORY OF A LIFE.
Lerida by daylight--Second city in Catalonia--Past history--Days of the
Goths--And Moors--Becomes a bishopric--Troublous times--Brave
people--Striking cathedral--Splendid outlines--Desecration--The new
cathedral--Senseless tyranny--One of the most interesting of
towns--Crowded market-place--Picturesque arcades and ancient
gateways--Wine-pressers--Good offer refused--Another
revelation--Wonderful streets--Amongst the immortals--Our Boot-cleaner
in Ordinary again--Thereby hangs a tale--His story--Blind wife--Modest
request--Nerissa--Charming room--Little queen in the
arm-chair--Faultless picture--Renouncements but no regrets--"All a new
world"--Time to pass out of life--Back to the quiet streets--H. C.
contemplative--Proposes emigration to Salt Lake City--Lerida glorified
by its idyll 296
CHAPTER XXI.
THE END OF AN IDYLL.
Days of chivalry not over--In the evening light--Night porter
grateful--Dragon in full force--Combative and revengeful--Equal to the
occasion--Gall turns to sweetness when H. C. appears--Last night in
Lerida--Bane of our host's life--Mysterious disappearance--Monastery of
Sigena--Devout ladies--Returning at night--Place empty and
deserted--Birds flown with keys--Quite a commotion--"The senor is
pleased to joke"--Was murder committed?--Mysteries explained--Probably
down the well--Drag for skeletons--Host's horror--"We drink the
water"--A tragedy--Out in the quiet night--Discords--Lerida cafe--Create
a sensation--Polite captain--Offer declined--Regrets--Final
crash--Paradise or Lerida--Deserted market-place--Trees whisper their
secrets--El Sereno at the witching hour--Hard upon the angels--Not a bed
of roses--Alphonse--End of a long life--Until the dawn--Acolyte and
priest--"We must all come to it, senor"--El Sereno disappears for the
last time--Daybreak--In presence of death--Alone, but
resigned--Surpassing loveliness--Sacred atmosphere 313
CHAPTER XXII.
A SAD HISTORY.
Broad plains of Aragon--Wonderful tones--Approaching Zaragoza--Celestial
vision--Distance lends enchantment--Commonplace people--The ancient
modernised--Disillusion followed by delight--Almost a small Paris--Cafes
and their merits--Not socially attractive--Friendly equality--Mixture of
classes--Inheritance of the past--Interesting streets--Arcades and
gables--Lively scenes--People in costume--Picture of Old Spain--Ancient
palaces--One especially romantic--The world well lost--Fair Lucia--Where
love might reign for ever--Paradise not for this world--Doomed--The last
dawn--Inconsolable--Seeking death--Found on the battlefield--A day
vision--Few rivals--In the new cathedral--Startling episode--Asking
alms--Young and fair--Uncomfortable moment--Terrible story--Fatal
chains--"And after?"--How minister to a mind diseased?--Sunshine
clouded--Burden of life--Any way of escape?--Suggestions of past
centuries--The mighty fallen 329
CHAPTER XXIII.
IN ZARAGOZA.
Bygone days--Sumptuous roosting--Old exchange--Traders of taste--Glory
of Aragon--Cathedral of La Seo--Modernised exterior--Interior charms and
mesmerises--Next to Barcelona--Magnifice effect--Parish church--Moorish
ceiling--Tomb of Bernardo de Aragon--The old priest--Waxes
enthusiastic--Supernatural effect--Statuette of Benedict
XIII.--Mysterious chiaroscuro--One exception--Alonza the
Warrior--Moorish tiles--Bishop's palace--Frugal meal--Trace of old
Zaragoza--Fifteenth century house--Juanita--Streets of the city--Caesarea
Augusta--Worship of the Virgin--Alonzo the Moor--Determined
resistance--Days of struggle--Falling--Return to prosperity--Fair maid
of Zaragoza--The Aljaferia--Ancient palace of the Moorish kings--Injured
by Suchet--Salon of Santa Isabel--Spanish cafe--Four generations--Lovely
voice--Lamartine's _Le Lac_--Recognised--Reading between the lines--Out
in the night air--An inspiration--Night vision of El Pilar--In the far
future 343
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CANON'S HOSPITALITY.
El Pilar by day--In the old cathedral--The canon reproachful--Equal to
the occasion--No pressure needed--_Un diner maigre_--Dream of forty
years--True to time--Juanita--Fruits of long service--Exploring
Juanita's domains--House of magic--"Surely not a fast-day"--Artistic
dreams--Who can legislate after death?--Canon's abstinence--Juanita
withdraws--Our opportunity--Canon earnest and sympathetic--Eugenie de
Colmar--Canon's surprise--An old friend--Truth stranger than
fiction--"You will forget the old priest"--Ingratitude not one of our
sins--Arivederci--Canon's letter--End of Eugenie's story--En route for
Tarragona--Landlord turns up at Lerida--Missing keys--Skeletons floated
out to Panama--Domestic drama--Dragon again to the
front--Tarragona--Matchless coast scene--Civilised inn--Military
element--Haunted house--Mystery unsolved--Distinct elements--Roman and
other remains--Dream of the past--Green pastures and sunny vineyards 357
CHAPTER XXV.
QUASIMODO.
Tarragona by night--Cathedral--Moonlight vision--Dream-fabric--Deserted
streets--Ghostly form approaches--Quilp or Quasimodo?--Redeeming
qualities--Pale spiritual face--Open sesame--Approaching the
apparition--Question and answer--Invitation accepted--Prisoners--The
Shadow--Under the cold moonlight--Enter cathedral--Vast interior--Gloom
and silence--Fantastic effects--Enigma solved--Strange proceeding--No
inspiration--Why Quasimodo turned night into day--Weird moonlight
scene--Soft sweet sounds--Schumann's Traeumerei--Spellbound--The
magician--Witching hour--Cathedral ghosts--An eternity of music--Varying
moods--Returning to earth--Quasimodo's rapture--Travelling
moonbeams--Night grows old--Sky full of music--Lost to sight--Dreams
haunted by Quasimodo--New day 372
CHAPTER XXVI.
IN THE DAYS OF THE ROMANS.
Charms of Tarragona--Roman traces--Cyclopean remains--Augustus closes
Temple of Janus--Great past--House of Pontius Pilate--View from
ramparts--Feluccas with white sails set--Life a paradise--City
walls--Cathedral outlines--Lively market-place--Remarkable
exterior--Dream-world--West doorways--Internal effect--In the
cloisters--Proud sacristan--Man of taste and learning--Delighted with
our enthusiasm--Great concession--Appealing to the soul--Senor
Ancora--Human or angelic?--In the cloister garden--Sacristan's domestic
troubles--Silent ecclesiastic--Sad history--Church of San
Pablo--Challenge invited--Future genius--Rare picture--Roman aqueduct--A
modern Caesar--Reminiscences--Rich country--Where the best wines are
made--Aqueduct--El puente del diablo--Giddy heights--Lonely valley--H.
C. sentimental--Rosalie and Fair Costello--Romantic
situation--Quarrelsome Reus--Masters of the world--Our driver turns
umpire--Battle averted--Men of Reus--Whatever is, is wrong--Driver's
philosophy--Dream of the centuries 389
CHAPTER XXVII.
LORETTA.
Our ubiquitous host--Curious mixture of nations--Francisco--His
enthusiasm carries the point--French lessons--English
prejudice--Landlord's lament--Days of fair Provence--Francisco
determines to be in time--Presidio--Tomb of the Scipios--Fishing for
sardines--Early visit to cathedral--Still earlier sacristan--Francisco's
delight--Freshness of early morning--Reus--Bark worse than bite--Where
headaches come from--An evil deed--Valley of the Francoli--Moorish
remains--Montblanch--The graceful hills of Spain--Espluga--Francisco
equal to occasion--Beseiged--Donkeys versus carriage--Interesting old
town--Decadence--Singular woman--Loretta's escort--Strange
story--Unconscious charm--What happened one Sunday evening--Caro--"The
right man never came"--Comes now--How she was betrothed--Primitive
conveyance--Making the best of it--Wine-pressers--Loving cup--Nectar of
the gods--Fair exchange--Rough drive--Scene of Loretta's adventures 405
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE RUINS OF POBLET.
A dream-world--Ruins--Chapel of St. George--Archways and Gothic
windows--Atmosphere of the Middle Ages--Convent doorway--Summons but no
response--Door opens at last--Comfortable looking woman--Ready
invention--Confusion worse confounded--True version--Francisco painfully
direct--Guardian gets worst of it--Picturesque decay--Gothic
cloisters--Visions of beauty--Rare wilderness--King Martin the
Humble--Bacchanalian days--When the monks quaffed Malvoisie--Simple
grandeur of the church--Philip Duke of Wharton--Cistercian
monastery--History of Poblet the monk--Monastery becomes
celebrated--Tombs of the kings of Aragon--Guardian sceptical--Paradise
or wilderness--Monks all-powerful--Escorial of Aragon--The great
traveller--Changing for the worst--Upholding the kingly power--Time
rolls on--Downfall--Attacked and destroyed--Infuriated mob--Fictitious
treasures--Fiendish act--Massacre--Ruined monastery--Blood-red
sunset--Superstition--End of 1835 418
CHAPTER XXIX.
LORENZO.
Day visions--All passes away--End of the feast--Francisco gathers up the
fragments--Ghosts of the past--Outside the monastery--Oasis in a
desert--After the vintage--Francisco gleans--Guilty conscience--Custom
of country--Dessert--Primitive watering-place--Off to the fair--Groans
and lamentations--Sagacious animal--Cause of sorrows--Rage and
anger--Donkey listens and understands--A hard life--Washing a
luxury--Charity bestowed--Deserted settlement--Quaint interior--Back to
the monastery--Invidious comparisons--A promise--Good-bye to
Poblet--Troubled sea again--Suffering driver--Atonement for sins--Earns
paradise--Wine-pressers again--Rich stores--Good Samaritans--Quaint old
town--Bygone prosperity--Lorenzo--Marriage made in heaven--House
inspected--On the bridge--At the station--Kindly offer--Glorious
sunset--Loretta's good-bye--"What shall it be?"--Flying moments--As the
train rolls off. 430
CHAPTER XXX.
THE GARDEN OF SPAIN.
Charms of Tarragona--Dream of the past--Quasimodo comes not--Of another
world--Host's offer--Francisco inconsolable--A mixed sorrow--No more
holidays--List of grievances--Fair scene--Luxuriance of the
South--Hospitalet--Pilgrims of the Middle Ages--Amposta--Centre of lost
centuries--Historical past--Here worked St. Paul--Our
fellow-travellers--Undertones--Enter old priest--Draws
conclusions--Love's young dream--Impressions and appearances--Not always
a priest--Fool's paradise--Youth and age--Awaking to realities--Driven
out of paradise--Was it a judgment?--Calmness returns--Judging in
mercy--Nameless grave--"Writ in water"--Withdrawing from the
world--Entering the Church--Busy life--Romances of the Confessional--"To
Eve in Paradise"--Tortosa--Garden of Spain--Vinaroz--Wise mermen--Cradle
of history and romance--Gibraltar of the West--a race
apart--Benicarlo--Flourishing vineyards--"If the English only knew"--Eve
recognises priest--"I am that charming daughter"--Lovely cousin
engaged--Count Pedro de la Torre--Mutual
recognitions--Congratulations--Breaking news to H. C.--Despair--"To Adam
in Hades"--Gallant priest--Saved from temptation 447
CHAPTER XXXI.
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
First impressions--Devoted to pleasure--Peace-loving--Climate makes gay
and lively--New element--Few traces of the past--Old palaces--Steals
into the affections--City of the Cid--Ecclesiastical
attractions--Archbishopric--University--Homer must nod
sometimes--Comparative repose--De Nevada carries us off--Admirable
host--Conversational--Grave and gay--Mercy, not sacrifice--Library--At
Puzol--Exacting a promise--The hour sounds--Count Pedro
appears--Fragrant coffee--Served by magic--Specially prepared
temptation--Perverting facts--Land flowing with milk and
honey--Inquiring mind--Mighty man of valour--Cid likened to
Cromwell--Retribution--Ibn Jehaf the murderer--Reign of terror--The
faithful Ximena--Cid's death-blow--Priest turns
schoolmaster--"Beware!"--Earthly paradise--Land of consolation--System
of irrigation--Famous council--Poetical Granada--No appeal--Apostles'
Gate-way--Earth's fascinations--Picturesque peasants--Pretty
women--Countess Pedro shakes her head--Leave-taking--Next morning--Quiet
activity--Market-day--Splendours of flower-market--Lonja de
Seda--Vanishing dream--Audiencia--San Salvador--Antiquity yields to
comfort--Convent of San Domingo--Miserere--Impressive ceremony--City of
Flowers--Without the walls--Famous river--Change of scene 458
CHAPTER XXXII.
OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
Port and harbour--Sunday and fresh air--In the market-place--De Nevada
protests--A curse of the country--In the days gone by--On the
breakwater--Invaded tramcar--De Nevada confirmed--Another crusade
needed--Plaza de Toros--In Sunday dress--Domestic interiors--When the
play was o'er--Bull-ring at night--Fitful dreams--Fever--Maitre d'hotel
prescribes--Magic effect--Depart for Saguntum--Before the days of
Rome--Primitive town--Days of the Greeks--Attacked by Hannibal--Rebuilt
by the Romans--Absent guardian--The hunchback--Reappears with
custodian--Doors open--Moorish fortress--Fathomless cisterns--Sad
procession--Weeping mourners--Key of Valencia--Miguella--Time heals all
wounds--Proposes coffee--Proud and pleased--Scenes that remain--In
Barcelona--Drawing to a close--Sorrow and regret--Many experiences--Our
Espluga friends--Loretta's gratitude--In the Calle de Fernando--A last
favour--Glories of Spain--Eastern benediction 481
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
INTERIOR OF ZARAGOZA CATHEDRAL _Frontispiece_
PEDRO 23
THE BOULEVARD: GERONA 31
ARCADES: GERONA 42
VIEW OF GERONA FROM THE STONE BRIDGE 43
BANKS OF THE ONAR: GERONA 47
APOSTLES' DOORWAY, CATHEDRAL: GERONA 51
A FRAGMENT OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF GERONA 59
STREETS IN GERONA 61, 101, 103, 123
ENTRANCE TO MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA 65
MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA 67
WAITING FOR THE VERDICT 69
CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA 75, 109
INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: GERONA 79
CLOISTERS OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA 81, 97
APOSTLES' DOORWAY AND BISHOP'S PALACE: GERONA 83
CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA 85
DOORWAY OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA 89
DESECRATED CHURCH: GERONA 93
OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA 95
OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA 119, 173
SAN FILIU, FROM WITHOUT THE WALLS: GERONA 163
A GERONA PATIO 169
MARKET PLACE: GERONA 177
THE RAMBLA: BARCELONA 187
INTERIOR OF CORO, GERONA CATHEDRAL 191
PULPIT AND STALLS, BARCELONA CATHEDRAL 195
TWILIGHT IN BARCELONA CATHEDRAL 199
SMALL CLOISTER OR PATIO: BARCELONA 205
CLOISTERS OF SANTA ANNA: BARCELONA 207
CLOISTERS OF SAN PABLO: BARCELONA 209
MONISTROL 217
CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT 231, 239
CLOISTERS OF MONTSERRAT 235
SALVADOR THE MONK 241
VALLEY OF MONTSERRAT 251
A FEW OF THE GIPSIES AT MONTSERRAT 255
MONS SERRATUS IN CLOUDLAND 259
MANRESA 267
MANRESA FROM THE RIVER: MORNING 269
MANRESA FROM THE HILL-SIDE: EVENING 273
ARCADES: LERIDA 291
LERIDA MULES 299
LERIDA 301
WINE-PRESSERS: LERIDA 303
OLD GATEWAYS: LERIDA 309
ENTRANCE TO POBLET 319
OLD CATHEDRAL: LERIDA 323
FAIR LUCIA'S HOUSE: ZARAGOZA 333, 337
BRIDGE AND CATHEDRAL OF EL PILAR: ZARAGOZA 339
AN OLD NOOK IN ZARAGOZA 345
NORTH WALL OF CATHEDRAL: ZARAGOZA 347
TOWER OF LA SEO: ZARAGOZA 351
INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL, SHOWING CORO AND ORGAN:
ZARAGOZA 359
SOUTH-WEST EXTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA 373
EAST END OF CATHEDRAL, SHOWING NORMAN APSE:
TARRAGONA 377
INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA 381
CLOISTERS: TARRAGONA 385, 393
SAN PABLO: TARRAGONA 397
AN OLD NOOK IN TARRAGONA 399
ROMAN AQUEDUCT, NEAR TARRAGONA 401
ON OUR WAY TO POBLET 415
ENTRANCE TO CLOISTERS: POBLET 421
MONKS' BURIAL GROUND: POBLET 425
RUINS OF POBLET 427, 441
CLOISTERS OF POBLET 431
POBLET, FROM THE VINEYARD 435
ANCIENT GATEWAY: VALENCIA 459
A STREET IN VALENCIA 461
RENAISSANCE TOWER: VALENCIA 469
MARKET PLACE, VALENCIA 473
LONJA DE SEDA: VALENCIA 475
SALON DE CORTES: AUDIENCIA 477
RUINS OF SAGUNTUM 487
BARCELONA 491
COURTYARD OF AUDIENCIA: BARCELONA 495
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul[A] in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
BYRON.
GLORIES OF SPAIN.
CHAPTER I.
AT THE GARE D'ORLEANS.
On Calais quay--At the Custom-house--A lady of the past--Ungallant
examiner--Better to reign than serve--Paris--Vanity Fair--Sowing
and reaping--Laughing through life--At the Hotel Chatham--A
pleasant picture--In maiden meditation--M. Pascal is wise in his
generation--The secrets of the Seine--Notre Dame--Ile St. Louis--A
mediaeval atmosphere--Victor Hugo--Ghosts of the Hotel Lambert--H.
C. again--His little comedy--M. the Inspector--Outraged ladies--"En
voiture, messieurs!"--Mystery not cleared--The Orleanais--La
Vendee--Garden of France--A dilemma--Polite Chef de Gare--Crossing
the Garonne--Land of corn and wine.
The Channel waters were calm and placid as the blue sky above them.
Though late autumn the temperature was that of mid-summer. At Calais
every one landed as jauntily as though they had just gone through the
pleasure of a short yachting trip. As usual there were all sorts and
conditions of men and women, and again the curious, the grotesque, the
impossible predominated. They streamed across the new quay in a
disordered procession, struggling with all that amount of hand-baggage
which gets into everyone's way but their own, as they hurry forward to
secure for themselves the best seats and most comfortable corners.
The Custom-house was over. One ancient lady who stood near us was
politely demanded by the examiner if she had cigars, tobacco or brandy
to declare. Her flaxen wig seemed to stand on end as she asked if they
mistook her for a New Woman: Quaker-like answering one question with
another. The examiner received her query _au pied de la lettre_, and
earnestly looked at the lady, who, in spite of flaxen wig, rouge,
pencilled brows, was of the Past. All his intelligence in his eyes, he
replied: "About the same age as the century, I should say, madame;" then
marked her packages and turned to the next in waiting. Had those two
found themselves alone together, judging from the lady's expression
there would have been terrible paragraphs in the next day's papers. As
it was she entered one of the waiting trains and we saw her no more.
Evidently she had been a beauty in her day, and it is hard to serve
where one has reigned.
So we steamed on to the gay capital, in her day almost to the modern
world what Rome was to the ancient. And if not altogether that now, who
has she to thank but herself? Nations like people must reap as they sow.
Yet, whirling through the broad thoroughfares, we felt she still holds
her own. Nowhere such floods of light, turning night into day, making
one blink like owls in the sunshine. Nowhere shops so resplendent that a
Jew's ransom would not purchase them. Nowhere such a Vanity Fair crowded
with a light-hearted people, who dance through the world to the tune of
_Away with Melancholy!_ Passing from the Gare du Nord, the brilliant
boulevards were full of life and movement.
Our coachman turned into the Rue Daunou and brought up at the Hotel
Chatham: quiet, comfortable, but like all Parisian hotels terribly in
want of air. The manager received us with as much attention as though we
had arrived for six months instead of a couple of hours, in order to
fortify ourselves for the night journey southwards.
The salle-a-manger opened its hospitable doors, disclosing a number of
small tables, snow-white cloths, sparkling glass and silver; a pleasant
vision. Richly dressed ladies, blazing with jewels, fanned themselves
with lazy grace. In a quiet corner sat two quiet people, evidently
mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what
the other was now. They were English, as one saw and heard, for we were
at the next table. No other country could produce that fair specimen of
girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined
tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy
swain to fields Elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run
swiftly.
Then came up our cunning _maitre-d'hotel_, portly and commanding,
deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little
diplomacy.
"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine
of old.
"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Chateau d'Irrac is superior."
"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Chateau
d'Irrac."
And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the
cellar, whilst many bins of Chateau d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We
sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot
compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a
keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of
monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Chateau d'Irrac is
much appreciated--especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to
change the wine?"
_Amende honorable_, but not accepted; and the Chateau d'Irrac remained.
Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orleans. Paris
had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were
closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.
The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the
river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old
books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or
later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance.
Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life--and where is it
more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its
turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly
Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an
atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet
stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul
has risked the unknown.
Once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of Notre Dame in all the
beauty of Gothic refinement; all the delicate lacework and flying
buttresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky.
Who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those
historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it
slowly rose to perfection? All the centuries that have since rolled on,
changing and destroying much of its charm? The perils it went through
and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of '93 when,
condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove
half the excitable Frenchmen of Paris stark staring mad.
How can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest
Victor Hugo, who loved them as Scott and Burns loved their wholesomer
banks and braes? Everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man
as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep
thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable
and French; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human
suffering and endurance, broken destinies. His face looks at you from
every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring Ile St. Louis. The
shadows of Notre Dame fall upon its mediaeval roofs; the dark waters of
the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. If they
could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great
army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in
consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear.
Many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the
destinies of his characters, from the windows of the Hotel Lambert. Its
painted ceilings recall the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old
staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of
Voltaire and the tripping footsteps of Madame de Chatet.
We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver
pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.
Another world, inhabited by another people. Darkness reigned; lamps were
few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and
amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue,
that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the Dead Sea fruit.
Presently he crossed a bridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the
dark waters below. The Seine was pursuing her relentless course,
carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the
ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.
A few moments more, and at the Gare d'Orleans we dismissed our man with
his _pourboire_. We were in good time, and had the place almost to
ourselves. "Le train n'est pas encore fait, monsieur," said a polite
official. "Ah! there it comes. You will not be over-crowded to-night, I
imagine."
Good hearing, for a night journey in a full train without a reserved
carriage means martyrdom. We marked our seats, then walked up and down
the lighted platform. It was nearly ten o'clock and passengers were
arriving.
Presently, missing H. C., we turned and saw him at the lower end of the
train examining the last carriage. What did it mean? Evidently mischief
of some sort. The hundred-and-one occasions rose up before us in which
we had saved him from ladies with matrimony on the brain, from
intrigues, from his susceptible self. Only a year ago there had been
that narrow escape in the Madrid hotel with the siren who had married
the Russian count. He saw us coming, turned and met us with laughter.
What now?
"Come and see," placing his arm in ours. "But don't interfere with the
liberty of the subject. I will not be controlled. You shall no longer
find me weak and yielding as in other years."
All this went in at one ear and out at the other, as the saying runs.
Silence is the best reply to incipient rebellion.
At the last carriage the mystery was solved. In one compartment sat two
lovely ladies, waiting the departure of the train to draw down the
blinds and settle themselves for the night. H. C. silently pointed to
the label, which said: _Pour Fumeurs._ Fortune seemed to favour his
humour for we had seldom seen the announcement on a French carriage.
Then he went on to the next compartment. Three young men had entered and
were laughing, talking, blowing clouds of smoke. This was labelled _Pour
Dames Seules_. H. C. had quietly changed the iron labels and turned the
world upside down. The inmates were in blissful ignorance of the
frightful thing that had happened.
"We had no time for the theatre to-night, yet I had a mind for a little
comedy," said H. C. "Now we have it on the spot, and without paying. I
had such trouble to ram the plaques into the grooves that they will
never come out again. Here comes the inspector--evidently not to be
trifled with; exactly the man for the occasion. Now for it."
We trembled as the great man approached, each particular hair standing
on end, the pallor of death on our cheek. Appearances would have
condemned us. H. C., on the other hand, looked innocence itself.
Suddenly the inspector gave a start, exactly reproduced in us; on his
part, astonishment and indignation; on ours, nervous terror. Then the
door of the compartment was thrown open and the scene began. The
inspector's powerful bass voice made itself felt and heard.
"Gentlemen," in his deepest diapason, "what is the meaning of this? How
dare you enter a compartment reserved _For Ladies Only_, fill it with
vile smoke, and treat with contempt the rules of our organisation
department? For this, gentlemen," waxing wrath and perhaps overstating
his case, "I could fine and summons you--and believe I should be
justified in handing you over to the _Police Correctionnelle_. Your act
is infamous--and no doubt designed."
Instead of pouring oil upon troubled waters, the young men were
combative and defiant.
"Qu'est-ce que vous nous chantez la?" said one. "Surely, my dear
inspector, your sight is failing--time rolls on, you know; or you cannot
read; or you have dined too well. But if you have your senses about you
and examine the plaque closely, you will see that it states: _For
Smokers._ And we are smokers. My compliments to you, Monsieur the famous
Inspector. Like Dumas, we are here and we remain."
"Very good," said H. C. innocently looking on. "As a scene at the
Vaudeville it would bring down the house and make the fortune of the
piece. You ought to be grateful for this little distraction, but you
don't look it. All was done so easily and develops so naturally."
The inspector listened whilst this fuel was being added to the fire of
his wrath. "We will see about that," he said. "Come out this instant and
read for yourself." He grasped the arm of the young man. As he was
strong and the youth weak, the result was that Dumas' famous saying fell
to the ground and he with it. In a moment he stood upon the platform and
read the fatal notice.
"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" he cried. "I can assure you,
Monsieur the Inspector, that before entering I read the label with my
own eyes--we all did. Anatole--de Verriers--I appeal to you for
confirmation. It positively stated _For Smokers_. No, oh no, I am
certain of it--and I have _not_ dined too well," laughing in spite of
himself. "For Ladies only! It is too good a joke. I assure you we want a
quiet night's rest; we don't want to be disturbed by the gentle snoring
of the fair sex. An enemy hath done this. Tenez, Monsieur the
Inspector," going to the next carriage and reading the label: "look at
that. There are the innocent conspirators calmly seated in the
compartment. The ladies themselves have done this. I was wrong in saying
it was an enemy, for are we not all friends of the lovelier sex? But
take my word for it, they are the culprits. Remark how unconscious they
look; one sees it is too natural to be real--it is assumed. Poor ladies!
They are nervous, perhaps, and want a safeguard about them during the
perilous night journey. Or it may be that they even like smoking. After
all, it is an innocent little ruse on their part to attain a very
harmless end."
"Innocent, sir! harmless!" cried the outraged and perplexed inspector.
"We will see!"
He approached the compartment, threw wide the door, addressed the ladies
severely, as became his office, but tempered with respect and
admiration, as became a man.
"How is this, ladies?" to the startled women. "Allow me to inform you
that it is not _convenable_ for members of your sex to deliberately
compose themselves for the night in a compartment labelled _For
Smokers_."
"What!" cried the ladies in a breath. "_For Smokers?_ _Quel horreur!_
Monsieur the Inspector, you must be mad, or you have dined too
well--_l'un ou l'autre_. _For Smokers!_ Why, we are horrified at smoke.
It makes me cough, it makes my companion sneeze, it gets into our hair,
it ruins our complexion. Monsieur the Inspector," shaking out their
ruffled plumage, "this is an infamous accusation. We feel ourselves
insulted. We shall appeal to the Chef de Gare. You had better at once
say that we have done this thing ourselves, whilst the culprits are no
doubt those three young men who are laughing behind your back. You have
attacked our reputation and we will pursue the matter. When we entered
this compartment it was labelled _For Ladies Only_, and if you will
examine the plaque with sober senses you will find it still reads _For
Ladies Only_."
"Mesdames," returned the bewildered inspector, "I will trouble you to
alight and read for yourselves. No one shall accuse me of dining too
well with impunity; and no one, not even such charming women as
yourselves, shall exact an apology for an offence never committed."
Apparently there was nothing else for it. The ladies gracefully
alighted, assisted by the gallant but uncompromising inspector, and the
fatal words stared them in the face.
"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" they cried breathlessly, just as
the young men had cried. "An enemy hath done this, Monsieur the
Inspector, and the enemy is represented by those three young men who
doubtless look upon it as a _petite plaisanterie_. But if there is law
in the land they shall suffer for it. It is nothing more or less than an
outrage to our feelings. In the meantime, Monsieur the Inspector, not to
delay the train, have the kindness to change back the labels to their
right positions, and put those three young men under the surveillance of
the guard."
"If it is the last word we ever speak we are guiltless in this matter,"
protested the young men. "Mephistopheles is no doubt on the platform in
disguise"--here we felt a nudge from H. C. and a whispered
"Complimentary!"--"but we beg to say that we are not Fausts, and we have
no reason to suppose these ladies are Marguerites."
The outraged ladies were absolutely speechless with anger; twice they
opened their mouths but no sound would come. And as the train was now
about to start, there was nothing for it but to re-enter their
compartment. The young men did likewise. The doors were closed. The
inspector tried to remove the offending labels. They would not budge. He
brought all his strength to bear upon them, but they were fixed as the
stars in their course. If Mephistopheles had been at work, he had done
his work well. The plaques might have been soldered in their sockets.
The inspector was guilty of language not quite parliamentary. He felt
mystified, baffled; the whole thing was inexplicable.
There came a cry down the platform: "En voiture, messieurs!" Our own
carriage was some way off; we went up and entered, hiring pillows for
the night. Final doors were slammed; the train moved off. And the ladies
were in a compartment labelled _For Smokers_, and the three young men
had to themselves the carriage _Pour Dames Seules_. They must have been
laughing immoderately, for the inspector shook his fist as they slowly
rolled away; and the shake said as plainly as though we had heard the
words: "There go the culprits! Ah, _scelerats!_ If I only had you now in
my grasp!" The young men must have interpreted the action in like
manner, for the window was suddenly put down and three hands waved him a
derisive farewell.
We rolled away in the darkness. The lights of Paris grew faint and
dreamy, then went out. All the old familiar landmarks were invisible,
and when we crossed the Seine not a star was reflected in its deep dark
waters.
As the night went on we passed through the glorious country of the
Orleanais, washed by the waters of the historical and romantic Loire.
Who that has gone down its broad winding course can forget the charms of
its ancient towns? The halo surrounding Orleans, the pure accents of
Tours, the architectural wonders of Loches--home of the
Plantagenets--its towers and churches visible even under the stars; and
beyond Nantes, the gentle splendours of La Vendee. Porters in the
darkness of night shouted "Orleans!" and we felt in the very garden of
France, where nature is so bountiful that the labour of man is hardly
needed to bring forth the fruits of the earth. In these sunny provinces
dwell the happiest, most light-hearted of her sons. The earth abundantly
furnishes their daily bread and wine. It comes without trouble and is
eaten without care.
Night and darkness rolled away. We approached Bordeaux. Last year, at
this same hour, about this same time, we had found it enveloped in mist,
had made the acquaintance of Monsieur le Comte San Salvador de la
Veronniere, and wondered how his small body bore the weight of its
majestic name. But the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb and the back
is fitted to the burden. This time there was no comte and no mist. We
had watched the dawn break and a glorious sunrise turn fleecy clouds
into flaming swords. The earth awoke and the lovely woods and forests,
with their wealth of fern and bracken, were touched with rosy glowing
light as the sun shot above the horizon.
Just before reaching Bordeaux we made a discovery. A secret impulse
urged us to examine our luggage-ticket, and we were electrified at
finding it registered to Irun instead of Portbou. Steaming into the
crazy old station, we found out the station-master, and explained the
difficulty. He was politeness itself, and once more we could not help
contrasting the courtesy of the French officials with the less agreeable
manners of the Spanish.
"This would have been serious," said M. le Chef. "I am glad you found it
out in time. After Bordeaux it would have been too late. You and your
luggage would have gone your separate ways."
Then calling a porter, he handed him the ticket, bade him search the
luggage-vans and bring away the numbers indicated.
"A little against the rules," said the Chef smiling; "but life is full
of inevitable exceptions, and because we stick to too much red tape, and
will not recognise the need of exceptions, half life's worries occur."
Evidently our Chef was a philosopher, and fortunately a man of
common-sense.
Presently up came the porter. His search had been successful. The
luggage was re-registered for Portbou, and we had the satisfaction of
thanking M. le Chef for sparing us an awkward dilemma. "Monsieur," he
replied, with a finished French bow, "it is a pleasure to be of use,
and I am always at your disposition."
The train left the station and crossed the lordly Garonne. Nothing in
the way of river could look more majestic, with all the light of the sky
and all the blue of the heavens reflected on its broad surface. Once
more we were dazzled by the rich splendour of the autumn tints, glories
of colour. In the vineyards the deep purple leaves still lingered upon
the branches. White farmhouses, with their green shutters, red-tiled
roofs, strings of yellow Indian maize, heaps of pumpkins and cantaloupe
melons, stood out in striking contrast with the landscape. Many a
vine-laden porch threw its lights and shades upon walls and pavement.
Many a field was picturesque with ploughing-oxen. A hardy son of the
South guided the furrow, and a woman with red or blue handkerchief tied
round the head, followed, sowing the seed. One only wanted twilight and
the angelus bell to complete the scene's devotion.
All this we had found a year ago. Nothing was altered--it seemed as
yesterday. But now we were changing our direction, and going east
instead of westward. Last year Irun and St. Sebastian; now Gerona and
Barcelona the bright and pleasant, for ever associated with Majorca the
beautiful and beloved.
CHAPTER II.
A NARBONNE HOSTESS.
Carcassonne--In feudal times--Simon de Montfort--Canal du
Midi--L'Age d'or et le Grand Monarque--A modern Golden Fleece--One
of earth's fair scenes--Choice of evils--M. le Chef
yields--Narbonne--A woman of parts--The course of true love runs
smooth--_Diner de contrat_--Honey _versus_ the _lune de
miel_--Madame's philosophy--_L'Allee des Soupirs_--An unfinished
cathedral--At the gloaming hour--Mystery and devotion--The Hotel de
Ville--A domestic drama--High festival and champagne--The next
morning--H. C. repentant--Madame at her post--Ambrosial
breakfast--"Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"--Dramatic
exit--Perpignan--Home of the kings of Majorca--Elne--"Adieu, ma
chere France!"--Over the frontier--Gerona--Crowded platform--What
H. C. thought--Unpoetical incident--From the sublime to the
ridiculous.
The hours went on and the sun declined, and we looked upon the wonderful
old city of Carcassonne.
Rising out of the plain the great limestone rock was crowned by this
fortress of the Middle Ages, its walls and round towers clearly outlined
against the blue sky. These enclose a dead world given up to the poor
and struggling. Its steep, narrow streets have no longer the faintest
echo of military glories. The inner walls date back to the Visigothic
kings; the foundations of some of the towers are Roman, but nothing of
the outer walls seems later than the twelfth century. Here in 1210 the
army of crusaders under Simon de Montfort laid siege, the cruel Abbot of
Citeaux most determined of the enemy. The massacre at Beziers had just
taken place, de Montfort foremost in eagerness to shed blood. Some had
escaped to this little City of Refuge, amongst them the brave Vicomte de
Beziers: one of those men of whom the world has seen not a few, saving
lives at the cost of their own. The little fortress unable to hold out
was taken, and again the massacre was terrible, Beziers himself dying in
prison after great suffering.
A hundred and fifty years later it more successfully resisted the Black
Prince, who, after scattering terror right and left in the plains of
Languedoc, found that he had to retire from these walls baffled and
mortified. To-day they still stand, the most perfect mediaeval monument
in France.
The new town lies in the plain, quietly industrious as the old is silent
and dead, modern and commonplace as the other is ancient and romantic.
Trees overshadow the boulevards, costly fountains plash through the hot
days and nights of summer, running streams make the air musical and
reflect the sapphire skies.
On one side runs the great Canal du Midi, Canal des deux Mers, as it is
called, uniting the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. Two hundred and
fifty years ago it was one of the finest engineering works in the world,
and perhaps would never have been finished but for the encouragement of
le Grand Monarque, prime mover in that _age d'or_ when the literary
firmament was studded with such stars of the first order as Moliere,
Corneille, Lafontaine, Bossuet, Fenelon, Pascal, and last, not least,
Madame de Sevigne. There came a crowd of splendours, a succession of
startling events, into that lengthened reign, our own Marlborough taking
his part in such decisive battles as Blenheim and Malplaquet.
This Canal du Midi, reflecting the outlines of Carcassonne, added much
to the trade of Southern France. If that has declined amidst the world's
chances and changes, its numerous barges plying to and fro with sails
set to the evening breeze and the setting sun, still form one of earth's
most rare and beautiful scenes, full of calm repose. Corn and wine and
oil are their freights; rich Argosies commanded by many a modern Jason,
carrying many a Golden Fleece to the fair and flourishing towns that lie
in its path between the tideless shores of the Levant and the restless
waters of Biscay.
On the other side of the town runs the River Aude, also reflecting the
ancient outlines of Carcassonne in waters less placid than those of the
great Canal. This takes its way through a fertile valley given up to
vines and olives, fig-trees and pomegranates; and here flock crowds of
invalids to the mineral baths and waters, penances due to indiscretions
of the table or sins of their forefathers.
Our train rolled over both these waterways on its journey towards
Narbonne.
By this time we had realised that we had been misinformed as to the hour
we should reach Gerona, our first resting-place, adding one more record
to the chapter of small accidents. At Narbonne we had the good fortune
to find a Chef de Gare civil and obliging as he of Bordeaux, who
declared it impossible to reach Gerona that day as there was no railway
communication. We should have to spend the night at Portbou, the Spanish
frontier, where our quarters would be wretched, and all our sweet turn
to bitter against those who had misled us.
We decided at once. "Better remain where there is a good inn, than go on
to the miseries of Portbou, Monsieur le Chef."
"That is clear," he replied. "Here you will be comfortable--and on
French ground," laughing: "a virtue in my eyes, and I hope in yours
also."
We willingly agreed. "But our luggage? It is registered to Portbou."
He looked grave. "That is unfortunate; it must go on to Portbou. I
cannot give it to you. It is against all rules, and I greatly regret
it."
"Yet we cannot do without it. If you send it on to Portbou, we cannot
remain behind. Have you the heart to consign us to that _chambre de
tortures?_"
He paused a moment, revolving the momentous situation. "No," he laughed
at length, "I cannot do that, and for once will make an exception in
your favour. Advienne que pourra, you shall have your luggage."
Then in the kindest way he personally superintended the matter, delayed
the train until the luggage was found, and carried out sundry forms
necessary for the next day's journey.
We discovered very little in Narbonne to repay our change of plans, but
the hotel was comfortable and the energetic landlady a character worth
studying. Grass never grew under her feet. She seemed gifted with
ubiquity, and startled one by her rapid movements. A capable woman, who
made her little world work with a will, wound them up and set them
going. If the machinery flagged, she at once applied the master-key of
her energy, and the wheels went on again.
To-day she was on her mettle, as she informed us, having a large wedding
dinner on hand. "To-night was the _diner de contrat_, to-morrow the
_diner de noce_. A hundred and fifty people would sit down to it, and
she expected great conviviality."
Nor was she disappointed, if the noise we heard later on was any sign of
festive enjoyment. Loud laughter, applause, healths pledged, good wishes
bestowed--all indicated the state of the assembled guests.
Madame had taken us into the banquet-room to prove that she was capable
of decorating her table very effectively. Glass and silver glittered
under the rays of light; flowers perfumed the air; orange-trees stood in
corners, fruit and flowers mingled their delights. We asked for whom all
this extensive preparation.
"The daughter of an innkeeper, with a magnificent dowry, was marrying
one of the most popular doctors of the place. But it was really a
mariage d'amour, not merely de convenance. Les maries were both
delightful. One hardly knew which to congratulate the most. In short, it
was one of those rare events in life when the social sky is without a
cloud."
Madame was almost poetical in her enthusiasm. But she was no less
practical, and it was wonderful how everything went smoothly under her
guidance.
"Narbonne, famous for its honey." We seemed to remember this as one of
our geography lines in days gone by. "But where was the honey?" we asked
during the course of our own dinner, which madame was quite equal to in
spite of the greater ceremony on hand.
"You may well ask," placing upon the table a choice bottle of the
vin-du-pays, which she saw unsealed and uncorked by one of her officials
who had just been wound up again and was flying about the room like a
firework. "You may well ask, monsieur. No house so badly supplied with
coals as the charbonnier, and in Narbonne we see little of our own
honey. Like the fish in a seaport, it is all sent away, and you will
find more of it in Paris than here. But I will try to unearth a jar
from my stores."
Apparently the quest was unsuccessful, for no honey appeared. Or it may
be that in contemplating the _lune de miel_ in the garlanded
banqueting-room the more material article was lost sight of. With one
hundred and fifty people on her brain, no wonder if small matters were
forgotten. And yet madame seemed of those who forget nothing, her
faculties embracing both wide organisation and minute detail. A thin,
wiry woman, with a quick walk and a light step, dark eyes that nothing
escaped, yet without tyranny or sharpness of manner. Only once did we
hear her rebuking one of her waiters for the sin of procrastination.
"Leave nothing till to-morrow that can be done to-day," she wound up
with, "or you will soon find the world ahead and you left behind in the
race. Those are the people that come to poverty and have only themselves
to thank for it. That, monsieur," turning to us who waited a direction,
"is the reason we cannot very much help what are called the poor. Some
great failing brings them to that condition--laziness, stupidity or
vice, and your aid will never give them energy, wisdom or virtue."
Then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter
ordered to show us the way to the cathedral.
In the town we found very little that was not ordinary and common-place.
It is ancient, its streets are badly paved and tortuous, and it
possesses scarcely anything in the way of picturesque outlines, nothing
in the way of Roman remains. Yet it flourished as far back as the fifth
century B.C., and in the first century was in the hands of the Romans,
great in theatres, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. Of these not a
vestige has survived.
It was one of the great ports of the Mediterranean, which flowed up to
its foundations, but has gradually receded some eight miles. From one of
the great towers of the Hotel de Ville you may trace the outlines of the
Cevennes and Pyrenees on the one side, on the other watch the broad blue
waters shimmering in the sunshine, more beautiful than a dream in their
deep sapphire; you may count the white-winged boats sailing lazily to
and fro upon its flashing surface; and on still, dark nights, when the
stars are large and brilliant, watch the lights of fishing fleets
clustered together, and hear upon the shore the gentle plash of this
tideless sea.
On such summer nights the _Allee des Soupirs_ is the favourite walk of
the people. Whence its sad, romantic name? Has it seen many sorrows? Do
ghosts of the past haunt it with long-drawn sighs? Has it had more than
its share of Abelards and Heloises, Romeos and Juliets? Has some
sorrowful Atala been borne under its branches to a desert grave, some
Dante mourned here his lost Beatrice, some Petrarch his Laura?
We knew not, and turning from it climbed the ill-paved streets towards
the Cathedral--a Cathedral no longer, for Narbonne, once an
Archbishopric, has been shorn of ecclesiastical dignity.
As far as it went, we found it a fine, interesting, but unfinished
Gothic building of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Little
beyond the choir exists--a splendid fragment, but a fragment only. It
might have been one of the world's wonders.
We entered for the second time in the gloaming, when its great height
was lost in shadows. A few lights about the church and on the altar
deepened the mystery. A few kneeling figures motionless at their
devotions added their quiet pathos to the scene. From the end of the
choir it had the effect of a vast church infinitely impressive. An
immense nave with aisles and pillars and vaulted roofs might stretch
behind us. Such was the intention of the architect, but his plans were
not carried out. In reality there was nothing. Within a few feet came
the narrow outer passage and the dead wall of the west front; but in the
darkness all this was not realised. We only saw the splendid choir, vast
height, graceful outlines, groined roof, pointed arches, and slender
pillars, steeped in the mystery and shadow of a dim religious light by
the few candles gleaming here and there like faint stars in the night.
Some of the painted glass was beautiful, as we had seen earlier in the
day, and much of the sixteenth century flamboyant tracery was very good.
There were many fine tombs and statues.
The Gothic Hotel de Ville close by is partly modern. A portion of it
formed the ancient Archbishop's Palace, and some of this remains, more
especially the old towers. The courtyard has a few interesting outlines,
and the staircase leading to the museum is of broad, massive marble. Up
and down these stairs and corridors was once wont to pass the proud
footstep of a primate, with head erect under the cardinal's red hat,
whilst the rustle of silken robes, white and scarlet, whispered of
greatness and vanity. It now shines by the light of other days. All its
pomp and pride has vanished; dead, silent and deserted, its glory has
been transferred to Toulouse, now the Archbishop's See.
We discovered the ancient dame who keeps the keys of the Museum. She
dwells in almost an underground room of the building, a distant wing in
the garden, where in days gone by the Archbishop paced and meditated in
the seclusion of impenetrable walls. Looking upwards nothing would
arrest the eye but the far-off serene sky and unfinished fragment of the
Cathedral. It is still a grey, venerable pile, this wing, silent and
empty.
But in the quiet little lodge of the custodian hearts still beat to the
tune of life's small dramas. A slight altercation was going on. The dame
was laying down the law to a young man, evidently her son. What the
transgression we could not tell. Possibly debt, and he had come to draw
upon the hard-earned savings in the chimney-corner: a sort of mental and
moral earthquake to the frugal mother-mind. Perhaps he was announcing
his marriage with one who would make him a bad wife. Or he had grown
tired of his narrow world, and pleaded to cross the seas and begin life
on a new soil. Whatever it might be, he departed looking very much as if
he too had his burden to bear. In passing he saluted, and said,
"Bonjour, messieurs," and his looks were comely and his voice was
pleasant. He had the air of a sailor, and possibly was a fisherman from
the little port eight miles off. When he had disappeared beyond the
trees, the old mother, who must also have been comely in her day, took
the keys and led the way up the broad marble staircase to the Museum.
The shades of evening were gathering, and our visit would almost have
been lost labour had there been anything else to do. It was too dark to
judge fairly, but amidst a great amount of rubbish we thought we
discovered a few good old pictures.
Long after the sun had set and the afterglow had faded, we went back to
the hotel and madame's hospitable attentions.
She was determined we should not suffer from the demands of the banquet.
The whole corridor was now lined with orange trees, whose sheeny green
leaves stood out in strong contrast with some strings of red peppers she
had artistically festooned against the walls; so that from the entrance
to the dining-room the procession would walk through an avenue of peace
and plenty. The effect was charming. Nothing could be more beautiful
than the luscious perfumed blossoms, richer than the deep foliage, more
picturesque than the scented golden fruit hanging gracefully from the
branches. As night went on, the sounds of merriment grew louder.
Champagne could not run like water without leading to noisy if not
brilliant wit. A hundred and fifty sons and daughters of sunny Southern
France might be trusted to make the most of their opportunity.
We left them to their rites when by-and-by the clock struck ten, lights
began to burn dim, and we realised that a sleepless night in the train
is more or less trying. Bidding madame _le bonsoir_, who flashed to and
fro like lightning, yet was neither hurried nor flurried, she politely
returned us _la bonne nuit_; adding, with a certain dry humour, that
after all she was glad marriages were not an everyday occurrence--at any
rate from her hotel. If profitable, they were fatiguing.
Next morning we rose before dawn. The man came in, lighted our candles,
and said it was time to rise. We thought we had slept five minutes; the
unconscious hours had passed too quickly. Overnight we had settled to
take an early train, and devote a few hours to Perpignan; hours of
enforced waiting on our way to Gerona. After an amount of rapping and
calling that might have roused the dead, H. C. had risen, lighted his
own candles, and protested by going back to bed and to slumber.
Fortunately the man went up to his room half an hour after, and seeing
the state of affairs upset the fire-irons, knocked down a couple of
chairs, and opened the window with a rattle.
"Are those wedding people still at it?" murmured H. C., in his dreams.
"It must be past midnight." Then consciousness dawned upon him and the
full measure of his iniquity; and presently he came down to a late
breakfast, subdued and repentant.
Early as it was, madame was at her post, brisk and wide-awake as though
yesterday had been nothing but a very ordinary fete-day. It was that
uncomfortable hour when the early morning light creeps in, and candles
and gas-lamps show pale and unearthly. The room looked chilly and
forsaken; that last-night aspect that is always so ghostlike and
unfamiliar. A white mist hung over the outer world.
Then the most comforting thing on earth made its triumphant entry--a
brimming teapot; and with the addition of tea tabloids a fine brew of
the cup which cheers sent our mental barometer to fair weather. We were
even admitted to the internal economy of the establishment. In came the
baker with a basket of steaming rolls giving out a delicious odour of
bread fresh from the oven; and with new-churned butter--the last we
tasted for many a long day--we made an ambrosial breakfast. In a few
minutes, madame cloaked and bonneted, came up to wish us bon voyage,
with a hope that we should again visit Narbonne. Nothing is certain in
this world or we should have told her it was a very forlorn hope.
"I have to go to market," she said, "and the sooner I am there the
better my choice of provisions. To-day, too, I have my _diner de noce_,
and must be back early. _Vraiment, c'est une charge!_ Ah! they amused
themselves last night! What headaches to-day, je parie, in spite of the
excellence of the wines. _Enfin! Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs._"
"But, madame, you are perpetual motion. You go to bed late--if you go to
bed at all, which we begin to doubt--and rise up early. This morning you
look as fresh as a rose. Have you the gift of eternal youth?"
Madame was not above a compliment, and smiled her pleasure. "Quant il y
a de la bonne volonte--" she laughed. "There is the whole secret. And
now, au revoir, messieurs. Bon voyage. Portez vous bien. My best wishes
go with you."
"Au revoir, on one condition, madame. That the next time we come you
present us without fail with a pot of Narbonne honey."
Madame uttered a cry, fell back a pace or two, struck her forehead
reproachfully, and disappeared like a flash into the street. Up rattled
the omnibus, absorbing ourselves and our traps. Narbonne was of the
past.
A short journey landed us at an early hour at Perpignan. We had passed
nothing very interesting on the road, for just here the sunny South
seems to have stayed her bountiful hand. The low bare outlines of the
rocky Corbieres were traced, and great stretches of heath where bees
gathered the famous honey we were not permitted to enjoy. Here and there
were immense salt lakes, giving the country a flooded appearance,
bringing fever to the neighbourhood. Once, years ago, passing these
endless lake districts in the night, weird, solemn, mysterious, we
wondered what they could be. One saw nothing but a world under water,
reflecting the stars; occasionally the black outline of some small boat
with the flash of a low-lying lamp streaming over its surface. And
presently, this morning, there was the blue Mediterranean to make up for
all other shortcomings.
Then Perpignan. This time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the
baggage went on to Portbou to await our afternoon arrival.
We felt we ought to know Perpignan, and with affection, for it was once
the residence of the kings of Majorca. But that was seven hundred years
ago, and it has gone through many changes at the hands of many masters.
For centuries it belonged to Spain, and still looks more Spanish than
French. Only in the middle of the seventeenth century was it finally
annexed to France by Richelieu. In summer its narrow streets are covered
with awnings, many of its buildings are moresque, and its houses have
the iron and wooden courts and balconies so common to Spain. Some of its
thoroughfares are picturesque and arcaded, and every now and then you
come upon an assemblage of wonderful roofs with their red tiles,
gorgeous creepers, and enormous vines; but they are the exception. It is
strongly fortified, and some of the old gateways are interesting. In
days gone by these fortifications were needed, for Perpignan was the
great point of defence in the Eastern Pyrenees between Spain and France.
The Cathedral is chiefly famous for the immense span of its vault. In
this it resembles Majorca, but is infinitely less beautiful. Though
larger, Perpignan seemed still more quiet and dead than Narbonne. We
soon exhausted its merits, and the hour for departure found us ready. At
the moment we were in the great courtyard of the inn watching the chef
in white cap and apron at a small table on the opposite side, enjoying
his dessert and hour of repose, to which coffee and cognac formed the
conclusion. For that hour he was a gentleman of leisure and had earned
his ease.
There was no time to visit Elne with its old Romanesque Cathedral and
cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it
in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines
rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. Here Hannibal
encamped on his way to Rome. Here came Constantine and named it Elena in
memory of his mother. Here the Emperor Constantine was assassinated by
order of Maxentius. Here came the Moors in the eighth century, the
Normans in the eleventh, the kings of France in the thirteenth,
fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructive in
their changes.
And now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where
eternal silence reigns. Passing away, we noted how its clear outlines
stood out against the blue sky of the South, whilst beyond it stretched
the sapphire waters of the Levant.
The train hurried on, and at Cerbere we bade farewell to pleasant
France: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we
have a sincere affection. In the space of a few yards we seemed to pass
from one country and people and tongue to another. At Cerbere nothing
but French was heard. A few minutes afterwards, at Portbou, we spoke in
French to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head,
and gruffly said "No entendo." We had entered Spain--land of slow
trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, but of romance and
beauty. Once more we thought fate was to be against us. As inevitably as
the slippers turned up in the Eastern story, so it seemed that our
luggage was destined to be the _bete noire_ of our wanderings.
[Illustration: PEDRO.]
"You wish to go to Gerona," said the station-master; "but your ticket
only states Barcelona. If you break your journey at Gerona, your luggage
must go on to the farther town."
Again we protested--and again conquered. "For once I yield and make you
an exception," said the chef; "but you will have trouble at Gerona." All
this had taken time, and the train moved off as we entered.
At eight o'clock we reached Gerona, and even in the darkness could see
its wonderful outlines; its countless reflections in the river that
rolled below. The station was in an uproar. Crowds of people, young men
and old, surged to and fro. Deafening shouts arose. What was the matter,
and what could it mean? We gave a shrewd guess. Conscripts were going
off, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell ovation, in which the
conscripts joined uproariously. On the platform we almost fell against
two stalwart old men, who stood conspicuously above the multitude. Each
had evidently come to see a son off. One was especially a typical
Catalonian, with strongly marked features, broad-brimmed hat, and
picturesque costume. His friend called him Pedro. They had probably
grown up and grown old together, and life, youth and the heritage of the
world were being handed on to the boys--who no doubt troubled themselves
very little about the matter.
We made way into the luggage-room. "Ah!" cried the porter, looking at
our tickets. "This is incorrect and cannot be passed." And he turned to
the superintendent.
"Diablo!" cried the latter impatiently. "Do you think I can be troubled
with luggage on such a night as this? Take it where the gentlemen desire
you! Maldicion!"
Saved once more. As we walked outside through the crowd, a deafening
cheer went up.
"What can it mean?" said H. C. "Have they discovered that I am a poet,
and all this is a little delicate attention on their part? If so, I
must say they are appreciative. Perhaps my volume of Lyrics, dedicated
to my aunt, Lady Maria, has been translated into Spanish, and
has--ahem!--found more popularity here than at home. Ah!--Oh!"
The exclamation was caused by a sudden tearing away of the omnibus we
had entered, whereby H. C. found himself sprawling in a most unpoetical
attitude. Picking himself up as carefully as if he had been made of
delicate china suffering from a few compound fractures, he rubbed his
bruised knees sympathetically, and quietly asked if we had brought a
supply of Elliman's embrocation.
So quickly one passes from poetry to prose, from the sublime to the
ridiculous.
CHAPTER III.
BLACK COFFEE--AND A CONFESSION.
Continued uproar--H. C. disillusioned--A dark night--Not like
another Caesar--More crowds--A demon scene--Fair time--Glorious days
of the past--In marble halls and labyrinthine passages--Our
excellent host--His substantial partner--Contented
minds--Picturesque court--Songless nightingales--Conscription--H.
C.'s modesty--Our host appreciative but personal--Bears the torch
of genius--A mistake--Below the salt--Host's fair
daughters--Catalonian women--The Silent Enigma--Remarkable
priest--Good intentions--Lecture on black
coffee--Confessions--Benjamin's portions--A gifted nature.
Our omnibus rattled off, with the result described. The crowd still
cheered; a prolonged and mighty strain. As we went on this grew fainter
by degrees, yet did not cease. H. C. collected his thoughts and looked
about him. In the dim glimmer of the omnibus lamp we saw shades of doubt
and disappointment in his face.
"I begin to think this ovation was not for me after all," he said. "They
would hardly go on shouting insanely when we are out of sight and
hearing. The people would have accompanied us; taken the horses out of
the omnibus; drawn us up to the inn, where I should have arrived like
another Caesar. My volume of Lyrics is worth this recognition if they
have rendered all the fire and spirit of its theme, beauty of language,
charm of rhythm and rhyme. Above all, my dedication to Lady Maria, a
masterpiece of English composition and delicate flattery. I begin to
think there must be some other cause for this demonstration. And if it
is not a poetical reception, I should call it a disgraceful riot."
He paused for breath. We were now going up-hill, and even the horses
found it a tug-of-war. "The people would have had some trouble in
dragging you up here," we remarked, as the animals toiled slowly
onwards.
"Enthusiasm will carry you through anything," said H. C. "If I assisted
at a demonstration I would help to drag a coach up the Matterhorn, and
succeed or perish in the attempt. But these people evidently have some
other object in view--organising a raid on the train, proclaiming a
republic, or something equally barbarous. What a very dark night!"
We looked out. The stars had disappeared. The sky was overcast and
threatening. Our horses struggled on and soon entered the town. Crossing
the bridge over the river we noticed everywhere an unusual crowd of
people, flaring lamps and torches, a sea of upturned faces thrown into
lights and shadows that looked weird and demon-like, an undercurrent of
voices, a perpetual movement.
What could it all mean? We expected to find Gerona, in spite of its
20,000 inhabitants, almost a dead city, full of traces of the past,
oblivious of the present; a city of outlines, echoes and visions of the
Middle Ages. We looked down the tree-lined boulevard and felt the very
word a desecration of the buried centuries. The broad thoroughfare ran
beside the river, and the trees followed each other in quick succession.
Without and within their shadows a long double row of booths held sway,
whose flaming torches turned night into day, paradise into pandemonium.
A great fair possessed the town, thronged with sightseers of all ages
and every stage of emotion. We lamented our fate in visiting Gerona at
such a time, but in the end it interfered very little either with our
comfort or impressions. It had its own quarters and kept to them.
The omnibus passed into narrower thoroughfares, without any trace of
fair, sign or sound of excitement or flaming torches. All was
delightfully dead as the most advanced antiquarian could desire when we
drew up at the _Fondu de los Italianos_.
Most of the hotels in the smaller towns of Spain have little to do with
the ground floor of the building, often nothing but a cold, unlighted,
deserted passage, sometimes leading to a stable yard. No one receives
you, and you have to find your own way upstairs. When there is a choice
of staircases you probably take the wrong one. On this occasion we had
only one course before us--broad white marble stairs that bore witness
to a very different destiny in days gone by, the pomp and splendour of
life, the glory of the world. At the head of this sumptuous staircase
our host met us with a polite bow and welcome; and throughout Spain we
never met landlord more intelligent and well-informed, more agreeable
and anxiously civil. We were puzzled as to his nationality. He did not
look Catalonian, or Spanish of any sort, spoke excellent French, yet was
decidedly not a Frenchman. When the mystery was solved we found him an
Italian. A man ruling very differently from our energetic hostess at
Narbonne, who, full of electricity herself, seemed to have the power of
galvanising every one else into perpetual motion.
Our Gerona host was quiet and passive, as though all day long he had
nothing to do but rest on his oars and take life easily. He never
hastened his walk beyond a certain measure or raised his voice above a
gentle tone. Yet, like well-oiled works, he kept the complicated
machinery in order. There was no friction and no noise, but everything
came up to time. He was last in bed at night, first up in the morning. A
tall, thin, dark man, with an expression of face in which there was no
trace of impatient fretting at life. If wealth had not come to him (we
knew not how that was), evil days had passed him by. He had learned the
secret of contentment, and was a man of peace. Yet he had brought up a
large family of sons and daughters, and could not have escaped care and
responsibility. They now took their part in the _menage_, but it was
evident that without the father nothing would hold together for an hour.
The youngest son, a tall, presentable young fellow, had been partly
educated at Tours and spoke very good French. His ambition now was to
spend two years in England to perfect himself in the language, which he
was good enough to consider difficult and barbarous. "French," he
plaintively observed, "is pronounced very much as it is spelt; so are
Spanish and Italian; I have them all at my finger-ends. But English has
done its best to confound all foreigners. It is worse than Russian or
Chinese."
This he related the next day as we went about the town, for we had
accepted his polite offer to guide us; and very intelligent and
painstaking he proved himself.
Our host's wife was fat, broad and buxom as the husband was the
opposite. When her homely face beamed upon her guests from behind the
counter of her little bureau, she looked the picture of an amiable Dutch
vrouw. Nothing less than a Frank Hals could have done her justice. Her
lines seemed to have been cast in pleasant places, and her days also had
been without shadow of evil.
It was also evident that our host was cheerfully disposed. His walls
were all painted with landscapes, and if rainbow-colours predominated,
he reasoned that they were more enlivening than grey skies and dark
shadows. Even the walls of his garden-court had not escaped: a court put
to many uses, level with the first floor, bounded on one side by the
kitchen, on the other by the dining-room, at right angles with each
other. A picturesque court with a slightly Italian atmosphere about it,
due perhaps to the sunny landscapes. Orange and small eucalyptus trees
stood about in large tubs. The far end was roofed, and the fine red
tiles slanted downwards. Over these grew a large abundant vine bearing
rich clusters of grapes in due season. Under the eaves were hung cages
with captive nightingales and thrushes that looked anything but unhappy
prisoners.
"In the spring they sing gloriously," said our host, who, evidently full
of tender mercies as of cheerfulness, gazed affectionately at his birds.
"I hang them outside our front windows sometimes, and night and day the
street echoes with the nightingales' song. You may close your eyes and
fancy yourself in the heart of a wood. I have often done so, and dreamed
I was in my Italian home, listening to the birds on the one hand, the
murmur of the Mediterranean on the other. That is one reason why I love
and keep them. They bring back lost echoes, and make me feel young
again."
Pigeons and doves strutted about the yard, and were evidently considered
very nearly as sacred as those of St. Mark's, for they were as fearless
as if the days of the millennium had come at last.
[Illustration: THE BOULEVARD: GERONA.]
But on the first evening of our arrival we had yet to learn the many
virtues of our host. We only saw in broad outlines that we were in good
hands.
"Not having telegraphed, you are fortunate to find accommodation, sirs,"
he said, as he lighted candles and marshalled us to his best rooms.
"Last year at the fair we were full to overflowing--not an available
hole or corner to spare. This year we are comparatively empty, simply
because the town corporation have not organised the usual fetes, which
bring us visitors from all parts of the country. Nevertheless we may be
full to-morrow."
"It is an annual fair, then?"
"Very much so, and one of the most celebrated in Spain. This is the
first night, to-morrow the first day. That and the next day are
comparatively quiet; the day after comes the horse and cattle fair, and
the whole town is crowded with a rough, noisy set of people. You would
hardly think them agreeable."
"In that case our visit to Gerona must terminate within forty-eight
hours. The train which brought us to-night shall take us on to
Barcelona."
"Where you have it more civilised but will not be more welcome," said
our polite host, still leading the way.
The corridors were paved with stone, the ceilings were lofty. Turning
into a narrower passage to the right, we looked into the yard, where our
famous omnibus reposed; the horses had been taken out and were marching
up to their stable. This passage led to a salon, out of which one of our
bedrooms opened; our host had given us of his best. Placing one of the
candles down and lighting others, he turned to see that everything was
in order. We opened the window and looked out to the main street--long,
narrow, almost in darkness. Electric lamps here and there gave little
light. "Why so?" we asked the landlord.
"Because we get our motive force from the river; and just now the river
is almost dry," he replied. "So they have to work with a machine, and
the machine is not strong enough to light the whole town. That is why I
don't have it in the hotel. One day we should have illumination, the
next total darkness. Better go on in the old way."
"There was quite a riot at the station," we remarked; "we were told it
had to do with conscription. At one time we thought they were going to
storm the omnibus."
"You were well-informed," said the landlord; "it is the conscription.
Fathers, brothers and cousins have assembled to see the poor fellows
depart. Generally speaking they all turn up again after a time, like bad
money; but on this occasion who knows? Raw recruits as they are, many
may get drafted off to Cuba, with small chance of ever seeing their
native land again. Luckily they are more full of excitement at the
change of life and scene than of regret at leaving home. The noise, as
you say, might be that of a riot; without exception, the Spanish are the
noisiest people in the world, but it means nothing. It is the froth of
champagne, and when it subsides there is good wine beneath."
"Are the people of Gerona poetical?" asked H. C., rather anxiously.
"Poetical, sir?" with a puzzled expression. "Do you mean to ask if they
write poetry, like Dante and Shakespeare? You do them too much honour."
"No, one could hardly expect that of them. But do they read and
appreciate the poetry of others? There was a moment when I thought that
crowd at the station was an ovation in honour of----"
H. C. paused and lowered his eyes modestly. Our intelligent landlord at
once divined his meaning. We invariably found that he guessed things by
intuition; two words of explanation with him went as far as twenty with
others.
"Ah, I understand. You, sir, are a poet, and at first thought this
riotous assemblage an ovation in your honour. I fear I must undeceive
you--though you probably have already undeceived yourself. I hope it was
not a bitter awakening. Still, I am enchanted to make the acquaintance
of an English poet. I once saw and spoke to Mr. Browning in Italy. He
did not look to me at all poetical. One pictures a poet with pale face,
dreamy eyes, flowing locks, and abstracted manner. Mr. Browning was the
opposite of all this. Now you, sir, with that beautiful regard and
far-away expression looking into nothingness----"
H. C. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing
a little personal.
"You have lost your poet-laureate," he continued; "and another has not
been appointed. I read the newspapers and know the leading events of
every country; for though I live out of the world, I must know
everything that is going on there. Perhaps, sir, you are to be the new
poet-laureate?"
"Not at present," said H. C., flushing deeply as a vision of future
greatness rose up before him. "I hope to be so in time. At present I am
rather young to bear the weight of the laurel wreath, which seldom
adorns the unwrinkled brow."
"There is rhythm in your prose," said the landlord in quiet
appreciation. "Truth will out. But, sir, though a poet, you are mortal;
at least I conclude so, in spite of your diaphanous form and spiritual
regard; and I bethink me that time flies in talking, and we shall have
dinner ready before we can turn round. In England, being a poet, you
probably feast upon butterflies' wings and the bloom of peaches;
but----"
"On the contrary," cried H. C. hastily; "I have an excellent appetite
and love substantial dishes. Crystallised violets and the bloom of
peaches I leave to my aunt, Lady Maria. Like George III. my favourite
repast is boiled mutton and apple dumplings; and like the king I have
never been able to understand how the apples get inside the pastry. That
does not affect their flavour. So we will, if you please, make ready for
dinner. Do you patronise the French or Spanish cuisine? Oh, I am
indifferent. It is a mere matter of butter versus oil, and both are
good."
Then they went off in a procession of two, the landlord carrying the
flambeau. "We will look upon it as the torch of genius," said the
latter, "and I am proud to bear it. But methinks, sir, it should be in
your hands." After this we heard only receding footsteps.
The scene presently changed to the dining-room. At first we had made for
the wrong room devoted to the humbler folk indoors and out. Here, too,
the landlord and his own people took their meals; and once or twice,
casting a glance in passing, it was a pleasure to see how madame's broad
buxom face and capacious form was doing justice to the good things on
the festive board. Her husband and children did not take after her; they
were all very much after Pharaoh's lean kine: she could have sheltered
them all under her ample wing.
We were rather horrified on entering. A few curious looking people, very
much _sans gene_, sat at a table in a state of disorder. Even H. C.'s
capacious appetite would have fled at the aspect of things. From a door
beyond opening to the kitchen came sounds of fizzing and frying and
savoury fumes. The chef and his imps were flitting about excitedly.
We were beginning to think that after all our lines had fallen in
strange places, when the landlord appeared at the door, pounced upon us,
and marshalled us off the premises.
"That is not for you, sir," he said. "We are obliged to have two rooms.
A certain number will neither pay fair prices nor heed good manners, and
these we place below the salt, as I have read in some of your English
books. I put up with them because it would not answer me to have three
rooms. And then we have our meals when nobody else has theirs, and
waiting and running to and fro is over for the moment. To keep an hotel
is indeed no sinecure."
Saying this, he led the way to a large and unobjectionable room, its
walls adorned with the sunny landscapes already described. If
perspective and colouring were eccentric, why, we had only to think that
variety was charming, as H. C. observed, and defects became virtues. The
room was well illuminated with gas, whatever might be going on in the
streets; to no tenebrous repast were we invited. The linen was
snow-white. Our host's daughters waited quietly and silently, with a
certain grace of manner: dark-eyed, good-looking young women, with
something both Italian and Spanish about them, whereby we imagined the
buxom lady-mother was probably Catalonian.
Throughout Catalonia we observed that the women after a certain age--by
no means old age--grow inordinately stout. Time after time a little
whipper-snapper, lean, shrivelled and short would enter a dining-room
followed by an enormous spouse, who came crushing down upon him like a
Himalaya mountain upon a sand-hill. They would take their seat at a
table, the lady with a great deal of difficult arranging, and the little
husband would gaze up at the huge wife with adoration in his eyes, as
proudly as if she had been the Venus de Milo come to life with all her
arms and legs about her and a fair proportion of garments. The back is
fitted to the burden, but here the order of things was reversed--the
wife's broad shoulders must needs bear the weight of life.
There were no stout ladies in the dining-room to-night. At different
parts of the long table sat some eight or ten people of various nations.
Opposite us were two Englishmen separated by a Spaniard. They were of
one party, yet never spoke a word from the time they entered to the time
they left. Occasionally they glared at each other on passing a dish or
the wine of the country, which was supplied _ad libitum_. What the
entente cordiale or bone of contention we never discovered; every meal
they kept to their silent programme, until it became almost oppressive.
Once or twice we thought they were perhaps monks of La Trappe in
disguise, but gave up the idea as far-fetched. The Englishmen, at any
rate, judging by expression, were certainly not devoted to fasting and
penance. They were young, and the world held attractions not at all in
harmony with solitary cells and the midnight mass. We never solved the
Silent Enigma, as H. C. called them.
Not far off sat a priest, who no doubt had himself helped to celebrate
many a midnight mass, perhaps both in and out of a monastery. He was the
most interesting character at table, tall, distinguished looking, with
flowing white hair, a singularly handsome face and magnificent head. The
system of serving was different from most hotels. Dishes were not handed
round, but every person or party had placed before them their own dish,
of which each took as much or as little as they pleased. Whether the
priest was father confessor to the ladies of the inn, or whether they
merely had a very proper respect for his cloth, we knew not, but he
invariably came in for a Benjamin's portion, and sent most of it away
untasted.
Also it was evident that he could sit in judgment on others. The next
day at luncheon he took his seat next to us. We were suffering from
headache, which has made life more or less a burden. Severe diseases
require strong remedies. We ate dry bread, and drank sundry cups of
black coffee mixed with brandy; the latter half a century old and almost
as mild as milk, its healing properties sovereign. The priest, we say,
sat next, and we almost resented his not leaving the breathing interval
of a chair between us, where empty chairs were abundant. The Silent
Enigma at the lower end of the table were quite a long way off. At our
second cup, the priest looked anxious; at our third, reproachful; at our
fourth and last, contained himself no longer. Yet the four cups were
only equal to two ordinary black-coffee cups.
Possibly the priest thought age conferred privilege. He was also
probably impulsive, and like all similar people often said and did the
wrong thing. But he was evidently actuated by a pure spirit of
philanthropy, which would set the world to rights if it could accomplish
the impossible. Looking earnestly at us, he spoke, and then we found he
was a Frenchman.
"Monsieur," he said in his own tongue, "that is a most insidious
beverage, fatal to digestion, destructive to the nerves. If I see any
one repeating the dose, at the risk of being thought indiscreet, I
cannot avoid speaking. When I count up to the fourth cup, I feel they
are in jeopardy. And shall I tell you why?--I speak from experience. I
once myself was nearly overcome by the fatal basilisk, only that in my
case it was strong waters without coffee more often than with it. For a
time it was a question which should conquer, the tempter or the better
nature. Then came a period in which I was wretched and miserable,
yielding and fighting alternately. Finally, I made a greater effort, and
vowed that if strength were given me to overcome, I would dedicate my
life to the Church. Soon after that I fell ill; sick almost unto death.
Weeks and months passed and I recovered to find the temptation vanished;
hating the very sight of brandy, with coffee or without. Mindful of my
vow--I was a young man at the time--I took steps to enter the Church;
and here I am. And now, sir, forgive me for saying so much about myself,
and for preaching a little sermon taken from real life, though time and
place are perhaps not quite fitted to the occasion."
We forgave him on the spot. His intentions were excellent, his
sympathies keen; two admirable qualities. We assured him that strong
waters were no temptation, held no charm; yet twice four cups had been
taken if needed.
The good priest shook his head doubtfully.
"A dangerous remedy, monsieur. But, now, I am interested in you. I like
the amiable manner in which you have received my little homily. Many
would take fire and proudly tell me to mind my own business. You arouse
my sympathies and invite my confidence. Let me confess that I placed
myself here to enter into conversation. Mine has been a singular life,
both since I entered the Church and before it: full of lessons. If
before retiring to-night you should have an hour to spare and will give
it me, I will relate to you passages in a very eventful career. You will
say it contains many marvels. However late, it will not be too late for
me. I never retire to bed before three in the morning, and am always
broad awake at seven. Four hours' sleep in the twenty-four is all nature
ever accords me. I have reason to believe that I shall be offered the
next vacant See in the Church: I could place my finger upon the very
spot: and my wakeful nights will enable me to do much work. Let me hope
that wisdom and judgment may be accorded. But what am I doing?" drawing
himself up. "Talking as though I had known you for a lifetime; giving
you my confidence, betraying my secrets! What power are you exercising?
What does it mean? Sir, you must be a hypnotist, and I have fallen into
your meshes. Yet, no; I feel I am not mesmerised, and you are to be
trusted. Yes, I repeat that if you will give me an hour this evening,
though it be the dead of night, I will confide strange experiences to
your ear that until now have been locked within my own bosom. And why
not? My life is my own; I have a right to withhold or disclose what
pleases me."
The words of the priest made us almost uncomfortable. We aspired to no
undue influence over any one, much less a stranger. Confidences are not
always desirable; but then we reflected that confidences need not be
confessions. The experiences even of a simple life must always be of
use, how much more those of an active man of the world--thoughtful,
observing, retentive and philosophical.
There was something unusually attractive about our priest. He possessed
great refinement of face; a profile that reminded us of the fine
outlines of Pere Hyacinthe as we had many a time watched him in a Paris
pulpit preaching with so much earnestness, fire and conviction, raising
a crusade against the errors and shams both within and without the
Church. When our present neighbour was a bishop, would he too uphold the
good and condemn the evil?
We looked closely and thought Nature had not been unmindful of her
power. As already stated, his long flowing hair was white; the head was
splendidly developed; there was a ring and richness in the subdued voice
that would reach the farthest corners of Notre Dame. We asked ourselves
the question but could not answer it. The future holds her own secrets
and makes no confidences. But strangely interested in Pere Delormais--to
make a slight but sufficient change in his name--we promised him an
hour, two hours if he would, and even found ourselves awaiting the
interview with curiosity and impatience. And this was the result of
black coffee and brandy.
But all this took place on the second day. On the first night of our
arrival we had needed neither one nor the other. The priest sat on the
opposite side of the table, and we noticed nothing about him but his
distinguished appearance and Benjamin's portions. Yet he evidently had
been closely studying us. The Silent Enigma had occupied a little of our
attention and wonder, but this soon passed away. The remainder of the
scattered guests called for no remark whatever.
CHAPTER IV.
A NIGHT VISION.
Wrong turnings--H. C.'s gifts and graces--Out at night--The arcades
of Gerona--At the fair--Ancient outlines--Demons at work--In the
dry bed of the river--Roasting chestnuts--Medieval outlines--In the
vortex--Clairvoyantes and lion-tamers--Clown's despair--Deserted
streets--Vision of the night--Haunted staircase--Dark and
dangerous--A small grievance--The reeds by the river--Cry of the
watchmen--Hare and hounds--Fair Rosamund--Jacob's ladder--New
rendering to old proverbs--Cathedral by night--H. C.
oblivious--Scent fails--Return to earth--Romantic story--Last of a
long line--_El Sereno!_--The witching hour--H. C. unserenaded--Next
morning--Grey skies--A false prophet--Magic picture--Cathedral by
day--Mediaeval dreams.
Dinner ended we went to our rooms preparatory to investigating the town.
These rooms were only reached through a labyrinth of passages, and to
the last hour we were always taking wrong turnings. H. C. had the organ
of locality as well as the gift of rhyme, and we often had to summon him
from some distant chamber to the rescue; vainly remarking that it was a
little hard all the talents should have fallen to his share. He would
condescendingly reply that we must be thankful for small mercies; adding
with great modesty that all his talents and graces, far beyond our ken,
were counterbalanced by a feeling of tremendous responsibility.
We left the hotel with all our curiosity awakened. It was very dark. No
stars were shining; a small aneroid indicated rain. Where we came to
openings in the streets, the sky above was lighted with a lurid glare,
reflection of the countless torches in the fair. Our own street was in
comparative darkness.
Sauntering down whither fate would lead us, we came to some splendid
arcades, deep, massive and solemn. Few towns in Spain possess such
arcades as Gerona; so exceedingly picturesque and substantially built
that time may mellow but hardly destroy them. To-night they were not
quite impenetrable; a little of the glare from the sky or the fair--the
latter unseen but near at hand--seemed to faintly light their obscurity
and add mystery to the finely-arched outlines. They were deserted, not a
creature was visible, the shops were closed. There is no time like night
and darkness for solemn outlines and impressions.
[Illustration: ARCADES: GERONA.]
A few steps farther on and we suddenly burst upon the full glory of the
fair. Not the glory of the sun or moon, but of smoking torchlights and
lurid flames carried hither and thither by the wind. We traced them far
as the eye could reach. The houses, with their quaint outlines and iron
balconies shadowed by the waving trees, stood out vividly. A double
stream of people sauntered to and fro, treading upon each other's heels.
At one booth a Dutch auction was going on--great attraction of the
evening.
[Illustration: VIEW OF GERONA FROM THE STONE BRIDGE.]
We stood on the bridge and looked quite far down upon the bed of the
river. As our host had said, the water was very low. The stream had
narrowed and half the bed was dry. Here and there huge fires were
burning and flaming, and men danced round them, looking like demons as
the flames now and then burst forth and lighted up their grim faces.
They were roasting chestnuts, and as each batch was finished it was
carried up to the fair to be quickly devoured by the boys and girls
to-night supreme. Every dog has its day, and it was their turn to reign.
They must make the most of it. To-morrow the garlands would fade. When
the clock struck twelve Cinderella went back to her rags and
chimney-corner. Black Monday always comes. Every stall displayed nothing
but toys, from juvenile knives to slice off finger-ends to
seductive-looking purses that were a mortifying reflection upon empty
pockets.
As we stood on the bridge all this light and glare outlined the
wonderful houses that rise up straight from the river so that its waters
wash their foundations--and at very high tides come in at the
ground-floor windows, a visitor more free than welcome. The occurrence
is rare, but has been known. We could just trace the marvellous
outlines; their strangely picturesque, old-world look: and we waited
with patience for the morning and the splendours it should reveal.
Plunging boldly into the crowd, we were swallowed up in the vortex. It
was rather bewildering. All the people seemed to do was to walk up and
down in an endless stream, eat chestnuts and blow penny trumpets.
To-night, at any rate, the stalls were almost neglected. Possibly they
had not had time to digest the glamour, and to-morrow the harvest would
come.
At the end of the long thoroughfare lights and stalls and crowd were
left behind. We reached a quaint corner which cunningly led to another
bridge. This we crossed and soon found ourselves in the wide market
square and a different scene. Here the shows had taken up their abode,
and every effort was being made to excite an unresponsive crowd. It was
the usual thing. The learned pig, the two-headed lady, the gentleman who
drew portraits with his feet, the clairvoyante who told fortunes and
promised wealth and marriage, the lion-tamer who put his head into the
lion's mouth, the enchanting ballet, where ladies and gentlemen
pirouetted and made love in dumb motions: these attractions were
faithfully described and freely offered to the dazzled multitude. In
vain a clown tried to be facetious, shouted himself hoarse, and blew a
trumpet until his face grew dark. Bells rang and drums beat--the crowd
did not respond.
We left them to it, not tempted by the unseen. Our day for shows and
illusions was over. This was not what we had expected of Gerona the
beautiful and ancient. If we felt a slight grievance, who could wonder?
Presently we found ourselves in the darkness of night at the edge of the
river. There was more water here, no dry bed visible. Away to the left,
as far as one could gather, stretched the open country. Tall trees,
sombre and mysterious, waved and rustled behind us. Evidently this was
one of the public parks or promenades that exist just outside so many
Spanish towns, refuges from the mid-day sun and evening glare; Elysian
fields for those disembodied souls who pace to and fro to the music of
love's young dream; vows of eternal fidelity more or less writ in sand.
The water looked cold and calm and tranquil. Rushes grew by the side and
the wind whispered through them. Pan was playing his pipes. Lights
twinkled from the windows of many a house down by the river. A lurid
glow still hung in the sky, and beneath it, in front of us to the right,
we traced the marvellous outlines of the town. Above all, crowning the
heights, stretching heavenwards like mighty monsters, uprose the towers
of the cathedral and other churches. Almost unearthly was the scene in
its gloom and grandeur of mystery. Far down on the dry bed of the river
the chestnut-roasters danced like demons about their holocausts. No
clown need cry the virtues of their wares; the demand was equal to the
supply, and both were unlimited.
We hardly knew how we found our way here or found it back again.
Instinct guides one on these occasions and seldom fails as it failed in
the midnight streets of Toledo. But a conjuror would be lost in those
narrow wynds, which all resemble each other and are without plan or
sequence.
[Illustration: BANKS OF THE ONAR: GERONA.]
To-night it was plainer sailing. Afar off we heard the clown bidding
people to his feast of good things. Like the siren in stormy weather it
told us which way to steer, what to avoid. We passed well on the
outskirts of the gaping crowd and found ourselves on the bridge: the
dark bridge, with the river flowing beneath, the houses rising in a
great impenetrable mass, and the distant chestnut-roasters at their
demon work.
The evening was growing old; a neighbouring church clock struck ten.
This served to change the current of one's thoughts, which had simply
drifted with the scene before us.
"Let us go to the cathedral," said H. C. "We shall then have two
impressions instead of one. I always like to see an important building
first at night. Next morning's view is so different that it becomes a
revelation."
This was true enough; but how find our way to the cathedral and back
again to the hotel? We had no desire to repeat that Toledo adventure.
The story of the Babes in the Wood is only amusing to those who listen.
"Evidently a very different town from Toledo," replied H. C. "We have
only to climb the height to reach the cathedral. Let us play Hare and
Hounds. I will drop pieces of paper by way of scent. Or like Hop o' my
Thumb scatter stones on the road."
"Wouldn't a silken thread be more poetical?"
"True; but," with a profound sigh, "there is no Fair Rosamund at the end
of it. Here we can only worship the antique. Rosamund was not antique."
"But this has one great virtue; it can never disappoint or play you
false. And, rare merit, its charms increase with age."
Again he sighed deeply. He had had many disappointments, but then he
deserved them. Butterflies flit from flower to flower, until by-and-by
they alight on a nettle and it stings: a little allegory always lost
upon H. C. The gift of knowing themselves is still denied to mortals.
We left the bridge and found ourselves once more in the quaint octagonal
corner; in front of us a narrow turning; a long flight of steps
apparently without end; a Jacob's Ladder.
"Leading to Paradise," said H. C. "Let us take it."
"Would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?"
The Oracle was silent. With a bold plunge we commenced the ascent: a
rugged climb with dead walls about us; twistings and turnings and
crooked ways and rough uneven steps; a veritable pilgrimage.
"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to him who climbs. I like to
vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed."
As he spoke, we came upon a hidden turning to the left; short, straight,
and evidently full of purpose. We took it without doubting and soon
found ourselves in the open square, bound on one side by the cathedral
with the Bishop's palace at right angles.
On this occasion no majestic outlines rewarded us. Only for its interior
is the cathedral famous. All doors were locked and barred. We knocked
for admission. These wonderful buildings should be open at night as well
as by day, and some of their finest effects are lost by this tyrannical
custom. But we knocked in vain; ghostly echoes answered us. Ghosts pass
through doors; we never heard that the most accommodating ghost ever
opened them to mortals. It was the great south doorway at which we
appealed--the Apostles' Doorway--and in the darkness we could just trace
its fine deeply-recessed arch. Above the cathedral rose its one solitary
pagan tower, shadowy and unreal against the night sky.
A broad, magnificent, apparently endless flight of steps such as few
cathedrals possess faced the west front. To-night we could see nothing
beyond of the town and river, the great stretch of country and far-off
Pyrenees we knew must be there. All this must wait for the morning. Nor
should we have to wait long, for night and the moments were flying. The
glare had died out of the sky; shows and booths had put out their
lights; the crowd had gone home. Gerona might now truly be likened to a
dead city.
No sound disturbed the stillness but the cry of the watchmen in
different parts of the town. One proclaimed the time and weather and
another took up the tale; sometimes a discordant duet rose upon the
air. We heard it all distinctly from our citadel above the world.
[Illustration: APOSTLES' DOORWAY, CATHEDRAL: GERONA.]
As we looked, one of them passed in slow contemplation at the foot of
the long flight of steps--steps nearly as broad as the cathedral itself.
His staff struck the ground, his light flashed shadows upon the houses.
The effect was weird. Heavy footsteps echoed right and left through the
narrow streets, in fitting accompaniment to his monotonous chant. We had
long grown familiar with these old watchmen, who come laden with an
atmosphere of the past. They are in harmony with these towns of ancient
outlines, suggesting days when perhaps the faintest glimmer of an oil
lamp only made darkness more hideous; days when their office was no
sinecure as now, but one of danger and responsibility.
The cathedral clock struck eleven, and when the last faint vibration had
died upon the air we turned to go. It seemed a great many hours since we
had risen in the darkness of the Narbonne misty morning, H. C. had been
reawakened with a sort of volcanic eruption, and madame, wishing us bon
voyage over our tea and hot rolls, had disappeared like a flash into the
mist to put the final touches to her _diner de noce_.
"Now for Hare and Hounds, H. C. Lead the way."
"By the beard of Mahomet! I forgot all about it and have put none down."
"So the scent has failed?"
Remorse made him silent for a moment. Then he tried to turn the tables.
"After all, it was your fault. Your saying what you did about the silken
thread and Fair Rosamund, set me thinking what a romantic adventure it
would be if it could only come true. Naturally everything else went out
of my mind."
"We must make the best of it, H. C., and get back to the hotel as we
can. Suppose we vary the route. These steps look inviting; we will take
them. All roads lead to Rome."
We went down the interminable flight, turned and looked back. A vision
of a church in the clouds and a pagan tower that went out of sight. We
had returned to earth, and not far off the old watchman was still
awaking shadows and echoes in the narrow street. We could not do better
than follow, and presently found ourselves in our quaint little
octagonal corner. All was well.
The long thoroughfare, so crowded lately, was now forsaken. Stalls were
shut down, lights were out. It was like a deserted banqueting-hall. The
chestnut sellers had left their pans and baskets, but left them empty.
From the bed of the river the dancing demons had departed, and the smoke
of their incense still ascended from dying embers. Next came the old
arcades, darker, lonelier, more mysterious than ever. These we knew
faced our street, and turning our backs upon them we found ourselves in
a few moments at the hotel.
Only a couple of old watchmen broke the solitude, meeting at their
boundaries. They stood on the pavement in close converse and we wondered
if they were hatching mischief; then they threw their light upon us and
no doubt returned the compliment. We disappeared within the great
doorway and left them to their reflections.
Up the broad staircase, the white marble glistening in the rays of the
one electric lamp that still lighted up the courtyard. We thought of the
sumptuous crowd that had passed up and down in the centuries gone by;
fair dames in rustling silks and gay cavaliers with clanking swords; all
the grandeur and gorgeousness of that once ducal palace. The staircase
seemed haunted with ghosts and shadows, the murmur of voices, echo of
laughter, weeping of tears.
And now, dim and vapoury, a brilliant pair appeared in tender proximity
to each other. His arm encircled her waist, her fair white hand rested
with fond appropriation upon his doublet. The love-look in her eyes was
only equalled by the fervour and constancy of his. Yet sadness
predominated, for it was a farewell interview. She was the last daughter
of the ducal house, last of her race. They were betrothed and the course
of true love had run smooth. But now he was bidden fight for his country
and would depart at daybreak.
He never lived to return, but died on the battlefield. Within his gloved
hand was found a golden tress tightly clasped, and next his heart a
small miniature of his beautiful betrothed. Both were buried with him.
She soon faded and declined, and found him again in a Land where wars
and partings are unknown. House and name became extinct. As we thought
of this, suddenly the staircase seemed full of sighs, lights grew dim.
We passed on and found the hotel empty and deserted. Every one had gone
to bed and left the long gloomy corridors to silence and the ghosts. We
lighted candles and H. C. led the way through the labyrinth to our
rooms. Windows were open and the two old watchmen below were just where
we had left them, apparently still gazing at the doorway through which
we had disappeared.
_"El sereno!"_ cried he. "Call your hours and guard the city. Enemies
lurk in secret corners."
They looked up and wished us good night. We were not marauders after
all. So they separated with easy conscience, and from opposite ends of
the street we heard them announce the time and weather.
It was hardly necessary, for another watchman rang out with iron tongue.
Midnight slowly tolled over the town from all the churches. Impossible
to believe an hour had passed since we stood at the top of that vast
flight of steps overlooking the darkness. How had we sauntered back?
Where had the moments flown? One grows absorbed in these night visions,
dark shadows and outlines, and time passes unconsciously. We counted the
strokes, listened to the vibrations, and then H. C. went off to his own
regions. The watchmen were all very well in their way, but for his part
an open window and a love serenade--such as we had been favoured with in
Toledo--had greater charms. To-night passionate appeals and the melody
of the lute were sought in vain. Every window was closed and dark. We
also said good-night to the sleeping world.
The next morning rose in due course, but not with promise. Heavy rain
had fallen during the night, lowering clouds foretold more. Just now,
however, they had proclaimed a truce.
We went out and felt that the grey sky was in harmony with the grey
tones of the town. Nevertheless Spain essentially needs sunshine to
bring out all its colouring and brilliancy. Under dark clouds it falls
for the most part flat and dead, its finest effects lost.
"The rainy season has begun," said H. C. "We are in for a spell of wet
weather. Generally it comes in September. This year it has obligingly
put it off until November. My usual ill-luck."
"I fear it is so," said Jose our host's son, who, as we have said,
volunteered to pilot us about the town and show forth its hidden
wonders--delighted to air his French and give us Spanish lessons. "We
have a weather-wise prophet who never was known to go wrong; a great
meteorologist. He has just written to the papers to say we are to have a
month's deluge."
A cheerful beginning. As it proved, they were all mistaken, but at the
moment the skies seemed to confirm the tale. All the same we would not
lose hope, which has brought many a sinking ship into harbour. So we put
on a cheerful countenance, bid them take heart of grace and their
umbrellas.
It would be invidious to enter, at the end of a chapter, upon the
wonders of the town which met us at every step and turning; but we must
record one experience before concluding. Let us close our eyes, take
flight upwards and alight at the head of that vast stone staircase with
our backs to the cathedral.
We see this morning what last night was veiled in darkness. The town
lies chiefly to our left. We overlook a sea of red and grey roofs. To
our right are the old walls with their gateways, round bastions and
irregular outlines. Near to us is a church-tower, graceful, octagonal,
excellent in design; but the upper part of its spire is gone and we can
only imagine its once perfect beauty.
Low down beyond the town lies the river, winding through a picturesque
country. We can even see the reeds and rushes that border its banks, but
cannot hear their murmur as we did last night. If Pan still pipes it is
to the pixies.
In the distance the Pyrenees are sleeping in graceful, long-drawn
undulations. Nothing can be lovelier than their outlines. Some are
snow-capped and stand out pure and white against the grey skies. A magic
picture and we long to see it under sunshine. No wonder if Pan is
silent.
We turn to the cathedral. No need to knock this morning. The great west
doors are unlocked and we enter.
The first thing to strike us is an intense obscurity; a dim religious
light deeper than we remember to have seen in any other sacred building.
But to-day the grey skies have something to answer for in this matter.
As the sight grows accustomed to the gloom, the next thing we notice is
the vastness and splendour of the nave in which we stand: a single span
seventy-three feet broad. No other church in Christendom can boast of
such a nave. Light comes in from windows high up, filled in with rich
stained glass. The tone of the walls and pillars is perfect, never
having been touched with brush or knife; a rich subdued claret
delighting the senses. Those great men of the Middle Ages made no
mistakes. Nothing was admitted to disturb their love of harmony and
proportion. They built wonders for the glory of their country and for
all time: knew and recognised one thing only--the charm of perfection.
Where they failed, their efforts were crippled; they were told to make
bricks without straw.
Without waiting at this moment to examine the church more closely, we
pass through a great doorway on the left and find ourselves in the
cloisters.
Here too is a marvellous vision. Few cloisters in the world compare with
them. The four sides are unequal, but this almost heightens their
attraction. They have been little interfered with and are almost in
their original state. The simple round arches rest on coupled pillars of
marble, slender and graceful. The capitals are extremely rich, elaborate
and delicate in their carving. Here Romanesque art seems to have been
introduced into Spain through France. The cathedrals of Catalonia are of
exceeding beauty and appear to have laid the foundation of mediaeval
Spanish art. This also, though they would deny it, is due to French
influence--happily at that time at its best and purest.
In this wonderful cloister we lost ourselves in dreams of the Middle
Ages, days which have glorified the earth, and appear almost as
necessary to us as light and air. In the centre was an ancient well,
without which no cloister seems perfect. Shrubs and trees embowered it,
and the fresh green stood out in contrast with creamy walls and
Romanesque arches.
At the end of the north passage we passed through an open porch to a
view extensive and magnificent. A steep rugged descent led to the town.
Below us was the ancient Benedictine church of San Pedro, with its
Norman doorway and cloisters scarcely less wonderful than those we had
just visited. Near it was a smaller, equally ancient church, now
desecrated and turned into a carpenter's shop. We will pay it a visit
by-and-by and make acquaintance with its sturdy owner, who passes his
days and does his work under the very shadow of sanctity. Beyond all, on
the brow of the hill outside the walls, we trace the ruins of the great
castle and citadel that so nobly stood the siege of Gerona, until the
twin spectres famine and disease stalked in hand in hand and conquered
the brave defenders.
We gazed long upon all these historical landmarks, pointed out and
explained by our guide-companion. Then turning back through the
cloisters again found ourselves lost in visions of the past as we fell
once more under the magic influence of the vast space and dim religious
light of Gerona's splendid cathedral.
CHAPTER V.
GERONA THE BEAUTIFUL.
A Gerona senora--Grace and charm--Lord of creation--Morning
greeting--Arcades and ancient houses--Conscription--Gerona a
discovery--Streets of steps--Ancient eaves and rare
ironwork--Old-world corner--Desecrated church--Gothic
cloisters--Ghosts of the past--Visions of to-day--Soldiers
interested--"Happy as kings"--Lingerings--Colonel seeks
explanation--No lover of antiquity--More conscription--Dramatic
scene--Pedro to the rescue--Mother and son--Sad story--Strong and
merciful--Pedro grateful--Restricted interests--Colonel becomes
impenetrable again.
Last night we had found much to admire, though in the darkness the
charms were only half seen. This morning on opening our window clouds
hung low and threatening; yet the grey tone over all was in such
singular harmony with the ancient city that we hardly regretted the
gloomy skies.
Immediately opposite our casement was a small draper's shop presided
over by an industrious feminine genius. She was up betimes and worked as
though she had taken to heart all the proverbs of Solomon. A short, dark
woman of the true Spanish type, bright, active, and not above all manner
of work, for she swept her pavement diligently and arranged her wares;
doing all with a certain natural grace that was not without its charm.
We thought her a young widow struggling for existence, but when all the
work was done and everything was comfortably arranged, a husband
appeared upon the scene; evidently a lord of creation who looked upon
women, and especially wives, as born to labour. It was their portion
under the sun. She had no doubt grown used to this state of things and
accepted it as part of life's penances.
"I hope you have slept well," we heard her say with the slightest tinge
of sarcasm--the street was so narrow as to bring them almost within
half-a-dozen yards of us. "I have been up these two hours, whilst you
were serenely unconscious," veiling her head in a graceful mantilla.
"Yet you hardly seem refreshed," as he yawned lazily.
"_Cara mia_, you are an admirable woman and the best of wives. I admit
that without your aid life would go hardly with me. But to you work is a
pleasure, and I would not deprive you of it for the world."
[Illustration: A FRAGMENT OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF GERONA.]
By this time the mantilla was adjusted and the dark little woman swept
good-temperedly out of the shop. The prettiest of small feet tripped on
to the pavement. She looked up, saw us gazing in her direction, and her
smile disclosed the whitest of teeth.
"Ah, senor, you have heard our conjugal Good-morning. It is always the
same. Fate has been hard upon us women. The weaker vessel, we get
terribly imposed upon by our masters. Now I go to church to pray for a
blessing upon my work and reformation to my lord. Not that he is bad or
unkind or tyrannical, as husbands go--only incorrigibly lazy. Oh, you
know it is true, Stefano."
Upon which the little lady--she was quite lady-like in spite of swept
pavement and hard work--made us a court-curtsey, flourished a farewell
to her _caro sposo_, and passed swiftly and gracefully down the street.
It is said that only Spanish women know how to walk, and there is some
truth in the proverb.
Rain had fallen heavily during the night, as the watchmen reported
through the small hours. It had ceased--with a promise of more to come.
Remembering the proverb we took umbrellas. H. C. shouldered his and put
on his military manner. The town indeed, quiet as it was, seemed full of
a military atmosphere, for conscription was still going on and we
presently came upon the official scene.
We had gone out without our amiable guide to wander at will and let
chance take us whither it would. In the light of day the arcades seemed
deeper, more massive, more picturesque even than last night. Standing on
the bridge we looked down upon the dry bed of the river far below. The
altars of the chestnut-roasters were cold and dead; the demons absent.
But even at that moment there came down a small band of them to rake out
fires and prepare for action.
The ancient houses on either side make this view from the bridge one of
the most remarkable in the world. These rose straight from the
river-bed, and where water still ran their outlines were reflected:
houses looking old enough to date from the days of the deluge: a huge
mass once white, now yellow, brown and black with weather and age. All
the windows seemed to have been taken out, resulting in that curious air
of unglazed wreck and ruin so often seen in warm latitudes. Countless
balconies adorned with flowers and coloured draperies hung over the
water. Above all rose the outlines of the cathedral and other churches
in the background with striking effect. The distant view was closed in
by the winding river, where the houses on both sides appeared to join
hands. Just beyond this we had stood last night listening to the
rustling of the reeds, lost in the scene so vividly reflected by the
lurid glare of the torches.
[Illustration: STREET IN GERONA.]
People were gradually waking up and opening their stalls. All down the
long thoroughfare were more ancient and massive arcades, hardly noticed
last night in the restless crowd. In this country _par excellence_ of
arcades we had never seen such as these.
"Gerona is a discovery," said H. C. for the twentieth time. "The view
from this bridge is something to dream about. Yet one longs for sunshine
and lights and shadows. Remarkable as the scene is, it is a study in
grey. We want contrast."
But the town had more wonders in reserve, when presently our host's son
joined us and pointed out the hidden treasures of the narrow tortuous
streets. Houses with gabled ends, tiled roofs and windows ornamented
with magnificent wrought ironwork; the true tone of antiquity over
all--as yet unspoilt. Gerona, in its dying prosperity, has, like
Segovia, escaped the ravages of the restorer. Its substantial mansions
are firm and steadfast as in the far gone Middle Ages.
The irregularities of the place add to its charm. Built on rising
ground, the streets are a pilgrimage of rough, uneven, picturesque
steps. From these, narrow openings lead into many a _cul-de-sac_ crowded
with ancient outlines that are nothing less than artistic dreams.
We soon came to one of these ascending streets with its endless flight.
Far up, it was crowned by a church with a solitary square tower and a
Renaissance west front. Houses on either side had wonderful ironwork
windows; we cannot help reverting to this special feature; and many a
gothic casement was rich in the remains of refined tracery and
ornamented balconies; whilst from the deep overhanging eaves quaint
waterspouts here and there craned their long necks like gargoyles of
some ancient cathedral. Reaching the church and turning to the right
down a narrow passage between high dead walls we found ourselves in an
excited scene: no less than the building given up to the rites of
conscription. The spot and its surroundings was one of the most
picturesque in Gerona. A long, broad flight of steps led up to an
ancient church now desecrated and turned into barracks. Groups of young
soldiers were clustered together and sentinels paced to and fro. To the
left, facing the long flight, low ancient houses wonderful in tone and
construction were decorated with wrought ironwork windows, some of them
almost Moorish in design, the upper floors terminating in round open
arcades and tiled roofs with projecting eaves; one of those old-world
bits only to be seen in these mediaeval towns of Spain.
We climbed the steps and braved the sentinel, feeling there must or
ought to be hidden cloisters attached to this old church of which
nothing remained but the west front. But we were not to pass
unchallenged. An inner sentry came up and asked our business. Hearing
that we wished to see the cloisters, he beckoned to a further sentry who
evidently belonged to the colonel or commandant of the regiment.
Permission was soon brought, and pointing out the way, we were left to
our own devices.
Instinct had not failed us. In a few moments we were standing in the
midst of large lovely old cloisters with Gothic arcades resting on
slender coupled marble columns. Above these rose a gallery of round
arcades supported by single pillars with carved capitals, the arches,
wider and more open than the pointed arches beneath them, presenting a
fine contrast. A deep archway reached by some half-dozen steps led
through the palace to the east end of the cathedral and the town walls
beyond. In the square in front of palace and cathedral was an ancient
and beautiful well. Above these again a slanting tiled roof fitly
crowned the scene.
Here in days gone by monks and priests had paced the silent corridors. A
sacred atmosphere in which the world had no part hung over all.
Father-confessors listened to the secret struggles of young novices who
hoped to leave the vanities and temptations of life outside the walls of
their cells, only to find that in this state of probation conflict can
never cease. So confessions were made and penances exacted, and soft
footsteps and pale faces haunted those quiet cloisters. Large dark
eyes--larger and darker for the sunk cheeks--gazed upwards at the sky
that canopied the quadrangle with such divine peace, vainly seeking a
clue to the mysteries of existence.
To-day all was changed. The cloisters were still militant, but in quite
another way. All the ancient serenity and repose had departed and the
beauty of outline alone remained. Soldiers and recruits in every stage
of undress went about in restless activity.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA.]
In the upper gallery some were making or mending clothes, others drawing
from the well in what was once the cloister garden. It was still
ornamented with its fine old ironwork. Monks and priests once looked
down and saw pale, cowled faces reflected in the calm water; and perhaps
as they drew it to the surface there came a vision of another well in a
far-off land and a certain woman of Samaria. No such vision troubled the
five or six closely-cropped soldiers, whose reflected images below had
nothing saintly, troubled or questioning about them. These rough
specimens of an undersized, undisciplined army were out of all harmony
with the ancient outlines that nothing could deprive of their beauty and
refinement.
We felt the charm and incongruity of it all. The men crowded within a
few yards of us, delighted at being taken by the small camera,
interested at finding themselves reflected on the object glass, unhappy
that we could not there and then present each with a photograph duly
printed and mounted. Such a machine surely performed miracles.
"You all look very happy," H. C. remarked, for more carelessly contented
faces were never seen--a mixture of types good and bad.
"As happy as kings," they answered. "We eat, drink and sleep well.
Clothes and lodging are found us and we never have any fighting to do.
We should like a little more money for tobacco--but one can't have
everything."
Finally, we stayed so long answering questions, satisfying curiosity,
lingering over the beauty of the cloisters, that the colonel himself
appeared upon the scene in full uniform, sword and all. No lover of
architecture, he could not understand how any one bestowed a second
glance on these old outlines. Were we trying to worm military secrets
out of the men with the intention of starting another Peninsular war?
The worthy colonel who had so freely given us permission to enter was
now anxious for an explanation. Pointing out the charm and merit of the
cloisters--the pity they should have transposed the order of things and
turned pruning-hooks into swords--he declared he could not agree with
us.
"I discover no great beauty in these old corridors," he said, "and would
infinitely rather see them filled with brave soldiers than with a parcel
of effeminate monks and priests."
We argued the fitness of things--a time and place for everything.
"If there were once more a siege of Gerona I would turn our very
churches into barracks," laughed our colonel, clanking his sword and
looking fierce as a fire-eater. "And who knows? As far as I am a prophet
we are not anywhere near the days of the millennium. There are more
signs of universal war than of eternal peace."
We had left the cloisters and were standing almost within touch of the
west front of what had been the church. The colonel caught our "mild
regretful gaze," laughed and clanked his sword again.
[Illustration: MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA.]
"What will you?" he said. "After all, I would not have been the one to
do it myself; but finding it done, I use it without prickings of
conscience. See," pointing to the crowd below, "we must have room for
our recruits. Poor Spain is not England. Our resources are limited. Yet
you, sirs, monarchs of the world notwithstanding, had your days of
desecration under Cromwell. Opportunity given, and all evil is possible
as well as all good."
The crowd alluded to was full of dramatic interest. The very walls of
the great grey building seemed pregnant with the chances of fate; the
wide doorway greedy to swallow up the youth of the country. Young men
disappeared within to the human lottery with anxious faces or reckless
humour. Free agents this morning, to-night perhaps bound down to
servitude: a willing bondage to some, to others worse than a death-blow.
Perhaps the chief interest centred in the crowd of elders--parents and
friends waiting for the verdict--many a face full of that patient
endurance so terrible to look upon. Mothers with the sickness of hope
deferred, to whom the very shadow of war was a nightmare; fathers
wondering if the boy who had now become companion and part bread-winner,
was about to be thrown into the whirl of barrack life with its manifold
temptations. They had passed that way in their own youth and knew that
only the strong are firm. Stalwart amongst the crowd we recognised
Pedro, our last night's platform acquaintance.
"Why, Pedro," said the colonel--we were standing just a little above the
people--"what brings you here to-day? Surely you have made your offering
to the country and your boy is now at Tarragona?"
"True, colonel," returned this veteran, firm as an oak tree. "My boy has
left me; I saw him off last night and you might have heard the noise
going on up here; half the town was at the station. I have no fears for
him. He knows good from evil and has strong principles. I gave him my
blessing and please Heaven he will return when the years are over. But
my heart aches for these poor women who are weak when their emotions are
in question. So I thought I would come and console them a bit, and tell
them that military discipline after all is a very fine thing--the best
thing that could happen to them if they only do their duty. You agree,
colonel?"
"Of course I do," returned the colonel sharply. "There is no training
like it. It makes men of boys if they have only an inch of wood in them
that will bear carving."
[Illustration: WAITING FOR THE VERDICT.]
We had noticed one pale woman close to the doorway, drooping and
woe-begone. She seemed superior to those about her, and over her head,
half draping her face, was the graceful mantilla. At that moment a youth
appeared, a handsome, manly image of his mother--the resemblance was at
once evident; his thread-bare clothes proving him scantily endowed with
worldly goods. As he advanced a serious expression and hesitating
manner betrayed his fate. No need to ask the question, and with a cry
that was half sob, wholly despair, the mother threw her arms about her
boy's neck as though life could hold no further ill for her. At such a
moment reticence was thrown to the winds. What to her the lookers-on?
Were they not all fellow-sufferers?
"A sad story," said our colonel, whose eyes glistened. "They were
amongst the most prosperous people in Gerona, when the husband died and
left them almost in poverty. Her eldest son turned scapegrace and this
boy was her last hope. No doubt she feels that fate is hard upon her.
Pedro," to the old man who looked on compassionately, "tell her it will
all come right in the end. Stay; quietly whisper to her to come to my
office to-morrow morning at ten and ask for me. I will promise to keep a
special eye upon that boy of hers. He is of finer mould and deserves a
better fate than many. I will see that he has it."
Pedro looked his gratitude, thought there was only one colonel in the
world, and he stood before him. To be strong and merciful is to win
hearts.
"There is more interest for me in this little crowd than in all your
ecclesiastical outlines," said the colonel. "I never saw a building that
I did not tire of in a week, but my work and my men interest me more
year by year. I feel I have something to live for."
He was small and wiry, this colonel, with piercing dark eyes and a mouth
of which a fierce moustache could not conceal the kindliness. One wished
him a finer body of men than these recruits, too many of whom were of
the lowest type and had not, to use his own metaphor, even the inch of
wood that would bear carving.
"That need not greatly trouble you," he said. "It is surprising how many
are the exceptions. After all, it is a survival of the fittest. But I
see you are interested in humanity just as much as I am," noting how we
followed every movement and expression of this pathetic little crowd.
"So far your resources are wider than mine, for when on the subject of
old buildings you are as absorbed as in front of this little drama. My
interests are more restricted. Well then, if you like to come to my
office to-morrow morning at ten you shall have more food for your
sympathies. We will interview that poor woman together and see how far
we can minister consolation to the widow and fatherless."
This was not one's idea of severe military discipline, but we could not
help admiring a nature that after years of experience and repeated
discouragements--in spite of what he had said--still possessed so warm a
heart, so much of human faith. No doubt he had shown a little of his
true self on the spur of the moment, influenced by the above incidents.
All his kindliness of feeling was kept well out of sight of others. The
next instant he had passed beyond the sentry and was holding forth in
tones hard as the Pyramids, cold as the Sphinx.
CHAPTER VI.
ANSELMO THE PRIEST.
Beauties of age--Apostles' Doorway--How the old bishops kept out of
temptation--Interior of cathedral--Its vast nave--Days of
Charlemagne--And of the Moors--A giant dwarfed--Rare choir--Surly
priest--And a more kindly--Our showman--Dazzling treasures--Father
Anselmo--Romantic story--Heaven or the world?--Doubts--The gentle
Rosalie decides--Sister Anastasia--Told in the sacristy--A
heart-confession--Anselmo's mysticism--Heresy--Charms of
antiquity--Scene of his triumph--Celestial vision--Church of San
Pedro--Pagan interior--Rare cloisters--Desecrated church--Singular
scene--Chiaroscuro--Miguel the carpenter--His opinions--Daily life
a religion--Anselmo improves his opportunity--"A reflected
light"--Ruined citadel--War of Succession--Alvarez and
Marshall--Gerona in decadence--A revelation--Dreamland--Midday
vision.
The colonel disappeared, and we went our way through narrow, tortuous,
deserted wynds until we found ourselves in the quaint cathedral square.
Here again we were surrounded by the beauties of antiquity. Before us
was the south front of the cathedral with its deeply-arched Apostles'
Doorway at which we had knocked in vain last night. At right angles, its
grey walls of exactly the same tone as the cathedral, was the Bishop's
Palace, its picturesque windows guarded by ancient ironwork. Why so
carefully secured? Had the mediaeval bishops feared a reversal of
things--serenades from fair dames yielding to the charm of forbidden
fruit? Or mistrusting their own strength had wisely put temptation out
of reach? Ancient walls are discreet and disclose nothing.
The outer gloom was intensified when we passed within the cathedral.
After a time pillars and arches and outlines grew more or less visible,
a shadowy distinctness full of mystery, appealing to the senses.
The vast nave is the widest Gothic vault in existence and on entering
strikes one with astonishment. So bold was the architect's design
considered that it created consternation in the minds of Bishop, Dean
and Chapter then ruling. Council after council was summoned and opinions
were taken from the great architects of foreign countries. Finally a
jury of twelve men was appointed who gave their verdict in favour of
Boffy, and the nave was erected.
This was in the year 1416. There had existed a cathedral on this very
spot since the eighth century and the days of Charlemagne. Like so many
of those early cathedrals it was pulled down and rebuilt; and sometimes
it happened that the new was no improvement on the old. This was not the
case with Gerona. The cathedral was rebuilt in 1016, but the nave was
reserved for Boffy and his genius four hundred years later. That early
cathedral was turned into a mosque when the Moors took Gerona, but they
allowed Catholic services to be held in the Church of San Filiu, close
at hand, now shorn of part of its spire. In 1015 the Moors were expelled
and the old cathedral was reinstated.
The nave has the fault of being too short, and Boffy could not fail to
see that it wants in proportion. Either space or funds failed him, and
the giant had to be dwarfed. Still it remains gigantic with a clear
width of seventy-three feet. Toulouse, next in width, has sixty-three
feet; Westminster Abbey only thirty-eight feet. For the effect of
contrast the smaller choir and aisles throw up the proportions of the
vast vault. Over all is its wonderful tone; whilst the obscure light
brings out the pointed arches of choir and chapels and the slender
fluted pillars in softened outlines.
The choir has a magnificent retablo and baldachino of wood and silver: a
rare work of art dating back to the year 1320: so promising that we
wished to see the treasures of the sacristy. It was the duty of a
certain priest to show them. The priests take the office in turn. To-day
he whose turn it was proved unamiable. "He would not show them; had
other things to do; we must come another day," hurriedly buttoning his
heavy black cloak as he spoke; an ill-favoured example of his race,
short, swarthy, unshaven. We explained that our hours were limited.
Without further parley he marched rapidly down the aisle, cloak flying,
hobnailed shoes waking desecrating echoes.
Then another and kindlier priest came up; altogether a different and
more refined specimen of humanity. He would gladly show us the treasures
if we would wait whilst he sought the keys. With these he soon returned
and thought he had been long. "I am sorry to keep you," he said, "but
they were not in their place. Now let me turn showman and do the
honours."
Leading the way into the large sacristy he unlocked a cupboard and took
out a key. With this he opened a drawer and took out another key. The
treasure was well guarded. Finally he swung back great doors and our
eyes were dazzled as he lighted a beautiful old lamp whose rays flashed
upon gemmed and jewelled crooks and crosses, enamelled plates and
chalice, a wealth of gold and silver ornaments, many dating back to the
twelfth century. Some of the crosses were magnificent in design and
execution, some had strange and interesting histories. Then he showed us
rare and wonderful needlework rich in gold thread and coloured silks,
also dating back seven or eight hundred years. He explained everything
in a quaint fashion of his own, then took us through a series of rooms
each having its special attraction. Amongst the pictures were one or two
of rare merit and a very early period.
These rooms and their treasures were well worth the little trouble it
had cost to see them. Moreover we were brought into contact with an
amiable ecclesiastic full of refinement and romance.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.]
"It is a pleasure to show them to you," he said, when we thanked him. "I
love all these things amongst which my life has been spent, for I hardly
recall the time when I was not attached to the cathedral. As a child I
was an acolyte, and remember the delight with which I used to turn the
wheel at the altar and listen to its silver chiming. I was never happy
but in church, attending on the priests, filling every office permitted
to a boy. From the age of ten I determined to be a priest myself and
never lost sight of that hope--though I once hesitated. But I was poor,
and don't know whether it would have come to pass unaided by one of our
canons who was rich and good; educated and half adopted me, and dying
four years ago left me a sufficient portion of his wealth. I almost
think of myself as one of those romances which only occasionally happen
in life. But there was a moment"--he smiled almost sadly--"when I was
sorely tempted to abandon religion for the world."
"For what reason?" we asked, for he paused. Evidently he wished the
question, and there was something so interesting about him that we were
willing to linger and listen.
"A very ordinary reason. I daresay you can guess, for it was the old,
old story: nothing less than love. I had not yet taken religious vows
and was free to choose. Should it be earth or heaven? Few perhaps have
been more completely enthralled than I. Walking and sleeping my thoughts
were filled with the gentle Rosalie. She was beautiful and I thought her
perfect. Outward grace witnessed to her inward purity of soul.
"To make my conflict harder, she returned all my affection. It was
perhaps singular that her life too had been destined to the cloister, as
mine to the Church. For one whole year we both struggled, miserable and
unsettled. Every fresh meeting only seemed to strengthen our attachment.
An excellent opening in the world presented itself--might we take this
as an indication that Heaven favoured our desires? It was a sore strait
and perhaps we should not have done wrong to yield. During the daylight
hours it seemed so. But night after night I awoke with one verse ringing
in my ears: 'He that having put his hand to the plough looketh back, is
not fit for the Kingdom of Heaven.' In my excited, almost diseased
imagination, the text seemed to stand out in the darkness in letters of
fire. I tossed and turned upon my troubled bed. Drops of anguish would
break upon my brow. On the one hand bliss that seemed infinite;
surrounded by all the false colouring and attraction of forbidden fruit.
On the other the sure service of Heaven--a higher, nobler destiny
without doubt.
"I grew pale and emaciated under my heart-fever. If left to my own
decision I know not how it would have ended: perhaps in yielding. My
gentle Rosalie proved the stronger vessel.
"One morning--shall I ever forget it?--the sun was shining, the skies
were blue, birds and flowers were at their best and brightest, song and
perfume filled the air, I received a letter in the beloved handwriting.
Before opening it I felt that it held our fate and knew its contents.
The soul is never mistaken in such crises.
"'Anselmo, my beloved,' it said, 'my choice is made and I trust you not
to render my difficult task impossible. Last night in a dream my mother
visited me; so real her presence that I feel we have held communion
together. Her face was full of a divine love and pity, and O so sad and
sympathising. Suddenly she pointed and I saw two roads before me. On
each I recognised myself. On the one broad road you walked with me hand
in hand. We were both bowed and broken and foot-sore. We seemed unhappy,
full of care and sorrow. Romance and sunshine? They had fled with the
long past years. Nothing was left but to lay down our burden and die.
"'On the other road I walked alone, but I was strong, upheld by unseen
support. The way was long, yet my footsteps never wearied. I wore the
dress of a Sister of Mercy. At the far, far end, bathed in divine light,
a glorified being yet yourself, you beckoned and seemed to await me.
Beyond you there was a faint vision of Paradise--I knew you had passed
to the higher life. Then my mother turned and spoke. Her voice still
rings in my ears. "My child, in the world you should have tribulation
such as you are not fitted to bear. Your path lies heavenward." Then she
pointed upwards, seemed gradually to fade away, and I awoke. I felt it
an indication accorded me, and rising, on my knees dedicated afresh my
life to Heaven if it would deign to receive me. Beloved, you will help
me; you will lighten my task. Though never united on earth, none the
less do we belong to each other; none the less shall spend eternity
together.'
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: GERONA.]
"Even now," continued the priest, returning to his own narrative, his
voice somewhat agitated: "even now I cannot always think quite calmly of
that morning. I sat amidst the birds and flowers, spell-bound,
heart-broken. The serene skies and laughing sunshine seemed to mock at
my calamity. Earthly dreams were over. Never for a moment did I
question Rosalie's decision or seek to turn it aside. I prayed for
strength, and it was sent me. She became a Sister of Mercy, I a priest.
So our lives are passing, dedicated to Heaven. Not for us the feverish
joys of earth, but quiet streams undisturbed by worldly cares."
"And Rosalie? She still lives?"
[Illustration: CLOISTER OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]
"Yes, and in Gerona. Her new name is Sister Anastasia. We meet sometimes
in the silent streets; sometimes at the bedside of the sick and dying;
occasionally at the house of a friend. I believe that we are as devoted
to each other as in the days of our youth, but it is love purified and
refined, containing a thousand-fold more of real happiness than our
first passionate ecstasy. If we are to believe her vision, I shall be
the first to enter the dark passage and cross to the light beyond. It
may yet be half a lifetime--who knows? I am only thirty-seven, Rosalie
thirty-five--but whenever the summons comes for her, I feel that I shall
be awaiting her on the divine shores."
We were seated in a room beyond the sacristy where silence and solitude
reigned amidst the evidences of the past centuries on walls and crucifix
and ancient Bibles--a delightful room in which to receive such a
confession. A halo of romance surrounded our priestly guide; his pale,
refined face glowed with a light from which, as he said, all earthly
dross was purified. And yet he was evidently very human; sympathies and
affections were not straitened; his interests in Gerona and its people
were keenly alive. It was the kindliness of his nature had caused him to
take compassion upon us when his more surly fellow-labourer in the
vineyard had turned a deaf ear to our request.
But our golden moments were passing; we could not linger for ever in
old-world sacristies listening to heart-confessions. Treasures were
locked up, keys placed in their hiding-places; we went back into the
church and the closing of the great sacristy door echoed through the
silent aisles. More beautiful and impressive seemed the wonderful
interior each time we entered; a vision of arches and rare columns and
exquisite windows wonderfully solemn and sacred. In darkened corners and
gloomy recesses, in shadows lost in the high and vaulted roof, we
fancied guardian angels lurked unseen, bringing rest for the
heavy-laden, pardon for the sinner, strength for those who faint by the
way.
"I have often felt it," said our companion, reading our thoughts by some
secret influence; "and have stood here many and many an hour, utterly
alone, lost in meditation. At times mysticism seems to take me captive.
Visions come to me, unsought, not desired; the church is full of a
shining celestial choir; I hear music inaudible to earthly ears; the
rustle of angels' wings surrounds me. These visions or experiences--call
them what you will--have generally occurred after long fastings, when
the spirit probably is less restrained by mortal bonds. But underlying
all my days and action, an intangible incentive for good, I feel the
influence of Rosalie. You see I am still mortal and the earthly must mix
with the heavenly. Nor would I wish it otherwise as long as I have to
minister to mortals, or how could I sympathise with the sin and sorrow
and suffering around me? Even our Lord had to become human, that being
in all things tempted like as we are, He is able to succour them that
are tempted."
[Illustration: APOSTLES' DOORWAY AND BISHOP'S PALACE: GERONA.]
We were walking down the broad nave. Anselmo had thrown on his long
cloak, which added grace and dignity to his tall slender figure. His
pale face shone out in the surrounding gloom like a saintly influence.
What strange charm was about this man? In the course of a few moments we
felt we had known him for years. He was singularly lovable and
attractive. Underlying all his gentleness was an undercurrent of
strength; an evident self-reliance, yet the reliance of one who leans on
a higher support than his own. Here was one worthy of enduring
friendship had our lines not been thrown far apart. As it was he too
would disappear out of our life and we should see his face no more. But
his memory would remain.
At the west doorway we turned and looked upon the splendid vision: the
magnificent nave with its slender pillars and lofty roof, the distant
choir with aisles and arches visible and invisible in the dim religious
light that threw upon all its sense of mystery. Above all the wonderful
tone.
"For five and twenty years I have looked upon this scene, and its
influence upon me is as strong as ever," said the priest. "Here I have
found that peace which passeth all understanding. How many a time have I
let myself in with my key, and in these solitary aisles withdrawn from
the world to hold communion with the unseen. Here strength has come to
fight life's battles. Here I have composed many a sermon, here silently
confessed my sins to the Almighty and obtained pardon. Breathe not the
heresy, but confession to man brings me no rest. I have to go to the
great Fountain Head, trusting in the one Atonement and one Mediator.
Nothing else gives me consolation."
We crossed to the doorway of the cloisters. Anselmo, unwilling to leave
us, crossed also. We were too glad of his companionship to wish it
otherwise. He added much to the spell of our surroundings; a central
figure from which all interest radiated. It was passing from the gloom
of the interior to the broad light of day subdued by the grey clouds
that hid the sunshine.
The cloisters reposed in all the charm of antiquity. For eight hundred
years Time had rolled over them with all its subtle influence. There
they stood, an irregular quadrangle, the simple, beautiful round arches
resting on coupled shafts, whose carved capitals were so singularly
elaborate and delicate. Seldom had the attraction of Romanesque
architecture been more evident.
[Illustration: CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]
"I love them," said the priest. "How often have I paced these silent
corridors until the very stones seem worn with my footsteps. And they
witnessed the most painful scene, the last great struggle of my
life--but my triumph also. For here I bade my earthly farewell to
Rosalie; on this very spot on which we stand renounced all human hopes
and claims upon her and gave her into Heaven's keeping. Here I placed
her treasured letter next my heart, where it still reposes; where it
will lie when that heart has ceased to beat and this frame has returned
to the dust from which it was taken."
We passed through the little north doorway to the outer world. Far away
the snow-capped Pyrenees rose heavenwards like a celestial vision. In
the plain the silvery river ran its winding course listening to the
love-songs of the reeds and rushes. Near us was the lovely octagon
tower, shorn of its spire. Without the ancient walls we traced the
remains of the citadel; and within them the yet more ancient churches of
San Pedro and its desecrated companion.
"Let us go down to them," said Anselmo: "examine the wonderful little
cloisters and make the acquaintance of Miguel the carpenter. He seems to
care little that where now is heard the fret of saw and swish of plane,
once rose voices of priests at worship and faint whispers of the
confessional."
It was a rough descent, but a singularly interesting scene. We found
ourselves in narrow streets with ancient houses whose windows were
guarded by splendid ironwork. Last night the watchmen had paced and
cried the hour, awakening the echoes, summoning the silent shadows with
their lanterns. To-day there was no sense of mystery about streets and
houses; daylight loves to disillusion. We had to content ourselves with
quaint gables and old-world outlines. Behind us was one of the ancient
gateways strong and massive, leading directly into the precincts of the
cathedral. Framed through its archway we saw a portion of the vast
flight of steps crowned by the uninteresting west front. It was one of
the very best, most old-world bits of Gerona, and within a small circle
were antiquities and outlines that would have furnished an artist with
work for half his days.
Upon all this we turned our backs as we went towards San Pedro. Here
everything is in opposition to the cathedral; the exterior of this
Benedictine church is its glory. Rounding a corner we are in full view
of the beautiful west Norman doorway with its delicately wrought carving
and fern-leaf capitals. Above the doorway is a very effective cornice
and above that an admirable rose window: altogether a rare example of
the Italian Romanesque. The whole church is very striking, with its fine
octagonal tower and Norman apses built into the old town walls. Just
beyond the tower a gateway leads to the citadel and open country beyond.
A church existed here as early as the tenth century--possibly earlier;
the present church dates from the beginning of the twelfth, when it was
given to the Benedictine Convent of Santa Maria by the Bishop of
Carcassonne.
We passed through the lovely old doorway to the uninteresting interior:
a nave and isles with rude arches and piers plain and square. There was
something cold and pagan about the general effect, exaggerated no doubt
by contrast with the cathedral we had just left. Anselmo was not
insensible to the influence.
"If I were Vicar of San Pedro, half the delight of my days would
vanish," he said. "Instead of living in a refined, almost celestial
atmosphere, existence would be a daily protest against paganism. Let us
pass to the cloisters."
Here indeed the scene changed. Smaller than those of the cathedral, they
were almost as beautiful and effective though more ruined and more
restored.
"Not time but wanton mischief has been at work here," said Anselmo. "The
work of destruction was due to the French in the Peninsular War. Which
of Spain's treasures did they leave untouched?"
Nevertheless a great part of their beauty remained. The passages were
full of collected fragments; old tombs, broken pillars, carved capitals
and ancient crosses: a museum of antiquities: and the Norman arches
resting upon their marble shafts were a wonderful setting to the whole.
Above them, all round the cloisters, a series of small blind Norman
arcades rested upon delicately carved corbels--charming and unusual
detail.
[Illustration: DOORWAY OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]
Within a few yards of San Pedro was a still more ancient and interesting
church with a most picturesque interior; yet a church no longer, for it
has been turned into workshops. A low octagonal tower crowns a red-tiled
roof with slightly overhanging eaves. Beneath the eaves repose small
blind arcades, and here and there in the lower hall other arcades are
gradually crumbling away. The wonderful roof is rounded and broken into
sections to suit the plan of the building. Ancient eyelets admit faint
rays of light, and a fine rounded arch points to what was once the
principal doorway.
The interior is domed, vaulted and massive, black with age. Small, it
seems to carry one back to the days when Christians were few and
worshipped in secret. Now fitted as a carpenter's shop, it is full of
the sound of hammer and plane. In one corner, men are melting glue and
heating irons at a huge fireplace. The floor is uneven and below the
level of the road. Light enters with difficulty. An obscure, suggestive
scene worthy of Rembrandt, who would have revelled in this combination
of mysterious gloom and human occupation.
The master, a stalwart Spaniard, bade us enter and gave us welcome. He
was probably a man who did not trouble himself about religion, but his
reverence and admiration, even affection for Father Anselmo were
evident.
"You honour me with your presence and bring back a sacred atmosphere to
this desecrated building," he said to the priest. "Not every day will
you come upon such a scene. Yet there is a certain fitness in it after
all. Was not Joseph a carpenter? and did not our Saviour work in the
carpenter's shop? So that, as it seems to me, it has become noble above
all other callings. And so, if this church must be turned to secular
use, we have chosen for the best. To me there is no sense of
desecration. You have San Pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there
is room and to spare in both."
"I fear you seldom add to the number of worshippers," said Anselmo, with
the mildest of rebukes. "Yet, Miguel, how often have I said there is
good in you--an apprehension of the beauty of a religious life--if only
you would not allow it to run to seed."
"Father," returned Miguel good-humouredly--it was curious to hear an
older man thus address a younger--"all in good time. I conceive that I
am living a fair life, working hard, treating my wife well, looking
after my children. But somehow I can't go to confession--what have I to
confess, in the name of wonder?--and I never feel a bit the better for
Mass, high or low. So I just make a religion of daily life, and
by-and-by, when I am old, I will try to find benefit in your set forms
and ceremonies."
Anselmo shook his head. We knew how closely he sympathised with at least
one part of Miguel's objections, though he could not tell him so. He
only looked a vain remonstrance, which Miguel received with the
good-natured smile that seemed a part of himself.
"Last Sunday," said Anselmo, placing his hand on Miguel's shoulder, "I
took for my text those words which are some of the most solemn, most
hopeless, most full of warning in the whole Bible: _'And the door was
shut.'_ There, Miguel, is a sermon in a nutshell. Bear it in mind and
ponder over it. Your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure
of the morrow? Forgive me," turning to us; "I did not come here for
this, but Miguel and I are old friends and understand each other. As
continual dropping will wear away a stone, so I seldom neglect to put in
a word when we meet, though to-day I might for your sake have refrained.
It will tell in the end," nodding to Miguel, "for he has a conscience
and I will not let it rest. And what a building in which to preach a
sermon!" looking upwards and around. "These blackened vaults, those
massive time-defying walls, this earthy, uneven floor--everything
suggests a pagan rather than Christian past. If anything could heighten
the effect it is those weird workers at the fire with faces lighted up
by tongues of flame. All seems a remnant of barbarism. But it is a
wonderful spot, and I come again and again and every time it reads a
fresh lesson to the soul. The whole place seems full of ghostly shadows.
And it is perfect, as you see; transepts, a chancel and apses; nothing
wanting. And so, Miguel, you who so to say dwell in the odour of
sanctity, on ground once consecrated, within walls once devoted to the
service of Heaven, should be influenced by your surroundings and become
a shining light."
"Then I fear it will never be anything but a reflected light," laughed
Miguel, "and that proceeding from your revered and beloved person. I
shall be content if only the shadow of Elijah's mantle touches me in
falling."
We left the wonderful little building so crowded with interest past and
present. Miguel professed to feel honoured by our visit, and placing
himself in attitude outside his door intimated that he should like to be
taken with our instantaneous camera. This was done and the result
promised in due time. We left him standing there--a tall, strong,
magnificent specimen of his race, with hair turning grey and rugged
features full of a certain power.
[Illustration: DESECRATED CHURCH: GERONA.]
"That man has in him the making of a hero," said Anselmo, as we passed
through the gateway in the old wall. "In a different station of life he
would have been a master of the world. But I always feel that the lives
and destinies of such men, missed here, will be carried on to perfection
in another state of existence. Great powers were never meant to be lost.
Here he is the acorn, there he will become the full-grown tree bearing
fruit."
We were climbing towards the ruined citadel and at last found ourselves
within the once formidable fortress. Much remained to show the strength
of what had been, but its immense area was now given up to silence and
weeds.
"It is full of a sad atmosphere and melancholy recollections," said
Anselmo. "One goes back in spirit to the terrible days of the past.
First that War of Succession, when Gerona with two thousand men manfully
but hopelessly resisted Philip V. with an army five times as great.
Again in 1808, with three hundred men, chiefly English, she repulsed
Duhesme with his six thousand warriors. In 1809 the French besieged her
with thirty-five thousand men. Alvarez, who was then Governor--you will
have observed his house in the cathedral square--was terribly
handicapped. He had little food and scarcely any ammunition, but was one
of the bravest and wisest men of Spain. The siege was long and fierce,
the suffering great. We were much helped by the English, but your
gallant Colonel Marshall was killed in the breaches. It is said that
Alvarez wept at his death, declaring he had lost his right hand. In such
straits was the town that even the women enrolled themselves into a
company dedicated to Santa Barbara. The enemy failed to take the city;
never was resistance more manful and determined. Many of the besieging
generals gave up in angry impatience and went off.
"But at last two new enemies arose--famine and disease--inseparable
spectres. Before these Gerona could not stand. Everything depended on
Alvarez, and he fell a prey to fever. A successor was appointed whose
first and last act was to capitulate. The siege had lasted nearly eight
months, and the French lost fifteen thousand men. So," looking around,
"we are on classic ground, sacred to courage, consecrated by human
suffering, watered with streams of human blood. Gerona has never
recovered. She has steadily declined and still declines.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA.]
Nevertheless, she is and ever will be Gerona the brave and beautiful."
Anselmo had not exaggerated. Gerona was indeed a revelation. It is not a
Segovia, for there is only one Segovia in the world; but, little known
or visited, it is yet one of Spain's most picturesque and interesting
towns. Nature and art have combined to make it so--the art of the Middle
Ages, not of to-day. A modern element exists, but the new and the old,
the hideous and the beautiful are so well divided by the river, that you
may wander through the ancient streets undisturbed by the nineteenth
century and fancy yourself in dreamland.
[Illustration: CLOISTERS OF SAN PEDRO.]
We had mounted to the highest point of the ruins and seated ourselves on
the embankment. Fragments of the old citadel lay about in all
directions; crumbling walls, desolated chambers, dark entrances leading
to underground vaults. Over all grew tall sad weeds, so suggestive of
vanished hands and departed glory. It was a romantic scene, and as we
sat and pondered, citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast
army; the ground trembled with the tramp of horsemen, march of troops.
In imagination we saw the dead and dying, the bold resistance to human
foes, the falling away before a foe that was not human. The air was full
of the shout of warriors, flash of swords, roar of cannon. Then the
vision passed away, leaving nothing but the empty deserted scene before
us. The grass on which we sat was covered with flowers, and wild thyme
scented the air with its pungent fragrance. A little below, stretching
far round, were the old town walls, grey and massive.
The ground in front broke into a ravine, disclosing fresh outlines of
towers, walls and ancient houses. San Pedro was conspicuous, and just
beyond it the short octagon of the desecrated church. In its rich
sheltered slope grew a luxuriant garden, with hanging shrubs and weeping
trees and many fruits of the earth. To-day, it was a scene of peace and
plenty; wars and rumours of wars might never have been or be again.
Above all, within the ancient walls rose the outlines of the cathedral
overlooking the whole town and vast surrounding country as though in
perpetual benediction. Beside us sat Father Anselmo, his pale refined
face and clear-cut features full of the beauty of holiness.
Suddenly the great cathedral bell struck out the twelve strokes of
mid-day, and we listened in silence as the last faint vibrations seemed
to die away amidst the distant Pyrenees.
"It is my summons," said the priest. "I would fain linger with you, but
duty calls me elsewhere. I cannot say farewell. Let us again meet
to-morrow."
We promised; then looking steadily at him saw a wave of emotion pass
over his expressive face. Following his intent gaze, our eyes rested
upon a slight, graceful figure in the dress of a _Religieuse_, flitting
silently through the small square beside the desecrated church. Miguel,
who stood at his door, bowed as to a saint.
"Sister Anastasia," said Anselmo, his eyes having already betrayed the
fact. "She is bound on some errand of mercy. May Heaven have her in its
holy keeping!"
CHAPTER VII.
A DAY OF ENCOUNTERS.
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"--The unexpected happens--under
the probe--Wise reservation--Born to command--Contrasts--Nothing
new under the sun--The senora prepares for the fair--Grievance not
very deep seated--Bewitching appearance--Senora
dramatic--Ernesto--Marriage a lottery--Every cloud its silver
lining--Gerona _en fete_--Delormais' mission--Deceptive
appearances--Evils of conscription--Ernesto's ambition--Les beaux
jours de la vie--Rosalie--A fair picture--Strange
similarity--Heavenwards--Anastasia or Rosalie--Her dreams and
visions--Modern Paul and Virginia--Eternal possession--A Gerona
saint--The better part--More heresy--Fenelon--One creed, one
worship--Not peace but a sword--Not dead to the world--Angel of
mercy--H. C. mistaken--Earthly idyll.
That same afternoon the people had recovered from their glamour. The
fair was in full swing, Gerona festive. It was a general holiday and
work was suspended. The shops were open, but no one attempted to make
purchases. Even our industrious little lady with the idle husband gave
up hoping for customers and turned to pleasure. And she took her
pleasure as she did her work, with a great amount of earnestness.
Luncheon had long been over. Black coffee and headache were of the past.
The Silent Enigma had gone their way. Mutely they had risen, taken their
hats, and marched out in a procession of three. Delormais had duly
administered his homily; and after so strangely opening his heart had
gone into the town to prosecute his mission. Whether an inspection of
the numerous convents, a private embassy from the Pope, or some other
weighty matter only to be entrusted to a man of tact and judgment, he
did not say.
Before separating we had asked him if his object in visiting Gerona were
ecclesiastical or domestic, concerned himself or his office.
"Your question is very natural, but on that point I must be silent," he
returned. "My mission--I may tell you so much--is delicate and
momentous. It is secret, but the secret is not mine, and can no more be
disclosed than a secret of the confessional. Just now when I promised to
relate to you a part of my life I was offering you of my own. No one has
a right to stay me. My experiences injure none. I might publish them
to-morrow and disturb no one's slumbers. But at the present moment I may
call myself an ambassador--though not in bondage like St. Paul--and
every act I do and every word I utter need be consecrated by prayer and
reflection."
"Who would have supposed anything so weighty within this little town?"
we remarked. "Before arriving we looked upon it as a deserted village,
the ends of the earth. From the train Gerona appears in the last stage
of misery and destitution."
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?" quoth the priest. "The unexpected
happens. I have long learned not to judge beforehand; above all not to
be prejudiced by appearances. Rags may conceal the noblest heart, and a
silken doublet cover the bosom of a Judas. Confess," laughing, "that
when I took my seat next to you just now you voted me intrusive; said to
yourself: 'Why does this old man usurp my elbow room, with ten vacant
chairs lower down? He is troublesome. I will chill him with a proud
disdain.' And now all is changed and you ask me to sit next you at
dinner. Is it not so?"
So near the truth, indeed, that one felt as though under the searching
X-rays. "Suffering is misanthropical," we replied. "Not physical but
heart pain brings out the sympathies. So it is dangerous to ask a favour
of a man tortured by gout--or headache."
"All which really means that I knew you better than you know yourself,"
returned Pere Delormais, in his rich, round tones. "That is only a
general experience. And now I go my way. If all be well, we meet again
at dinner. Ah! I never speak without that reservation. How many times
have I seen the evening appointment cancelled by death at noon."
[Illustration: STREET IN GERONA.]
He left the room; a tall, stately figure with hair white as snow; a man
full of life and energy, evidently born to command and fill the high
places of earth: a power for good or evil as he should be well or
ill-directed. A very different nature from Anselmo, whom we had left at
mid-day. The one ruling the destinies of men; the other content to
follow in the Divine footsteps of humility and love; satisfied with a
limited horizon; doing good by precept and example but asking no wider
sphere than his little world. Yet in his way capable of influencing
human hearts; of stirring up enthusiasm in a great crusade if only the
torch of ambition inflamed his zeal. Very different the method and
influence of the two men, though each had the same end in view. But in
the many phases of human nature some must be led, others driven. One
will hear the still, small voice, another needs the burning bush; James
was the Son of Thunder, Barnabas of Consolation. As in the days of old,
so now.
We too went our way down the broad marble staircase of the ancient
palace, but with no secret or delicate mission to perform like
Delormais. We had followed rather closely, but up and down the street
not a vestige of him remained. Whether he had gone right or left we knew
not. The place was deserted. Looking upwards nothing was visible but
outlines of the rare old houses. Here and there a gabled roof and dormer
window; many a wrought-iron balcony; many a Gothic casement rich in
tracery and decoration; many a lower window protected by a strong iron
grille, despair of serenaders, consolation of parents, paradise of
artists.
It was now that we saw our industrious and amiable senora preparing for
the fair. Again the mantilla was being gracefully arranged. The
lady--very properly--had evidently no idea of neglecting the good looks
nature had bestowed upon her.
"Ah, senor," as we stopped with a polite greeting, "for a whole week
this fair is the upsetting and devastation of the town. It comes with
all its shows and shoutings; distracts our attention; we may as well
close the shutters for all the business that is done; finally it walks
off with all our spare money. And who is a bit the better for it?"
But madame's grievance was evidently not very deep-seated, for she
laughed as she adjusted the folds of her mantilla more becomingly, and
looking across at a mirror could only confess herself satisfied with her
bewitching appearance.
Near her stood a good-looking boy of some fourteen years, who evidently
just then thought the attractions of the fair far more important than
his mother's adorning. He was impatient to be gone.
"Calm yourself, my treasure," she remonstrated. "The day is yet young.
Chestnuts will not all be roasted, nor brazen trumpets all sold. These
are eternal and inexhaustible, like the snows of the Sierra. Oh! youth,
youth, with all its capacities!" she dramatically added. "Ah, senor,
you will think me very old, when you see me the mother of this great
boy!"
We gallantly protested she was under a delusion: he must be her brother.
"My son, senor, my son. I married at sixteen, when I was almost such a
child as he, and I really do feel more like his sister than his mother.
_Ahime!_ If I had only waited a few years longer I might have chosen
more wisely; perhaps have found a husband to keep me instead of my
keeping him. Marriage is a lottery."
We suggested that every cloud has its silver lining.
"True, senor. And after all if I did not draw the highest number,
neither did I fall upon the lowest. This dear youth too is a
consolation. He is fond of swords and trumpets, but never shall be a
soldier. I have long had the money put by for a substitute in case he
should be unlucky. For that matter, Heaven has prospered my industry and
in a humble way we are at ease."
This recalled the scene witnessed in the earlier hours of the morning
and the appointment half made with the colonel for the morrow.
"Evidently you do not approve of conscription, madame, which to-day
seems to be running hand-in-hand with the revels of the fair."
"I see that conscription is a necessary evil," returned madame, "for
without it we should not get soldiers; but you will never persuade me
any good can come of it. That my son here, who has been carefully
brought up, should suddenly be thrown under the influence of the worst
and vilest of mankind--no, it is impossible to avoid disaster. So,
Ernesto, never fix your affections on a military life, for it can never
be, never shall be. I would sooner make you a priest, though I haven't
the least ambition that way either."
To do the boy justice, he seemed quite ready to yield, laughed at the
idea of priesthood, and if fond of swords and trumpets, his military
ardour went no further. If one might judge, a civil life would be his
choice, and possibly a successful one, for he seemed to inherit his
mother's energy with her dark eyes and brilliant colouring. But for the
moment the fair and the fair only was the object of his desires. This
was in accordance with the fitness of things. He was at the age which
comes once only, with swift wings, when life has no alloy and happiness
lies in gratifying the moods and fancies of the moment.
"Now I am ready," said the mother, evidently very happy herself. "Ah,
senor, you are too good," as we slipped a substantial coin into the
boy's hand and bade him buy his mother a fairing and himself chestnuts
and ambitions. "But after all, the pleasure of conferring happiness is
the most exquisite in the world. There is nothing like it. So perhaps I
should envy, not chide you."
They went off together, the boy taking his mother's arm with that
confidential affection and good understanding so often seen abroad. To
him the world was still a paradise, and his mother at the head of all
good angels. _Les beaux jours de la vie_--short-lived, but eternally
remembered. So, parents, indulge your children but do not spoil them.
The one is quite possible without the other.
It was to be a day of encounters. We followed our happy pair down the
deserted street, admiring the graceful walk of the mother, the boy's
tall, straight, well-knit form and light footstep. As they disappeared
round the corner leading to the noisy scene of action, a quiet figure
issued from beneath the wonderful arcades and approached in our
direction. She was dressed as a Sister of Mercy and seemed to glide
along with noiseless movements.
"Rosalie," we breathed, turning to H. C. for confirmation.
"Without doubt," he replied. "There could not be two Rosalies in one
town."
"Or in one world."
On the impulse of the moment we went up and, bareheaded, spoke to her;
felt we knew her--had known her long. Anselmo's vivid confession had
taken the place of time and custom.
Yes, it was Rosalie. A more beautiful face was seldom seen, never a more
holy; all the refinement and repose of Anselmo's added to an infinite
feminine grace and softness. They were even strangely alike, as though
the same impulse in their lives, a constant dwelling upon each other,
their fervent, though purified, affection had created a similarity of
feature and expression. Hers was the face of one whose life is turned
steadily heavenwards, to whom occasionally, whether waking or sleeping,
a momentary glimpse of unseen glories is vouchsafed, one whose daily
work on earth is that of a ministering spirit. As far as it is possible
or permitted here, Rosalie bore the evidence of a perfect and unalloyed
life that had never looked back or attempted to serve two masters.
Perhaps she might have become a mystic, but the serious and practical
nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy groove, free from
introspection. She was walking her lonely pilgrimage along the narrow
road of her dream with firm, unflinching steps. The end, far off though
it might yet be for Anselmo and for her, could not be doubted.
"_Ma soeur_, you are Anastasia, devoted to good works; and once were
Rosalie devoted to Anselmo," we said, without waiting to choose our
words. "There could not be another Rosalie in Gerona, as there could not
be another Anastasia."
"Nay," she returned, "I am Rosalie still, and still devoted to Anselmo.
There is no past tense for our affection, senor, which sweetens my days
and makes me brave in life's battles."
She seemed neither surprised nor startled by our sudden address. Calm
self-possession never for a moment forsook her, though in our rashness
we might have been probing a half-healed wound or rousing long dormant
emotions.
But it was far otherwise. Naturally as Anselmo had told us his story she
replied to our greeting. They were a wonderful pair, these two. United,
their careers would have been very different, but never otherwise than
pure and holy. As we spoke to her a slight colour mounted to her pale,
lovely face, a light came into her eyes, a sweet smile parted the lips.
She looked almost childlike in her innocence, utter absence of
self-consciousness.
"Yes, I was Rosalie," she repeated; "and I am Rosalie still, though my
life compels me to adopt a new name. But I ever think of myself as
Rosalie, and in my dreams am Rosalie of the days gone by. Sometimes my
mother visits me in those dreams and calls me Rosalie. If we retain our
names in the next world I shall be Rosalie once more. Senor, you have
been with Anselmo and he has told you our story--or how could you know?"
"It is true. We have been with Anselmo, were with him this morning and
parted at mid-day. As the clock struck twelve we stood on the ruined
citadel and saw you cross the square of San Pedro."
"Ah, senor, I saw you also, for I recognised Anselmo. He is never within
many yards of me but seen or unseen I know it. Some spiritual instinct
never fails to tell me he is near."
"You are both remarkable. Your love and constancy ought to be placed
side by side with the histories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and
Heloise. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above
them."
"Senor, if we only knew, there are thousands of histories in the world
similar to our own, but they are never heard of. Shakespeare records a
Juliet, Chateaubriand an Atala, and they become immortal; but what of
the numberless heroines who have had no writer to send them down to
posterity? Depend upon it they are as the sand of the sea. And is it so
much to give up for Heaven? We possess each other still, Anselmo and I;
and the possession is for ever. You think it strange to hear a Sister of
Mercy talking of love in this calm and passionless way," she smiled.
"You imagine me cold and severe. You do not believe that I have feelings
deep as the sea, wide as eternity. It is true that my love for Anselmo
is only the love we should all bear towards each other; but for him it
is supreme and exalted above all words. In my dreams he comes to me as
an angel of light bidding me be of good courage; in my waking hours he
is my best and truest friend, my hero and my king. Is not this better
than all the passionate vows which rarely survive one's early youth, and
too often die under the strain of life's daily work? For me, Anselmo is
still surrounded by all the romance of our first youth. He is a sort of
earthly shekinah, a pillar of fire guiding me onwards."
"And you never regret the choice you have made? the companionship you
have given up? the right of calling Anselmo husband? the sacrifice of
motherhood, which is said to be sweetest of all earthly ties to woman?"
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.]
"Regret?" she softly murmured. "A hundred times since it happened
conviction has been vouchsafe
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