This is a modern-English version of Glories of Spain, originally written by Wood, Charles W. (Charles William).
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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| Note of the etext transcriber: View any of the artist's eighty-five images at full size by clicking directly on it. |
GLORIES OF SPAIN
Glories of Spain
GLORIES OF SPAIN
BY
CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S.,
AUTHOR OF
"LETTERS FROM MAJORCA," "IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHONE,"
ETC., ETC.
BY
CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S.,
AUTHOR OF
"LETTERS FROM MAJORCA," "IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHONE,"
ETC., ETC.
WITH EIGHTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS.
WITH 85 ILLUSTRATIONS.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1901
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1901
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS.
| CHAPTER I. | |
| AT THE GARE D'ORLÉANS. | |
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 Hôtel 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 mediæval atmosphere—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little comedy—M. the Inspector—Outraged ladies—"En voiture, messieurs!"—Mystery not cleared—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A dilemma—Polite Chef de Gare—Crossing the Garonne—Land of corn and wine On Calais quay—At the customs office—A lady from the past—Unchivalrous inspector—Better to rule than serve—Paris—Vanity Fair—Sowing and reaping—Laughing through life—At the Hôtel Chatham—A lovely scene—In deep thought—M. Pascal is wise for his time—The secrets of the Seine—Notre Dame—Ile St. Louis—A medieval vibe—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little play—M. the Inspector—Offended ladies—"Get in the car, gentlemen!"—Mystery unresolved—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A tricky situation—Polite stationmaster—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'âge 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'Allée des Soupirs—An unfinished cathedral—At the gloaming hour—Mystery and devotion—The Hôtel 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 chère France!"—Over the frontier—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetical incident—From the sublime to the ridiculous Carcassonne—In feudal times—Simon de Montfort—Canal du Midi—The golden age and the Great Monarch—A modern Golden Fleece—One of the world's beautiful places—Choosing the lesser evil—Mr. Chief gives in—Narbonne—A capable woman—The path of true love is smooth—Diner de contrat—Honey versus the honeymoon—Madame's philosophy—L'Allée des Soupirs—An unfinished cathedral—At twilight—Mystery and devotion—The Town Hall—A domestic drama—Big celebration and champagne—The next morning—H. C. feeling guilty—Madame at her post—Delicious breakfast—"You have to pay for your pleasures"—Dramatic exit—Perpignan—Home of the kings of Majorca—Elne—"Goodbye, my dear France!"—Crossing the border—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetic moment—From the sublime to the ridiculous | —012 |
| CHAPTER III. | |
| BLACK COFFEE—AND A CONFESSION. | |
Continued uproar—H. C. disillusioned—A dark night—Not like another Cæsar—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 Continued chaos—H. C. feeling let down—A dark night—Not like any other Cæsar—More crowds—A wild scene—Fair time—Glorious days of the past—In marble halls and winding passages—Our fantastic host—His solid partner—Happy minds—Picturesque courtyard—Silent nightingales—Drafting—H. C.'s humility—Our host is appreciative yet personal—Carries the torch of talent—A blunder—Below the salt—Host's beautiful daughters—Catalonian women—The Silent Enigma—Remarkable priest—Good intentions—Talk about black coffee—Confessions—Benjamin's shares—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—Mediæval 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—Mediæval dreams Wrong turnings—H. C.'s talents and charms—Out at night—The arcades of Gerona—At the fair—Ancient outlines—Demons at work—In the dry riverbed—Roasting chestnuts—Medieval outlines—In the vortex—Clairvoyants 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 twists on old proverbs—Cathedral by night—H. C. unaware—Scent fades—Return to earth—Romantic story—Last of a long line—El Sereno!—The witching hour—H. C. unserenaded—Next morning—Gray skies—A false prophet—Magic picture—Cathedral by day—Medieval dreams | —41 |
| CHAPTER V. | |
| GERONA THE BEAUTIFUL. | |
A Gerona señora—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 A Gerona woman—Grace and charm—Lord of creation—Morning greeting—Arcades and old houses—Conscription—Gerona a discovery—Streets of steps—Old eaves and unique ironwork—Old-world corner—Desecrated church—Gothic cloisters—Ghosts of the past—Visions of today—Soldiers interested—"Happy as kings"—Lingering—Colonel seeks explanation—Not a fan of history—More conscription—Dramatic scene—Pedro to the rescue—Mother and son—Sad story—Strong and merciful—Pedro thankful—Narrowed interests—Colonel becomes hard to read 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 Beauties of age—Apostles' Doorway—How the old bishops avoided temptation—Interior of the cathedral—Its vast main hall—Days of Charlemagne—And of the Moors—A giant made small—Rare choir—Grumpy priest—And a more friendly one—Our guide—Dazzling treasures—Father Anselmo—Romantic story—Heaven or the world?—Doubts—The gentle Rosalie makes a decision—Sister Anastasia—Told in the sacristy—A heart-felt confession—Anselmo's mysticism—Heresy—Charms of antiquity—Scene of his triumph—Celestial vision—Church of San Pedro—Pagan interior—Rare cloisters—Desecrated church—Unique scene—Chiaroscuro—Miguel the carpenter—His views—Daily life as a religion—Anselmo seizes his chance—"A reflected light"—Ruined citadel—War of succession—Alvarez and Marshall—Gerona in decline—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 señora prepares for the fair—Grievance not very deep seated—Bewitching appearance—Señora dramatic—Ernesto—Marriage a lottery—Every cloud its silver lining—Gerona en fête—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—Fénélon—One creed, one worship—Not peace but a sword—Not dead to the world—Angel of mercy—H. C. mistaken—Earthly idyll "Can a prophet really come from Galilee?"—The unexpected happens—Under scrutiny—Wise caution—Born to lead—Contrasts—Nothing new under the sun—The señora gets ready for the fair—Grievance not too deep—Captivating appearance—The señora is dramatic—Ernesto—Marriage is a gamble—Every cloud has a silver lining—Gerona in celebration—Delormais' mission—Deceptive looks—Problems with conscription—Ernesto's ambitions—The good old days—Rosalie—A beautiful image—Strange resemblance—Towards heaven—Anastasia or Rosalie—Her dreams and visions—Modern-day Paul and Virginia—Timeless possession—A Gerona saint—The better choice—More heresy—Fénélon—One belief, one worship—Not peace but conflict—Not detached from the world—Angel of mercy—H. C. is wrong—Earthly paradise | —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 Demons working—In the crowd—Ernesto and his mom—Roasted chestnuts—Instrument of torture—New anatomy school—Rhinestones or diamonds?—Happy mom—Honest confession—Danger of sharp tools—Cayenne lozenges for the monkeys—Joseph—Early compliments—Ernesto pleads in vain—By the river—Music of the reeds—Bright prospects—Faust—World's singers—Joseph takes tickets—Gerona stays out late—Its little big world—Between the acts—Successful night—In the dark night—On the bridge—Silence and solitude—Astral bodies—Joseph becomes Job's comforter—Magnetism—Delormais' psychology—Alone in the streets—Greeting the Church militant—Haunted staircase again—Sighs and whispers—H. C. retires—"Drink to me only with your eyes"—Delormais' challenge—Leads the way—Lighting—Coffee set—"Only the truth hurts"—Lost in thought | —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—Ægina—Groves of the Sacred Plain—Narrow escapes—Pleasures of home-coming—Rainbow atmosphere—Orange and lemon groves—The nightingales—Impressionable childhood—Fresh plans—The Abbé Rivière—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 Magnetism—Past life—Impulsive nature—First impressions—Perfumed air—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—Ægina—Groves of the Sacred Plain—Narrow escapes—Pleasures of homecoming—Rainbow atmosphere—Orange and lemon groves—The nightingales—Impressionable childhood—Fresh plans—The Abbé Rivière—Rare talent—Domestic chaplain—Debt of gratitude—Treasure trove of strength—Given to hospitality—First great sorrow—Passing away—Resolve to travel—"I can do 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 Rome—Count Albert—Happy months—Pleasures of companionship—Egypt—Unusual 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—New scenes—Algeria—Hanging gardens of the Sahel—Mount Bubor and its wonders—Impulsive act—At twilight—Earthly paradise—Beautiful Eve—Passionate love—Arouya—Nature's revenge—Not meant to last—Eternal requiem of the sea—In the backwoods—Hunting wolves—Prairies of California—Honolulu—Active volcanoes—Lake of fire—Rare birds and wildflowers—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—Abbé's objections—Resolve strengthened—Death of the Abbé—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 Great conflict—Returning to Paris—Count Albert is married—Marriages decreased—Love buried in the grave of Arouya—Frivolities—Napoleon at the Tuileries—Illness—Doctors' mistakes—Days of horror—Vow registered—Between life and death—Victory—Home again—Abbé's objections—Resolve strengthened—Death of the Abbé—Taking vows—Life of energy and action—Quick overview—Sympathies—All ordained—"Monseigneur"—"Mon ami"—Cry of the watchmen—Candles burn dim and blue—Wandering in dreams—False prophet—H. C. rises with the lark—Beauty of Gerona—Touching scene—Colonel provides comfort—Widow's heart sings for joy—In the cloisters again—Goodbye—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 Señorita 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 Sweet illusions—Everything seen and done—True devotion—In the vortex—Sunshine and blue skies—Less demonic pit—Lights and shadows—Arcades lose their gloom—Rosalie—Charm of Anselmo—Romance isn't 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 care—Acceptance—Rosalie's goodbye—"Consuelo"—Saved from the impending evil—The door closed—Ernesto's world turned upside down—Ernesto becomes business-like—The catapult again—Up the wide staircase—Not the ghostly hour—Madame in her office—Posting the ledger—Balance on the right side—Madame reflects—Shrieks to the rescue—"My dear daughter"—Our host and the nightingales—Waiting for next year's leaves—The Señorita Costello—Delormais on the move—Another vigil—Promise given—Departure—Inspector quakes—H. C. collapses—The impressionable age—Lady Maria changes her will—Possession is 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 Barcelona—H. C.'s anxiety—Mutual greetings—Old memories—Letdown—Familiar cries and sights—Flower vendors—Endless summer—Commercial vibe—Manchester of Spain—Surrounding countryside—Where worries fade—Barcelonita—The waterfront—A land of grain and wine—Relaxing atmosphere—Beautiful women—Ancient elements noticeably absent—Historical heritage—Great in the Middle Ages—Wise and strong—Commerce of the world—Wealth and knowledge—Becomes indulgent—Ferdinand and Isabella—Cunning but ungrateful—Brave and valiant—Defeated by Peterborough—Napoleon's betrayal—Republican spirit—Thriving once more—Ecclesiastical treasures—Unmatched cathedral—Inspiration—Influence of the Moors—Work of a Majorcan architect—Dreamy landscape—Impressive 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 In the cloisters—Sacred geese—Bishop's palace—House of the Inquisition—Striking quadrangles—Ajimez windows—A rare cloister—Desecration—Library—Rare manuscripts—Polite librarian—Romantic atmosphere—Santa Maria del Mar—Cloisters of Santa Anna—Sister of Mercy—San Pablo del Campo—More dreamlike cloisters—Communicating with ghosts and shadows—Spring and winter—Constant visitor—Centenarian—Chief architect—Cathedrals of Catalonia—Barbaric town council—Hard fight and victory—Declining 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 à 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 Early rising—Imps of darkness—Death sentence—The men who don’t succeed—Ranges of Montserrat—Sabadell—Work and romance—The Llobregat—Monistrol—Summer getaway—Sleeping village—Empty mail bags—Climbing up—Amazing view—Romantic vibe—Attractions of the past—Human stories—Mons Serratus—A writer—Solitude à deux—Traveling companions—Well-off lady merchant—Acceptance—Military cop—"Nameless here forever"—Round man in a square hole—Romantic tale—Cherchez la femme—Woman as a divine being—A good reputation is the best inheritance—No fighting fate—Allure of astrology—Love and luck—Too good to last—Taste for enjoyment—Downfall—Sad ending—Truth comes back—Fortune smiles again—Ceylon—Philosophical in hardship—A windfall—On the way to Montserrat—Monks’ paradise—Romance and beauty—New way of life—Gypsy camp | —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. Monk's face—Excessive goodness—"Welcome to Montserrat"—Unfair advantage—Demanding but not greedy—Another Miguel—Lost keys—Unique monk—Hospederia—Doubt—Monk's view of luxury—Uncommon opportunity—Haunted by silence—Father Salvador is lucky—Monk sees spirits—With Miguel's guidance—In the church—Past glory—The dark image—Gothic and Norman shapes—Franciscan monk or spirit?—Memory of the past—Times of persecution—Reasonable image—Strong community—Harmony of the spheres—Melancholy cypresses—Life of a hermit—Monk's tale—Caring for the world—Repentance—Saved from the flames—Nurtured talent—A world apart—False interest—Salvador—Temptation and a compromise—Salvador improvises—"All the magic of the moment"—Salvador's conviction—Waiting for signs. | —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 Gipsies—Picturesque scene—Love stories—H. C. invited to the festive table—Saved by Lady Maria's astral visit—The fortune-teller—H. C. gives in to persuasion—Fate predicted—Warnings—Photo requested—Darkness and mystery—Night scene—Gipsies leave—Weird experiences—Troubled dreams—Mysterious sounds—Ghost appears—H. C. sleeps soundly—Egyptian darkness—In the cold morning—Salvador keeps his promise—Breakfast by candlelight—Romantic scene—Salvador turns to the world—Pleasant company—Musician's spirit—Miguel and the mule—Leaving the world behind—Darkness lifts—St. Michael's chapel—Sunrise and glory—Marvelous scene—Magical atmosphere—Salvador's joy—Agrees to have lunch—Heavenly music—"Not goodbye"—Leaves in lonely 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, señor?"—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 Manresa—Tropical downpour—Hasty judgment—Catalan hills and valleys—Impressive approach—Seizing the moment—Basic inn—Odd gathering—Unpleasant choice—Sebastien—Manresa shrouded in gloom—Amazing outlines—Underwhelming church—Sebastien takes the lead—Old-fashioned streets—Picturesque yet sad—Common character—"What would you like, sir?"—Sebastien's biblical knowledge lacking—Lesson postponed—A revelation—La Seo—Church cold and lifeless—Cave of Ignatius Loyola—Hermitage of St. Dismas—Juan Chanones—Fasting and penance—Visions and insights—Spiritual struggles—Eve of the Annunciation—Switching outfits—Knight becomes a monk—Juan Pascual—Loyola arrives in Manresa—Fanaticism—Vale of Paradise—"Spiritual Exercises"—Founding the Jesuit Order—Dying to oneself—The beautiful Anita—In the convent chapel—Two novices—Vision of angels—The White Ladies—Heart-wrenching moment—Another Romeo and Juliet—Back to the hotel—Sebastien feeling hopeless—"Tomorrow the sun will shine"—Dreaming big—A prophecy comes true | —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 Picturesque countryside—Getting closer to Lerida—Casual inn—Notable duenna—Toothless and mute—Smiles at H. C.—Almost passes out—Sophisticated chef—A parade—Lerida Dragon—City of the dead—Night study—Charging lifeless walls—A nighttime encounter—Armed demon—Wise individuals—Watchman turns out to be an old friend—No advancement—Locked out—Echoes stirred—Night porter shows up—Also El Sereno—Apologetic and regretful—The lovely Rose—Porter feels proud—Clear morning—H. C. faces the Dragon—In the grasp of the Philistines—A Lerida fine art—Boot-cleaner extraordinaire—Notable personality—H. C. is in high spirits—Makes a clever move | —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 Lerida in daylight—Second city in Catalonia—History—Days of the Goths—And Moors—Becomes a bishopric—Troubling times—Brave people—Impressive cathedral—Striking outlines—Desecration—The new cathedral—Pointless tyranny—One of the most fascinating towns—Busy marketplace—Picturesque arcades and ancient gates—Wine-pressers—Good offer turned down—Another revelation—Amazing streets—Among the greats—Our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary again—There's a story behind that—His tale—Blind wife—Humble request—Nerissa—Lovely room—Little queen in the armchair—Perfect picture—Sacrifices but no regrets—"All a new world"—Time to move on from life—Back to the quiet streets—H. C. deep in thought—Suggests moving to Salt Lake City—Lerida celebrated for 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 señor 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 café—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, señor"—El Sereno disappears for the last time—Daybreak—In presence of death—Alone, but resigned—Surpassing loveliness—Sacred atmosphere Days of chivalry are not over—In the evening light—Night porter is grateful—Dragon is in full force—Combative and revengeful—Prepared for the occasion—Gall turns to sweetness when H. C. shows up—Last night in Lerida—The bane of our host's life—Mysterious disappearance—Monastery of Sigena—Devout ladies—Returning at night—Place is empty and deserted—Birds have flown with the keys—Quite a commotion—"The señor is just joking"—Was a 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 café—Create a sensation—Polite captain—Offer declined—Regrets—Final crash—Paradise or Lerida—Deserted marketplace—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 dawn—Acolyte and priest—"We must all face it, señor"—El Sereno disappears for the last time—Daybreak—In the 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—Cafés 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 Broad plains of Aragon—Amazing colors—Getting closer to Zaragoza—Heavenly vision—Distance adds charm—Ordinary people—The ancient made modern—Disillusionment followed by joy—Almost like a small Paris—Cafés and their advantages—Not socially appealing—Friendly equality—Mix of classes—Legacy of the past—Fascinating streets—Arcades and gables—Vibrant scenes—People in traditional dress—A glimpse of Old Spain—Historic palaces—One especially romantic—The world well wasted—Fair Lucia—Where love could last forever—A paradise not meant for this world—Doomed—The last dawn—Heartbroken—Looking for death—Found on the battlefield—A daydream—Few competitors—In the new cathedral—Shocking moment—Asking for charity—Young and beautiful—Awkward moment—Terrible tale—Deadly chains—"And then?"—How to heal a troubled mind?—Sunshine overshadowed—Weight of life—Any way out?—Echoes of past centuries—The mighty have 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—Cæsarea 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 café—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 Bygone days—Luxurious nesting—Old marketplace—Gourmet traders—Pride of Aragon—La Seo Cathedral—Updated exterior—Enchanting interior—Next to Barcelona—Stunning impact—Local church—Moorish ceiling—Tomb of Bernardo de Aragon—The old priest—Becomes excited—Surreal effect—Figure of Benedict XIII.—Mysterious light and shadow—One exception—Alonzo the Warrior—Moorish tiles—Bishop's palace—Simple meal—Trace of old Zaragoza—Fifteenth-century house—Juanita—City streets—Cæsarea Augusta—Devotion to the Virgin—Alonzo the Moor—Steadfast resistance—Days of struggle—Decline—Return to prosperity—Fair maiden of Zaragoza—The Aljafería—Ancient palace of the Moorish kings—Damaged by Suchet—Salon of Santa Isabel—Spanish café—Four generations—Beautiful voice—Lamartine's Le Lac—Recognized—Reading between the lines—Out in the night air—An inspiration—Night vision of El Pilar—In the distant 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 El Pilar by day—In the old cathedral—The canon looking disappointed—Ready for the moment—No pressure needed—A meager meal—A dream of forty years—True to the time—Juanita—Rewards of long service—Exploring Juanita's world—House of wonders—"This can't be a fast day"—Creative dreams—Who can legislate after death?—Canon's restraint—Juanita steps back—Our chance—Canon earnest and understanding—Eugenie de Colmar—Canon's shock—An old friend—Truth is stranger than fiction—"You’ll forget the old priest"—Ingratitude isn't one of our faults—Arivederci—Canon's letter—The end of Eugenie's story—On the way to Tarragona—Landlord shows up at Lerida—Missing keys—Skeletons sent off to Panama—Family drama—Dragon back in action—Tarragona—Unmatched coastal view—Nice inn—Military vibe—Haunted house—Mystery unresolved—Different elements—Roman and other ruins—Dreams of the past—Green meadows 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 Träumerei—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 Tarragona at night—Cathedral—Moonlit vision—Fabric of dreams—Deserted streets—A ghostly figure approaches—Quilp or Quasimodo?—Redeeming traits—Pale, spiritual face—Open sesame—Getting closer to the apparition—Question and answer—Invitation accepted—Prisoners—The Shadow—Beneath the cold moonlight—Entering the cathedral—Vast interior—Gloom and silence—Fantastic effects—Mystery resolved—Strange actions—Why Quasimodo turned night into day—Eerie moonlit scene—Soft, sweet sounds—Schumann's Träumerei—Spellbound—The magician—Witching hour—Cathedral ghosts—An eternity of music—Shifting moods—Returning to earth—Quasimodo's ecstasy—Traveling moonbeams—Night ages—Sky filled with 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—Señor 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 Cæsar—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 Charms of Tarragona—Roman remnants—Massive ruins—Augustus closes Temple of Janus—Great history—House of Pontius Pilate—View from the ramparts—Feluccas with white sails set—Life like paradise—City walls—Cathedral outlines—Lively marketplace—Remarkable exterior—Dreamlike world—West doorways—Interior effect—In the cloisters—Proud sacristan—A person of taste and knowledge—Happy with our enthusiasm—Great concession—Appealing to the soul—Señor Ancora—Human or angelic?—In the cloister garden—Sacristan's personal troubles—Silent cleric—Sad history—Church of San Pablo—Challenge accepted—Future genius—Rare painting—Roman aqueduct—A modern César—Remembrances—Rich land—Where the finest wines are produced—Aqueduct—El puente del diablo—High heights—Secluded valley—H. C. sentimental—Rosalie and Fair Costello—Romantic scenario—Quarrelsome Reus—Masters of the world—Our driver acts as umpire—Battle avoided—Men of Reus—Whatever is, is wrong—Driver's philosophy—Dream of the ages | —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 Our ever-present host—Curious mix of nations—Francisco—His enthusiasm drives the point home—French lessons—English bias—Landlord's complaint—Days of beautiful Provence—Francisco is determined to be on time—Presidio—Tomb of the Scipios—Fishing for sardines—Early visit to the cathedral—Even earlier sacristan—Francisco's joy—Freshness of early morning—Reus—Bark worse than bite—Where headaches come from—A bad deed—Valley of the Francoli—Moorish remnants—Montblanch—The lovely hills of Spain—Espluga—Francisco rises to the occasion—Surrounded—Donkeys versus carriage—Interesting old town—Decline—Unique woman—Loretta's companion—Strange tale—Unintentional charm—What happened one Sunday evening—Caro—"The right man never showed up"—Now he comes—How she got engaged—Basic transportation—Making the most of it—Wine pressers—Loving cup—Nectar of the gods—Fair trade—Bumpy ride—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 A dreamlike world—Ruins—Chapel of St. George—Archways and Gothic windows—Atmosphere of the Middle Ages—Convent doorway—A call for attention but no reply—The door finally opens—A woman with a welcoming demeanor—An ingenious idea—Confusion compounded—The true story—Francisco is painfully straightforward—The guardian comes out worse for wear—Picturesque decay—Gothic cloisters—Visions of beauty—A rare wilderness—King Martin the Humble—Bacchanalian days—When the monks enjoyed Malvoisie—The simple grandeur of the church—Philip Duke of Wharton—Cistercian monastery—The history of Poblet the monk—The monastery becomes renowned—Tombs of the kings of Aragon—The guardian is doubtful—Paradise or wilderness—Monks hold great power—Escorial of Aragon—The great traveler—Things changing for the worse—Defending the royal authority—Time continues to pass—Downfall—Under attack and destroyed—An enraged mob—Imaginary treasures—A wicked act—Massacre—The 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. Day visions—Everything fades away—End of the celebration—Francisco collects the leftovers—Echoes of the past—Outside the monastery—A refuge in a desert—After the harvest—Francisco gathers—Bad conscience—Local tradition—Dessert—Simple watering hole—Heading to the fair—Crying and mourning—Wise creature—Source of sadness—Frustration and fury—Donkey listens and gets it—A tough life—Washing is a luxury—Acts of kindness—Abandoned settlement—Charming interior—Back to the monastery—Unfair comparisons—A promise—Farewell to Poblet—Rough sea again—Tormented driver—Making up for sins—Deserving paradise—Wine-makers again—Abundant resources—Good-hearted people—Charming old town—Past wealth—Lorenzo—A match made in heaven—House checked—On the bridge—At the station—Generous offer—Beautiful sunset—Loretta's farewell—"What will it be?"—Fleeting moments—As the train departs. | —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 Charms of Tarragona—Dreams of the past—Quasimodo doesn’t come—From another world—The host's offer—Francisco heartbroken—A mixed sadness—No more vacations—List of complaints—Beautiful scene—Lushness of the South—Hospitalet—Pilgrims of the Middle Ages—Amposta—Center of forgotten centuries—Historical heritage—Here worked St. Paul—Our fellow travelers—Subtle tones—An old priest enters—Draws conclusions—Love's young dream—Impressions and appearances—Not always a priest—Fool's paradise—Youth and age—Awakening to reality—Driven out of paradise—Was it a judgment?—Calmness returns—Judging with mercy—Nameless grave—"Written 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 fishermen—Cradle of history and romance—Gibraltar of the West—a separate race—Benicarlo—Thriving vineyards—"If the English only knew"—Eve recognizes the priest—"I am that charming daughter"—Lovely cousin engaged—Count Pedro de la Torre—Mutual recognitions—Congratulations—Breaking the 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 First impressions—Dedicated to pleasure—Peaceful—The climate is joyful and lively—New vibe—Few signs of the past—Old palaces—Wins hearts—City of the Cid—Church attractions—Archbishopric—University—Even Homer must nod off sometimes—Comparative calm—De Nevada takes us away—Great host—Talkative—Serious and fun—Mercy, not sacrifice—Library—At Puzol—Getting a promise—The hour chimes—Count Pedro shows up—Aromatic coffee—Served like magic—Specially prepared treat—Twisting the truth—Land flowing with milk and honey—Curious mind—Heroic man—Cid compared to Cromwell—Retribution—Ibn Jehaf the killer—Reign of terror—The loyal Ximena—Cid's final blow—Priest becomes schoolmaster—"Watch out!"—Earthly paradise—Land of comfort—Irrigation system—Famous council—Poetic Granada—No way out—Apostles' Gateway—Earth's attractions—Scenic peasants—Beautiful women—Countess Pedro shakes her head—Farewell—The next morning—Quiet hustle—Market day—Beauty of the flower market—Lonja de Seda—Fleeting dream—Audiencia—San Salvador—Old traditions give way to comfort—Convent of San Domingo—Miserere—Impressive ritual—City of Flowers—Outside the walls—Famous river—Change of scenery | —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—Maître d'hôtel 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 Port and harbor—Sunday and fresh air—In the marketplace—De Nevada protests—A curse of the country—In days gone by—On the breakwater—Invaded tramcar—De Nevada confirmed—Another crusade needed—Plaza de Toros—In Sunday attire—Home interiors—When the play was over—Bullring at night—Fitful dreams—Fever—Head waiter 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—Deep 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 favor—Glories of Spain—Eastern blessing | —481 |
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
| 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 Oñar: 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 Gúl[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'ORLÉANS.
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 Hôtel 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 mediæval atmosphere—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little comedy—M. the Inspector—Outraged ladies—"En voiture, messieurs!"—Mystery not cleared—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A dilemma—Polite Chef de Gare—Crossing the Garonne—Land of corn and wine.
On Calais quay—At the customs house—A woman from the past—Unchivalrous inspector—Better to rule than serve—Paris—Vanity Fair—What you sow is what you reap—Laughing through life—At the Hôtel Chatham—A nice scene—Lost in thought—M. Pascal is clever for his time—The secrets of the Seine—Notre Dame—Ile St. Louis—A medieval vibe—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little play—M. the Inspector—Upset ladies—"Get in the vehicle, gentlemen!"—Mystery remains unsolved—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A tough choice—Courteous station master—Crossing the Garonne—Land of grain 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 Channel waters were calm and peaceful, just like the blue sky above. Even though it was late autumn, the temperature felt like mid-summer. In Calais, everyone disembarked as cheerfully as if they had just enjoyed a short yachting trip. As usual, there were all types of men and women, and once again, the curious, the bizarre, and the impossible stood out. They flowed across the new quay in a messy line, struggling with all the hand baggage that gets in everyone's way except their own, as they hurried to secure the best seats and most comfortable spots.
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.
The customs inspection was done. An older woman standing near us was politely asked by the examiner if she had any cigars, tobacco, or brandy to declare. Her blonde wig seemed to stand on end as she questioned if they thought she was a New Woman, responding to one question with another, just like a Quaker. The examiner took her question literally and looked at her earnestly. Despite her wig, bright blush, and penciled eyebrows, she represented an earlier time. With all his intelligence shining in his eyes, he answered, "About the same age as the century, I would say, madame," then marked her packages and moved on to the next person in line. If those two had been alone, judging by the lady's expression, there could have been shocking headlines in the next day's papers. As it was, she got into one of the waiting trains and we never saw her again. Clearly, she had been a beauty in her time, and it's difficult to adjust when you've once held a position of power.
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.
So we continued on to the lively capital, which in its time was almost what Rome was to the ancient world. And if it's not entirely that now, who can it blame but itself? Just like people, nations must face the consequences of their actions. Yet, as we zipped through the wide streets, we felt it still holds its own. Nowhere else are there such floods of light, turning night into day, making one squint like owls in the sunshine. Nowhere else are there shops so dazzling that a small fortune wouldn't be enough to buy them. Nowhere else is there a Vanity Fair packed with cheerful people who dance through life to the beat of Away with Melancholy! Leaving the Gare du Nord, the vibrant boulevards were alive with energy and movement.
Our coachman turned into the Rue Daunou and brought up at the Hôtel 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.
Our driver turned onto Rue Daunou and stopped at the Hôtel Chatham: it was quiet and comfortable, but like all Paris hotels, it really needed some fresh air. The manager welcomed us with as much attention as if we were staying for six months instead of just a couple of hours to get ready for our night journey south.
The salle-à-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.
The dining room opened its welcoming doors, revealing several small tables with crisp white tablecloths, sparkling glassware, and silver; a delightful sight. Elegantly dressed women, adorned with jewels, fanned themselves with relaxed grace. In a quiet corner sat two reserved individuals, clearly a mother and daughter, as one must have been twenty years ago what the other is now. They were English, as we could see and hear since we were at the next table. No other country could produce such a beautiful example of girlhood; no other country could claim such a lovely face, gentle voice, and refined tones: inherited charms, destined one day to lead some fortunate admirer to blissful realms, where the sands of life are golden and flow swiftly.
Then came up our cunning maître-d'hôtel, portly and commanding, deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little diplomacy.
Then came our shrewd maître-d'hôtel, stout and authoritative, who took a moment to look at the wine list we had and engaged in a bit of diplomacy.
"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine of old.
"A bottle of your fantastic '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine from back in the day.
"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Château d'Irrac is superior."
"Ah, if the gentleman only knew, the Château d'Irrac is better."
"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Château d'Irrac."
"Is it possible?" she said, skeptical but giving in. "Then let it be Château d'Irrac."
And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of Château 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 Château d'Irrac is much appreciated—especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to change the wine?"
And soon we realized that the '87 St. Julien was running low in the cellar, while many crates of Château d'Irrac were begging to be opened. We called for the expert and shared our concerns, saying, "You can't compare the two wines." "So you know the St. Julien? Ah," he said with a sharper look, "I hadn’t noticed. I apologize a thousand times, sir. In the end, it’s all about personal taste. The Château d'Irrac is quite popular—especially among the English. May I change the wine for you?"
Amende honorable, but not accepted; and the Château d'Irrac remained.
Public apology, but not accepted; and the Château d'Irrac remained.
Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orléans. Paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.
Currently, we began our longer drive to the Gare d'Orléans. Paris had closed its shutters and dimmed its lights. Shops were shut, lights were off, and Vanity Fair had vanished.
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.
The streets grew quieter and quieter. Our driver navigated to the river and drove along the quays, where on summer evenings, fans of old books spend hours browsing the long rows of stalls, where every known and unknown literary gem eventually shows up. Maybe he was someone who appreciated the tragic aspects of life—and where is that more evident than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night, its murky waters swallow the heads of those who recklessly lose hope. The grim Morgue is filled with secrets. Every bridge carries an air of sighs. One last look at the world, the sky, the calm stars, then the fatal leap into the silent waters, and another soul has ventured into 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.
Once again, in the darkness, the outlines of Notre Dame rose up in all the beauty of Gothic elegance; all the delicate lacework and flying buttresses softened 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.
Who can look at this architectural marvel without thinking about those historical days in the twelfth century when the first stone was laid, and it gradually reached its full beauty? All the centuries that have passed since then, altering and erasing much of its charm? The dangers it faced and mostly survived during those horrific days of '93 when, condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove half the passionate Frenchmen of Paris completely crazy.
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 mediæval 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 Hôtel 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 Châtet.
How can we walk through these places without thinking of their great champion, Victor Hugo, who cherished them like Scott and Burns loved their healthier rivers and hills? Everywhere we see a vision of the old grey-haired man as we remember him, with his pale, heavy face, serious demeanor, and deep, thoughtful eyes, showing so little that was light-hearted, excitable, or French; always reflecting on the mysteries of life, human suffering and resilience, shattered destinies. His face looks at you from every dark and empty window in the nearby Ile St. Louis. The shadows of Notre Dame fall over its medieval roofs; the dark waters of the river wash their foundations, sometimes flooding them too. If only they could share their secrets of human sin and suffering, that vast army of martyrs who have died, not for the sake of good but because of evil, the world would surely melt away. Many times he has stood pondering these issues, planning the fates of his characters from the windows of the Hôtel Lambert. Its painted ceilings remind us of the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old staircases and empty corridors, one can hear the cynical laughter of Voltaire and the light steps of Madame de Châtet.
We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.
We left this charming and romantic vibe behind as our driver continued along 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.
Another world, filled with another group of people. Darkness was everywhere; lamps were sparse; the sounds of the big city echoed in the distance, and within that noise lived all the status and style, wealth and intrigue, that turn the blessings from above into ashes like the fruit of the Dead Sea. Soon he crossed a bridge and saw a flash of lights on the dark waters below. The Seine continued on her unyielding path, carrying her load of sorrows to the distant sea, burying them in the ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.
A few moments more, and at the Gare d'Orléans 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."
A few moments later, at the Gare d'Orléans, we sent off our guy with his tip. We had plenty of time and nearly had the place to ourselves. "The train isn’t ready yet, sir," said a polite official. "Oh! Here it comes. I assume you won't be too crowded tonight."
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.
Good hearing, for a night trip on a crowded train without a reserved carriage is torture. We marked our seats, then strolled up and down the lit 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?
Presently, missing H. C., we turned and saw him at the end of the train checking out the last carriage. What did this mean? Clearly, some kind of trouble. The countless times we had saved him from women obsessed with marriage, from schemes, from his easily influenced self came to mind. Just a year ago, there was that close call at the hotel in Madrid with the woman who had married the Russian count. He saw us coming and greeted 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."
"Come and see," he said, putting his arm in ours. "But don't mess with the freedom of the subject. I won’t be controlled. You won't find me weak and compliant like in the past."
All this went in at one ear and out at the other, as the saying runs. Silence is the best reply to incipient rebellion.
All this went in one ear and out the other, as the saying goes. Silence is the best response to a brewing 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.
At the last carriage, the mystery was resolved. In one compartment, two beautiful women sat, ready for the train to depart so they could draw the blinds and get comfortable for the night. H. C. silently pointed to the sign, which read: For Smokers. Luck seemed to be on his side, as we rarely saw that sign on a French carriage. He then moved on to the next compartment. Three young men had entered and were laughing, chatting, and puffing clouds of smoke. This one was marked For Unaccompanied Ladies. H. C. had quietly swapped the metal signs and turned everything upside down. The occupants were completely unaware of the shocking thing that had just occurred.
"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 didn't have time for the theater tonight, but I was in the mood for some comedy," said H. C. "Now we have it right here, and without paying. I had such a hard time forcing the plaques into the grooves that they’ll never come out again. Here comes the inspector—definitely not someone to mess with; just the person we need for this. Let’s go 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.
We shivered as the great man came closer, every hair on our bodies standing up, the color drained from our faces. How we looked would have betrayed us. H. C., on the other hand, looked completely innocent.
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.
Suddenly, the inspector jumped, and we mirrored his reaction; his was one of shock and anger, while ours was pure, anxious fear. Then the door to the compartment flew open, and the scene unfolded. The inspector's deep voice resonated loud and clear.
"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."
"Gentlemen," in his deepest voice, "what is the meaning of this? How dare you enter a compartment reserved For Ladies Only, fill it with disgusting smoke, and disregard the rules of our organization? For this, gentlemen," growing angry and perhaps exaggerating his point, "I could fine you and summon you—and I believe I would be justified in turning you over to the Police Correctionnelle. Your actions are disgraceful—and undoubtedly intentional."
Instead of pouring oil upon troubled waters, the young men were combative and defiant.
Instead of calming the situation, the young men were aggressive and rebellious.
"Qu'est-ce que vous nous chantez là?" 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."
"What's that you’re singing to us?" said one. "Surely, my dear inspector, your eyesight is fading—time moves on, you know; or maybe you can't read; or you've eaten too much. But if you’re paying attention and take a close look at the plaque, you’ll see that it says: For Smokers. And we are smokers. My compliments to you, Monsieur the famous Inspector. Like Dumas, we are here and we’re staying."
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.
The inspector listened as more fuel was added to his anger. "We'll see about that," he said. "Come out right now and read it yourself." He grabbed the young man's arm. Since he was strong and the young man was weak, Dumas' famous saying crumbled along with him. In no time, he was on the platform and read the devastating 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."
"But it’s magic, it’s a miracle!" he exclaimed. "I can assure you, Inspector, that before we entered, I read the label myself—we all did. Anatole—de Verriers—I ask you to confirm this. It clearly stated For Smokers. No, oh no, I’m sure of it—and I have not eaten too well," he laughed despite himself. "For Ladies only! It’s just too funny. I assure you we want a peaceful night’s rest; we don’t want to be disturbed by the gentle snoring of the fairer sex. Someone has done this on purpose. Look, Inspector," he went to the next carriage and read the label: "see that? There are the innocent conspirators sitting calmly in the compartment. The ladies themselves are behind this. I was wrong to say it was an enemy, for aren’t we all friends of the lovely ladies? But believe me, they are the culprits. Notice how unaware they seem; it’s too natural to be genuine—it’s fake. Poor ladies! They might be nervous and want a little safety during this risky nighttime journey. Or maybe they actually like smoking. After all, it’s just a harmless little trick on their part to achieve a very innocent goal."
"Innocent, sir! harmless!" cried the outraged and perplexed inspector. "We will see!"
"Innocent, sir! Harmless!" shouted the shocked and confused inspector. "We'll 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.
He walked up to the compartment, swung the door open, spoke to the ladies firmly, as was appropriate for his position, but softened it with respect and admiration, as was fitting for a gentleman.
"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."
"How’s this, ladies?" he said to the surprised women. "Let me tell you that it’s not appropriate for women like you to intentionally get ready for the night in a compartment marked 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."
"What!" exclaimed the ladies in unison. "For Smokers? How horrific! Monsieur the Inspector, you must be crazy, or you’ve eaten too much—either one. For Smokers! Why, we are appalled by smoke. It makes me cough, it makes my friend sneeze, it gets into our hair, it ruins our skin. Monsieur the Inspector," shaking out their ruffled feathers, "this is a terrible accusation. We feel insulted. We will appeal to the stationmaster. You should admit right away that we had nothing to do with this, while the real culprits are surely those three young men laughing behind your back. You’ve attacked our reputation, and we will take action. When we boarded this compartment, it was labeled For Ladies Only, and if you check the sign with a clear mind, you’ll see it still says 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."
"Ma'am," replied the confused inspector, "I would appreciate it if you could step out and read for yourselves. No one will accuse me of enjoying a good meal without consequences; and no one, not even such charming women as you, will force me to apologize for a wrongdoing I 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.
Apparently, there was nothing else they could do. The ladies stepped down gracefully, aided by the brave yet unwavering inspector, and the inevitable words confronted them directly.
"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."
"But it’s magic, it’s a miracle!" they cried breathlessly, just like the young men had. "An enemy did this, Monsieur the Inspector, and those three young men are the enemy, probably treating it as a little joke. But if there’s any justice in this land, they will pay for it. It's nothing less than an outrage to our feelings. In the meantime, Monsieur the Inspector, to avoid delaying the train, please change the labels back to their correct positions, and put those three young men under 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."
"If this is the last thing we ever say, we're not to blame for this," the young men argued. "Mephistopheles is probably lurking around in disguise"—at this, we felt a nudge from H. C. and a whispered "Complimentary!"—"but we want to make it clear that we are not Fausts, and we have no reason to think that 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.
The furious women were left speechless with anger; they opened their mouths twice, but no sound came out. And since the train was about to leave, they had no choice but to go back to their compartment. The young men did the same. The doors were closed. The inspector tried to get rid of the offending labels. They wouldn’t budge. He used all his strength on them, but they were as secure as the stars in their orbits. If Mephistopheles had been involved, he had done a thorough job. The plaques might as well have been welded in place. The inspector used language that was far from polite. He felt confused and frustrated; the whole situation was just baffling.
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, scélérats! 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.
There was a shout from down the platform: "All aboard, gentlemen!" Our carriage was a little way off; we made our way up and got on, renting pillows for the night. The final doors slammed shut, and the train started moving. The ladies were in a compartment labeled For Smokers, while the three young men had the compartment Pour Dames Seules all to themselves. They must have been laughing a lot because the inspector shook his fist as they slowly pulled away; his gesture clearly conveyed: "There go the wrongdoers! Ah, scélérats! If only I had you in my grasp right now!" The young men must have understood it the same way, as the window was suddenly rolled down and three hands waved him a mocking goodbye.
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.
We drove off into the darkness. The lights of Paris faded and became vague, then disappeared completely. All the old familiar sights were gone, and when we crossed the Seine, not a single star was reflected in its deep, dark waters.
As the night went on we passed through the glorious country of the Orléanais, 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 Orléans, 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 Vendée. Porters in the darkness of night shouted "Orléans!" 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.
As the night went on, we traveled through the beautiful region of Orléanais, enriched by the waters of the historic and romantic Loire. Who could forget the charm of its ancient towns after experiencing their broad, winding paths? The glow around Orléans, the clear sounds of Tours, the stunning architecture of Loches—home to the Plantagenets—with its towers and churches visible even under the stars; and beyond Nantes, the gentle beauty of La Vendée. Porters in the darkness called out "Orléans!" and we felt like we were in the very heart of France, where nature is so generous that human effort is hardly needed to produce the earth's bounty. In these sunny regions live the happiest, most carefree of its people. The land easily provides them with their daily bread and wine. It's gathered without trouble and enjoyed without worry.
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 Veronnière, 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.
Night and darkness faded away. We were getting close to Bordeaux. Last year, around this same time, we found it shrouded in mist, met Monsieur le Comte San Salvador de la Veronnière, and marveled at how his small frame carried such a grand title. But the wind is gentle with the newly shorn lamb, and burdens fit the back that carries them. This time, there was no comte and no mist. We had watched the dawn break, and a beautiful sunrise turned fluffy clouds into fiery swords. The earth stirred to life, and the beautiful woods and forests, rich with ferns and bracken, were bathed in warm, rosy light as the sun rose 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.
Just before we got to Bordeaux, we made a discovery. A sudden urge prompted us to check our luggage ticket, and we were shocked to find it registered to Irun instead of Portbou. When we pulled into the bustling old station, we located the stationmaster and explained the issue. He was incredibly polite, and once again, we couldn’t help but compare the courtesy of the French officials to the less pleasant 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."
"This could have been serious," said M. le Chef. "I’m glad you figured it out in time. After Bordeaux, it would have been too late. You and your luggage would have ended up separated."
Then calling a porter, he handed him the ticket, bade him search the luggage-vans and bring away the numbers indicated.
Then he called a porter, handed him the ticket, and asked him to search the luggage cars and bring back the items listed.
"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."
"A little against the rules," said the Chef with a smile; "but life is full of unavoidable exceptions, and because we adhere to too much bureaucracy and refuse to acknowledge the necessity of exceptions, we create half of life's worries."
Evidently our Chef was a philosopher, and fortunately a man of common-sense.
Clearly, our Chef was a philosopher and, thankfully, 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."
Presently, the porter arrived. His search had been successful. The luggage was re-checked for Portbou, and we felt relieved to thank M. le Chef for saving us from an awkward situation. "Sir," he replied, with a polished French bow, "it's a pleasure to be of help, and I am always at your service."
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.
The train left the station and crossed the grand Garonne. Nothing about the river looked more majestic, with all the light of the sky and the blue of the heavens reflecting on its wide surface. Once again, we were dazzled by the rich splendor of the autumn colors. In the vineyards, the deep purple leaves still lingered on the branches. White farmhouses, with their green shutters and red-tiled roofs, along with strings of yellow corn, piles of pumpkins, and cantaloupe melons, stood out in sharp contrast to the landscape. Many a vine-covered porch cast its light and shadow on the walls and pavement. Many a field was picturesque with oxen plowing. A sturdy son of the South guided the plow, while a woman with a red or blue handkerchief tied around her head followed behind, sowing the seeds. All that was missing was twilight and the sound of the angelus bell to complete the scene's sense of 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.
All of this we discovered a year ago. Nothing had changed—it felt like just yesterday. But now we were shifting our course, heading east instead of west. Last year it was Irun and St. Sebastian; this time it’s Gerona and the bright, lovely Barcelona, forever linked with beautiful and beloved Majorca.
CHAPTER II.
A NARBONNE HOSTESS.
Carcassonne—In feudal times—Simon de Montfort—Canal du Midi—L'Âge 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'Allée des Soupirs—An unfinished cathedral—At the gloaming hour—Mystery and devotion—The Hôtel 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 chère France!"—Over the frontier—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetical incident—From the sublime to the ridiculous.
Carcassonne—In feudal times—Simon de Montfort—Canal du Midi—The Golden Age and the Great Monarch—A modern Golden Fleece—One of the earth's beautiful scenes—Choice of evils—Mr. Chief yields—Narbonne—A resourceful woman—The course of true love runs smoothly—Dinner of contract—Honey versus the honey moon—Madame's philosophy—The Path of Sighs—An unfinished cathedral—At twilight—Mystery and devotion—The Town Hall—A domestic drama—High festival and champagne—The next morning—H. C. feels remorse—Madame at her station—Heavenly breakfast—"You have to pay for your pleasures"—Dramatic exit—Perpignan—Home of the kings of Majorca—Elne—"Goodbye, my dear France!"—Over the border—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetic 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.
THE hours passed and the sun set, and we gazed at the magnificent 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 Béziers 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 Béziers: 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, Béziers himself dying in prison after great suffering.
Rising out of the plain, the great limestone rock was topped by this medieval fortress, its walls and round towers clearly outlined against the blue sky. These enclose a lifeless world surrendered to the poor and struggling. Its steep, narrow streets no longer echo with any hint of military glory. 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 newer than the twelfth century. Here in 1210, the crusader army led by Simon de Montfort laid siege, with the cruel Abbot of Cîteaux being the most relentless of the enemies. The massacre at Béziers had just occurred, with de Montfort eager to spill blood. Some managed to escape to this small City of Refuge, including the brave Vicomte de Béziers: one of those individuals who put their lives on the line to save others. The little fortress, unable to hold out, was taken, and once again, the massacre was horrific, with Béziers 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 mediæval monument in France.
A hundred and fifty years later, it successfully held its ground against the Black Prince, who, after spreading fear in the plains of Languedoc, had to retreat from these walls feeling defeated and humiliated. Today, they still stand as the most perfect medieval 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.
The new town sits in the flatlands, bustling quietly while the old one is silent and lifeless, modern and ordinary while the other is old and enchanting. Trees shade the streets, expensive fountains spray water during the hot summer days and nights, flowing streams create a musical atmosphere and mirror the blue 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 âge d'or when the literary firmament was studded with such stars of the first order as Molière, Corneille, Lafontaine, Bossuet, Fénélon, Pascal, and last, not least, Madame de Sevigné. 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.
On one side runs the great Canal du Midi, also known as the Canal des deux Mers, connecting the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. Two hundred and fifty years ago, it was one of the greatest engineering feats in the world, and it might never have been completed without the support of le Grand Monarque, a key figure in that âge d'or when the literary scene was filled with first-rate talents like Molière, Corneille, Lafontaine, Bossuet, Fénélon, Pascal, and last but not least, Madame de Sevigné. The reign was filled with glories and a series of remarkable events, with our own Marlborough playing a crucial role in decisive battles like 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.
This Canal du Midi, outlining Carcassonne, significantly boosted trade in Southern France. Although trade has declined with the changes in the world, the many barges moving back and forth with their sails catching the evening breeze and the setting sun still create one of the most unique and beautiful sights on Earth, full of calm tranquility. They carry corn, wine, and oil; luxurious cargoes led by many modern Jasons, transporting countless Golden Fleeces to the beautiful and thriving towns along its route between the calm shores of the Levant and the turbulent 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.
On the other side of town flows the River Aude, which also reflects the ancient outlines of Carcassonne in waters less calm than those of the great Canal. This river winds through a fertile valley filled with vineyards and olive trees, fig trees, and pomegranates; and here, crowds of people with health issues come to the mineral baths and waters, seeking remedies for their dietary mistakes or the misdeeds of their ancestors.
Our train rolled over both these waterways on its journey towards Narbonne.
Our train passed over both of these waterways on its way to 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.
By this point, we realized we had been given the wrong information about what time we would arrive in Gerona, our first stop, which just added another small mishap to our list. In Narbonne, we were lucky to find a friendly and helpful station master, just like the one in Bordeaux, who told us it was impossible to get to Gerona that day because there was no train service. We would have to spend the night in Portbou, the Spanish border, where our accommodations would be terrible, and all our good feelings would turn sour towards those who had led us astray.
We decided at once. "Better remain where there is a good inn, than go on to the miseries of Portbou, Monsieur le Chef."
We made our decision right away. "It’s better to stay where there’s a good hotel than to deal with the troubles 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."
"That’s clear," he said. "You’ll be comfortable here—and on French soil," he laughed. "That’s a good thing in my book, and I hope it is in yours too."
We willingly agreed. "But our luggage? It is registered to Portbou."
We agreed without hesitation. "But what about our bags? They're checked 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."
He looked serious. "That's unfortunate; it has to go to Portbou. I can't give it to you. It's against all the rules, and I really 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?"
"Still, we can’t be without it. If you send it to Portbou, we can’t be left behind. Do you have the heart to send 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."
He paused for a moment, considering the serious situation. "No," he finally laughed, "I can't do that, and for once I'll make an exception for you. Whatever happens, you can 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.
Then, in the most considerate way, he personally oversaw the situation, delayed the train until the luggage was located, and completed various forms needed for the next day's trip.
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.
We found very little in Narbonne that justified our change of plans, but the hotel was cozy and the lively landlady was a person worth observing. She was always on the move. It felt like she was everywhere at once, surprising everyone with her quick actions. A capable woman, she made her small world run smoothly, getting everything organized and up and running. If things started to slow down, she immediately used her boundless energy to get them moving 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."
To-day she was really determined, as she let us know, because she had a big wedding dinner to prepare. "Tonight is the diner de contrat, and tomorrow is the diner de noce. One hundred and fifty people will be sitting down for it, and I expect a lot of good cheer."
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.
Nor was she disappointed, if the noise we heard later was any sign of festive enjoyment. Loud laughter, applause, toasts made, good wishes shared—all indicated the mood of the gathered 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.
Madame had brought us into the banquet room to show that she could set her table beautifully. Glass and silver sparkled in the light; flowers filled the air with their fragrance; orange trees were placed in the corners, with fruit and blossoms mingling their charms. We asked who all this elaborate setup was for.
"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 mariés 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."
"The daughter of an innkeeper, with an impressive dowry, was marrying one of the most popular doctors in town. But it was truly a love marriage, not just a practical one. The couple was both charming. It was hard to decide who to congratulate more. In short, it was one of those rare moments in life when everything seemed perfect."
Madame was almost poetical in her enthusiasm. But she was no less practical, and it was wonderful how everything went smoothly under her guidance.
Madame was almost poetic in her enthusiasm. But she was equally practical, and it was impressive how everything went smoothly under her leadership.
"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.
"Narbonne, known for its honey." It felt like one of the geography facts we learned back in the day. "But where's the honey?" we asked during our own dinner, which Madame handled just as well despite the bigger event happening.
"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."
"You might wonder," she said, placing a nice bottle of local wine on the table, which she had just seen opened by one of her staff who was now darting around the room like a firework. "You might wonder, sir. No place has worse coal supplies than the coal merchant, and in Narbonne, we hardly see our own honey. Like the fish in a port city, it all gets shipped out, and you'll find more of it in Paris than here. But I'll see if I can dig up a jar from my supplies."
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.
Apparently, the quest was unsuccessful, since no honey showed up. Or maybe, while thinking about the lune de miel in the decorated banquet room, the more practical item was overlooked. With one hundred and fifty people on her mind, it’s no wonder small details were forgotten. Yet, Madame seemed like someone who remembers everything, capable of managing both large-scale organization and intricate details. She was a thin, wiry woman with a quick stride and light footsteps, dark eyes that missed nothing, yet she wasn’t harsh or overly demanding. We only heard her scold one of her waiters for the mistake 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."
"Don't leave anything till tomorrow that you can do today," she concluded with, "or you'll soon see the world moving ahead while you're lagging behind in the race. Those are the people who end up in poverty and can only blame themselves for it. That, sir," turning to us as we awaited instructions, "is why we can't really help what are called the poor. Some major flaw leads them to that situation—laziness, ignorance, or vice—and your assistance will never give them energy, knowledge, or virtue."
Then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter ordered to show us the way to the cathedral.
Then we were given the direction we asked for, and the confused waiter was instructed to lead us 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.
In the town, we found very little that was unusual or exceptional. It's old, with poorly paved and winding streets, and it hardly has anything that’s visually appealing or any Roman ruins. Still, it thrived as far back as the fifth century BCE, and by the first century, it was under Roman control, known for its theaters, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. Not a trace of these remains today.
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 Hôtel 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.
It was one of the major ports of the Mediterranean, which used to reach its shores but has gradually pulled back about eight miles. From one of the tall towers of the Town Hall, you can see the outlines of the Cevennes and Pyrenees on one side, while on the other, you can gaze at the wide blue waters sparkling in the sunshine, more stunning than a dream in their deep sapphire; you can count the white-sailed boats moving lazily back and forth across its shimmering surface; and on still, dark nights, when the stars are bright and huge, you can see the lights of fishing fleets gathered together and hear the gentle lapping of the endless sea against the shore.
On such summer nights the Allée 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 Héloïses, 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?
On summer nights, the Allée des Soupirs is a favorite stroll for people. Where does its sad, romantic name come from? Has it witnessed many sorrows? Do the ghosts of the past linger with deep sighs? Has it had its share of lovers like Abelard and Héloise, Romeo and Juliet? Has a sorrowful Atala been carried under its branches to a lonely grave, or has some Dante mourned his lost Beatrice here, or 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.
We didn't know, and turning away from it, we climbed the poorly paved streets toward the Cathedral—a Cathedral no longer, since Narbonne, once an Archbishopric, has lost its ecclesiastical status.
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.
As far as it went, we found it to be a beautiful, interesting, but incomplete Gothic building from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. There’s not much left beyond the choir—just a magnificent fragment, but still only a fragment. It could 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.
We entered for the second time at dusk, when its great height disappeared into shadows. A few lights around the church and on the altar added to the mystery. Some kneeling figures, still in their prayers, contributed a quiet emotion to the scene. From the end of the choir, it looked like a vast church that was incredibly impressive. An enormous nave with aisles, pillars, and vaulted ceilings could stretch behind us. That was the architect's intention, but his plans weren't realized. In reality, there was nothing. Just a few feet away was the narrow outer passage and the blank wall of the west front; but in the darkness, none of this was noticed. We only saw the magnificent choir, its towering height, graceful lines, groined ceiling, pointed arches, and slender pillars, all soaked in the mystery and shadow of a dim religious light from the few candles flickering like faint stars in the night. Some of the stained glass was beautiful, as we had seen earlier in the day, and much of the flamboyant tracery from the sixteenth century was quite good. There were many impressive tombs and statues.
The Gothic Hôtel 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.
The Gothic Town Hall nearby is partly modern. A section of it used to be the ancient Archbishop's Palace, and some of that still exists, especially the old towers. The courtyard has some interesting shapes, and the staircase leading to the museum is made of broad, solid marble. Once, the proud footsteps of a high-ranking clergyman would echo up and down these stairs and corridors, his head held high under the cardinal's red hat, while the rustle of silken robes in white and scarlet hinted at greatness and vanity. Now, it shines with the light of bygone days. All its pomp and pride have disappeared; dead, silent, and deserted, its glory has been passed on to Toulouse, which is 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.
We found the old woman who has the keys to the Museum. She lives in a room that feels almost underground, in a distant part of the building's garden, where, long ago, the Archbishop used to walk and think in the privacy of thick walls. Looking up, all you can see is the distant peaceful sky and the incomplete piece of the Cathedral. This wing is still a grey, ancient structure, quiet 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.
But in the quiet little lodge of the caretaker, hearts were still beating to the rhythm of life's small dramas. A minor argument was taking place. The woman was lecturing a young man, clearly her son. We couldn't tell what the issue was. Maybe it was about debt, and he had come to dip into the hard-earned savings tucked away in the chimney, which would have been quite shocking for the frugal mother. Perhaps he was announcing his marriage to someone who wouldn't be a good partner. Or maybe he was tired of his limited life and was begging to travel abroad and start fresh. Whatever it was, he left looking like he had his own burdens to carry. As he passed by, he greeted us with, "Bonjour, messieurs," and he was attractive with a pleasant voice. He had the demeanor of a sailor and was probably a fisherman from the nearby port eight miles away. Once he disappeared behind the trees, the old mother, who must have been quite attractive in her youth, took the keys and led the way up the wide marble staircase to the Museum. The evening shadows were creeping in, and our visit would have almost felt pointless if there hadn’t been anything else to do. It was too dark to make a fair judgment, but among a lot of clutter, we thought we spotted a few valuable old paintings.
Long after the sun had set and the afterglow had faded, we went back to the hotel and madame's hospitable attentions.
Long after the sun had gone down and the twilight had disappeared, we returned to the hotel and Madame's warm hospitality.
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.
She was determined that we wouldn't feel the pressure of the banquet. The entire hallway was now lined with orange trees, their shiny green leaves contrasting sharply with strings of red peppers she had creatively hung on the walls; so that from the entrance to the dining room, the guests would walk through a stunning avenue of peace and abundance. The effect was lovely. Nothing was more beautiful than the fragrant blossoms, richer than the deep green foliage, or more picturesque than the scented golden fruit hanging gracefully from the branches. As the night went on, the sounds of joy grew louder. Champagne flowed freely, leading to a lively atmosphere filled with clever banter. You could count on a hundred and fifty sons and daughters of sunny Southern France to make the most of their chance.
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.
We left them to their rituals, and soon the clock struck ten, the lights started to dim, and we realized that a sleepless night on the train can be pretty challenging. We said goodnight to madame le bonsoir, who moved around quickly like lightning but didn’t seem rushed or flustered. She politely returned our wishes with la bonne nuit; adding, with a dry sense of humor, that she was actually glad marriages weren’t an everyday thing—at least not from her hotel. While they might be profitable, they were exhausting.
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.
Next morning we got up before dawn. The man came in, lit our candles, and said it was time to wake up. We thought we had only slept for five minutes; the hours had gone by too quickly. Overnight we decided to take an early train and spend a few hours in Perpignan; a few hours of enforced waiting on our way to Gerona. After a considerable amount of knocking and shouting that could have woken the dead, H. C. finally got up, lit his own candles, and protested by going back to bed and falling asleep again. Fortunately, the man went up to his room half an hour later, and seeing the situation, he knocked over the fire-irons, tipped over a couple of chairs, and opened the window with a bang.
"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.
"Are those wedding people still going?” murmured H. C. in his dreams. “It must be past midnight.” Then he became fully aware and realized the extent of his wrongdoing; soon after, he came down for a late breakfast, feeling subdued and regretful.
Early as it was, madame was at her post, brisk and wide-awake as though yesterday had been nothing but a very ordinary fête-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.
Early as it was, the woman was at her post, lively and alert as if yesterday had just been an ordinary holiday. It was that awkward hour when the early morning light starts to filter in, and candles and gas lamps appear faint and eerie. The room looked cold and deserted; it had that post-party vibe that always feels so strange and unsettling. A white mist lingered over the outside 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.
Then the most comforting thing on earth made its grand entrance—a full teapot; and with the addition of tea bags, a great brew of the cup that cheers lifted our spirits. We were even welcomed into the inner workings of the place. In came the baker with a basket of warm rolls, giving off a delicious smell of fresh bread from the oven; and with some freshly churned butter—our last taste of it for a long time—we had an amazing breakfast. A few minutes later, the lady, all dressed up, came over to wish us safe travels, hoping we would visit Narbonne again. Nothing is certain in this world, or we would have told her it was a very unlikely 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."
"I need to go to the market," she said, "and the sooner I get there, the better my selection of groceries. Today, I also have my wedding dinner, so I need to be back early. Really, it's a hassle! Oh! They had a good time last night! I bet there are some serious headaches today, despite how good the wines were. Well! You have to pay for your pleasures."
"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?"
"But, ma'am, you are always on the move. You go to bed late—if you even go to bed at all, which we’re starting to wonder—and get up early. This morning, you look as fresh as a daisy. Do you have the secret to eternal youth?"
"Au revoir, on one condition, madame. That the next time we come you present us without fail with a pot of Narbonne honey."
"Goodbye, but only on one condition, ma'am. That the next time we visit, you must definitely present us with a jar 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.
Madame let out a scream, stepped back a couple of paces, hit her forehead in disappointment, and vanished suddenly into the street. The bus arrived, taking us and our belongings. Narbonne was behind us.
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 Corbières 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.
A short journey brought us to Perpignan early in the morning. The road was pretty uneventful, as the sunny South seemed to have pulled back its generosity here. We saw the low, bare outlines of the rocky Corbières and vast stretches of heath where bees collected the famous honey we weren’t allowed to taste. Here and there were enormous salt lakes, making the area look flooded and bringing illness to the neighboring regions. Years ago, while passing these endless lake areas at night, we marveled at their weird, solemn, mysterious quality. All you could see was a submerged world reflecting the stars, occasionally spotting the dark outline of a small boat with the glow of a low lamp shining across the water. And this morning, there was the blue Mediterranean to make up for everything else that was lacking.
Then Perpignan. This time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the baggage went on to Portbou to await our afternoon arrival.
Then Perpignan. This time we parted ways with our old sea dog; the luggage was sent ahead to Portbou to wait for our arrival in the afternoon.
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.
We felt we should check out Perpignan, and we had a fondness for it since it used to be the home of the kings of Majorca. But that was seven hundred years ago, and it has changed a lot under different rulers. For centuries, it was part of Spain, and it still looks more Spanish than French. It wasn’t until the mid-seventeenth century that Richelieu finally brought it into France. In the summer, its narrow streets are shaded with awnings, many buildings have Moorish architecture, and its houses feature the iron and wooden courtyards and balconies typical of Spain. Some streets have a picturesque, arched design, and every now and then, you find a stunning collection of rooftops with their red tiles, beautiful vines, and large creeping plants; but those are the exception. The city is heavily fortified, and some of the old gateways are quite interesting. In the past, these fortifications were necessary, as Perpignan was a key defensive point in the Eastern Pyrenees between Spain and France. The Cathedral is mostly known for its massive vaulted ceiling. It’s similar to that of Majorca, but not nearly as beautiful. Although it’s larger, Perpignan felt even quieter and more lifeless than Narbonne. We quickly saw everything it had to offer, and by the time we were ready to leave, it was just about time to go. We found ourselves in the large courtyard of the inn, watching the chef in his white hat and apron at a small table across the way, enjoying his dessert and taking a break, which ended with coffee and cognac. For that moment, he was a man of leisure and had earned his relaxation.
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.
There was no time to visit Elne, with its old Romanesque Cathedral and cloisters worth a fortune; our regret was intense as we passed it on the train and noticed its shabby appearance and stunning outlines rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century dream. This is where Hannibal camped on his way to Rome. This is where Constantine came and named it Elena in honor of his mother. This is where Emperor Constantine was murdered by order of Maxentius. This is where the Moors arrived in the eighth century, the Normans in the eleventh, and the kings of France in the thirteenth, fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all were 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.
And now it’s just a small, deserted town; grass grows in its streets, where complete silence prevails. As we left, we noticed how its sharp outlines stood out against the blue Southern sky, while beyond it stretched the sapphire waters of the Levant.
The train hurried on, and at Cerbère 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 Cerbère 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 bête noire of our wanderings.
The train sped on, and at Cerbère, we said goodbye to lovely France: a language that sounds like music to our ears; a people we genuinely care for. In just a few yards, we felt like we passed from one country, people, and language to another. At Cerbère, only French was spoken. A few minutes later, at Portbou, we spoke French to one of the officials, who listened until the end, shook his head, and gruffly said "No entiendo." We had entered Spain—land of slow trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, , but of romance and beauty. Once again, we thought fate was against us. Just as inevitably as the slippers appeared in the Eastern story, it seemed our luggage was destined to be the bête noire of our travels.
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."
"You want to go to Gerona," said the station master, "but your ticket only says Barcelona. If you stop in Gerona, your luggage will continue on to the next 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.
Again we protested—and again we succeeded. "This time I will give in and make you an exception," said the chef; "but you will face challenges at Gerona." All of this had taken time, and the train started moving as we got on.
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.
At eight o'clock, we arrived in Gerona, and even in the dark, we could see its stunning outlines and countless reflections in the river below. The station was chaotic. Crowds of people, both young and old, surged back and forth. Deafening shouts filled the air. What was going on, and what could it mean? We guessed correctly. Conscripts were leaving, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell celebration, which the conscripts joined in enthusiastically. On the platform, we nearly bumped into two sturdy old men, who stood out above the crowd. Each had clearly come to see off a son. One looked like a typical Catalonian, with strong features, a broad-brimmed hat, and an eye-catching outfit. His friend called him Pedro. They had likely grown up and aged together, passing on life, youth, and the world's legacy to the boys—who probably didn't think much about it.
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.
We entered the luggage room. "Oh!" exclaimed the porter, glancing at our tickets. "This is wrong and can't be accepted." Then 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!"
"Diablo!" the latter shouted impatiently. "Do you think I can deal with luggage on a night like this? Take it where the gentlemen want you to! Maldición!"
Saved once more. As we walked outside through the crowd, a deafening cheer went up.
Saved once again. As we walked outside through the crowd, a loud cheer erupted.
"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!"
"What could it mean?" said H. C. "Have they found out that I'm a poet, and this is just a little nice gesture from them? If that's the case, I have to say they are quite appreciative. Maybe my collection of Lyrics, dedicated to my aunt, Lady Maria, has been translated into Spanish and—uh!—is more popular here than back 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.
The shout was triggered by the sudden departure of the bus we had just boarded, causing H. C. to end up sprawled in a very ungraceful position. He picked himself up as if he were made of fragile china that had suffered some serious breaks, rubbed his sore knees gently, and quietly asked if we had brought some Elliman's embrocation.
CHAPTER III.
BLACK COFFEE—AND A CONFESSION.
Continued uproar—H. C. disillusioned—A dark night—Not like another Cæsar—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.
Continued chaos—H. C. feeling disillusioned—A dark night—Not like another Caesar—More crowds—A chaotic scene—Fair weather—Glorious days of the past—In marble halls and winding passages—Our wonderful host—His solid partner—Peaceful minds—Picturesque courtyard—Quiet nightingales—Conscription—H.C.'s humility—Our host appreciative yet personal—Carries the torch of talent—An error—Below the salt—Host's lovely daughters—Catalonian women—The Silent Enigma—Remarkable priest—Good intentions—Talk about black coffee—Confessions—Benjamin's portions—A talented 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.
OUR bus rolled away, and the results were in. The crowd kept cheering—a long and powerful sound. As we continued, the cheers faded gradually but never completely stopped. H. C. gathered his thoughts and glanced around. In the faint light of the bus lamp, we could see signs of doubt and disappointment on 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 Cæsar. 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."
"I’m starting to think this applause isn’t really for me after all," he said. "They wouldn’t keep shouting like crazy once we’re out of sight and hearing. The crowd would have followed us, taken the horses out of the bus, and pulled us to the inn, where I would have arrived like another Caesar. My volume of Lyrics deserves this recognition if they’ve captured all the passion and energy of its themes, the beauty of the language, and the charm of the rhythm and rhyme. Above all, my dedication to Lady Maria is a masterpiece of English writing and subtle flattery. I’m beginning to think there must be another reason for this display. And if it’s not a literary reception, then I’d call it a disgraceful riot."
"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!"
"Enthusiasm will get you through anything," said H.C. "If I were at a demonstration, I would help pull a coach up the Matterhorn, and either succeed or fail in the attempt. But these people clearly have some other goal in mind—organizing a raid on the train, declaring a republic, or something equally savage. What a really 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.
We looked outside. The stars were gone. The sky was cloudy and ominous. Our horses pushed forward and soon we entered the town. As we crossed the bridge over the river, we noticed an unusual crowd of people everywhere, with bright lamps and torches illuminating a sea of upturned faces caught in light and shadow that appeared strange and sinister, a constant murmur of voices, and ongoing 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.
What could it all mean? We expected to find Gerona, despite its 20,000 residents, nearly a ghost town, filled with remnants of the past, unaware of the present; a city defined by outlines, echoes, and visions of the Middle Ages. We looked down the tree-lined boulevard and felt that the very word was a violation of the buried centuries. The wide street ran alongside the river, and the trees lined up in quick succession. Inside and outside their shadows, a long row of booths dominated the scene, their blazing torches transforming night into day, paradise into chaos.
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.
A big fair took over the town, filled with visitors of all ages and a range of emotions. We complained about our bad luck in visiting Gerona during such a time, but it didn’t disrupt our comfort or impressions much. It had its own area and stayed within it.
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.
The bus rolled into narrower streets, without any sign of a fair, excitement, or blazing torches. Everything was perfectly quiet, just as the most devoted antique lover could wish for, when we arrived 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.
Most of the hotels in smaller towns in Spain have little to do with the ground floor of the building, often just a cold, dark, deserted hallway, sometimes leading to a stable yard. No one greets you, and you have to figure out how to get upstairs on your own. When there are multiple staircases, you probably take the wrong one. This time, we had only one option in front of us—broad white marble stairs that hinted at a much different past, filled with the grandeur and luxury of life, the glory of the world. At the top of this lavish staircase, our host welcomed us with a polite bow; throughout Spain, we never encountered a landlord who was more intelligent, knowledgeable, agreeable, or genuinely courteous. We were curious about his nationality. He didn’t look Catalan or Spanish at all, spoke excellent French, yet was definitely not French. When the mystery was cleared up, we discovered he was Italian. A man managing things very differently from our energetic hostess in Narbonne, who, full of energy herself, seemed to have the ability to electrify everyone else into constant activity.
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 ménage, but it was evident that without the father nothing would hold together for an hour.
Our host in Gerona was quiet and laid-back, as if he spent all day just resting and taking it easy. He never walked faster than a certain pace or raised his voice above a soft tone. Still, like a well-tuned machine, he kept everything running smoothly. There was no friction or noise, yet everything happened on schedule. He was the last to go to bed at night and the first to get up in the morning. A tall, thin, dark-skinned man, his face showed no signs of being impatient with life. If he hadn’t come into wealth (we didn’t know how that happened), tough times had clearly passed him by. He had discovered the secret to contentment and was a peaceful person. Still, he had raised a large family of sons and daughters and couldn’t have avoided care and responsibility. They now contributed to the household, but it was clear that without their father, nothing would hold together for even 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."
The youngest son, a tall, good-looking young man, had partially studied in Tours and spoke excellent French. His goal now was to spend two years in England to improve his command of the language, which he thought was pretty tough and primitive. "French," he lamented, "is pronounced pretty much the way it’s written; so are Spanish and Italian; I have those languages down. But English has made it as confusing as possible for outsiders. It’s even harder than Russian or Chinese."
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.
Our host's wife was plump, solid, and curvy, while her husband was the complete opposite. When her plain face lit up as she greeted guests from behind her little desk, she resembled a friendly Dutch housewife. Only a Frank Hals could have captured her essence. Her life appeared to have been filled with enjoyable moments, and she seemed to have gone through her days without any troubles.
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.
It was clear that our host was in a good mood. His walls were painted with landscapes, and since bright colors stood out more, he believed they were more uplifting than gray skies and dark shadows. Even the walls of his garden-court were decorated: a space used for many things, level with the first floor, bordered on one side by the kitchen and on the other by the dining room, at right angles to each other. It was a charming courtyard with a slight Italian vibe, probably thanks to the sunny landscapes. Orange trees and small eucalyptus trees were placed in large pots. The far end had a roof, with fine red tiles sloping down. Above these grew a large, lush vine producing rich clusters of grapes in season. Cages with captive nightingales and thrushes were hung under the eaves, looking anything but unhappy as 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."
"In the spring, they sing beautifully," our host said, clearly full of kindness and joy as he looked fondly at his birds. "Sometimes I hang them outside our front windows, and day and night, the street is filled with the nightingales' song. You can close your eyes and imagine you're deep in a forest. I've often done that and dreamed I was back in my home in Italy, listening to the birds on one side and the sound of the Mediterranean on the other. That's one reason why I love and keep them. They bring back memories 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.
Pigeons and doves walked around the yard, and were clearly regarded as almost as sacred as those at St. Mark's, since they were as fearless as if the days of the millennium had finally arrived.
The Boulevard: Girona.
"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 fêtes, which bring us visitors from all parts of the country. Nevertheless we may be full to-morrow."
"Since you didn't telegraph ahead, you're lucky to find a place to stay, gentlemen," he said, lighting candles and leading us to his best rooms. "Last year at the fair, we were completely booked—not a single spot to spare. This year, we have plenty of space, mainly because the town council didn't organize the usual festivities that attract visitors from all over the country. However, we might be fully booked by tomorrow."
"It is an annual fair, then?"
"It’s a yearly fair, right?"
"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."
"Definitely, and one of the most famous in Spain. Tonight is the first night, and tomorrow is the first day. This day and the next are relatively calm; the day after, the horse and cattle fair starts, and the whole town fills up with a rough, loud crowd. You probably wouldn’t find them pleasant."
"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."
"In that case, our visit to Girona has to end within forty-eight hours. The train that brought us here tonight will 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.
"Where it’s more civilized but you won’t be more welcomed," 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.
The hallways were covered in stone, and the ceilings were high. We turned into a narrower hallway on the right and peeked into the yard, where our renowned bus rested; the horses had been taken out and were walking toward their stable. This hallway led to a living room, from which one of the bedrooms opened; our host had provided us with his best room. After setting one of the candles down and lighting more, he turned to check that everything was in order. We opened the window and looked out at the main street—long, narrow, and nearly dark. Electric lights scattered here and there offered little illumination. "Why is it like this?" 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."
"Because we get our power from the river, and right now the river is nearly dry," he said. "So they have to use a machine, and the machine isn't strong enough to light up the whole town. That's why I don't have it in the hotel. One day we have light, the next total darkness. It’s better to stick to the old method."
"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."
"There was a huge disturbance at the station," we said; "we heard it had to do with the draft. At one point, we thought they were going to attack the bus."
"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."
"You were right to be aware," said the landlord; "it's the draft. Fathers, brothers, and cousins have gathered to see the guys off. Generally, they all come back eventually, like counterfeit money; but who knows this time? Since they're just fresh recruits, many could get sent off to Cuba, with little chance of ever returning home. Fortunately, they're more excited about the change in their lives and surroundings than they are sad about leaving. The noise, as you mentioned, could sound like a riot; without exception, Spaniards are the loudest people in the world, but it means nothing. It's just the froth of champagne, and when it calms down, there's good wine underneath."
"Are the people of Gerona poetical?" asked H. C., rather anxiously.
"Are the people of Gerona poetic?" asked H. C., a bit nervously.
"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."
"Poetry, sir?" with a confused look. "Are you asking if they write poetry, like Dante and Shakespeare? You're giving them too much credit."
"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——"
"No, you can't really expect that from them. But do they read and appreciate other people's poetry? There was a moment when I thought that crowd at the station was a tribute to——"
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.
H. C. paused and looked down modestly. Our sharp landlord instantly understood what he meant. We always noticed that he had a knack for picking things up intuitively; two words of explanation from him were worth twenty from anyone else.
"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——"
"Ah, I get it. You, sir, are a poet, and at first, you thought this wild crowd was celebrating you. I’m afraid I have to set the record straight—though you probably figured it out already. I hope it wasn't a harsh realization. Still, I'm delighted to meet an English poet. I once saw and talked to Mr. Browning in Italy. He didn't look like a poet to me at all. You imagine a poet as someone with a pale face, dreamy eyes, long hair, and a lost demeanor. Mr. Browning was the complete opposite of that. Now you, sir, with that beautiful gaze and distant expression looking into nothingness——"
H. C. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing a little personal.
H. C. nodded in acknowledgment; our host, although flattering, was becoming a bit too 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?"
"You've lost your poet-laureate," he went on; "and no one has been appointed to take their place. I read the newspapers and keep up with the major events in every country; even though I live apart from the world, I need to know what’s happening out there. Maybe, sir, you'll 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."
"Not right now," H. C. said, blushing as a vision of future greatness appeared in his mind. "I hope to be eventually. Right now, I'm a bit too young to carry the weight of the laurel wreath, which rarely rests on an unwrinkled forehead."
"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——"
"There’s a rhythm to your writing," the landlord said quietly, appreciating it. "The truth will come out. But, sir, even as a poet, you’re still human; I assume this is true despite your delicate appearance and ethereal demeanor. I’m reminded that time moves fast when we talk, and dinner will be ready before we know it. In England, as a poet, you probably dine on butterfly wings and fresh 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."
"On the contrary," H. C. exclaimed quickly, "I have a great appetite and love hearty meals. I’ll leave the crystallized violets and peach blossoms to my aunt, Lady Maria. Just like George III, my favorite meal is boiled mutton and apple dumplings; and like the king, I’ve never figured out how the apples get inside the pastry. But that doesn’t change how delicious they are. So, if you don’t mind, let’s get ready for dinner. Do you prefer French or Spanish cuisine? Oh, I’m indifferent. It’s just a matter of butter versus oil, and both are tasty."
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.
Then they walked away in a two-person procession, with the landlord holding the torch. "Let's think of it as the torch of genius," he said, "and I'm proud to carry it. But I think, sir, it should be in your hands." After that, we could only hear their footsteps fading away.
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.
The scene shifted to the dining room. At first, we headed to the wrong room that was for the less privileged, both inside and outside. Here, the landlord and his family also had their meals; and once or twice, glancing as we passed by, it was enjoyable to see how madame's round, robust face and generous form were fully enjoying the delicious spread on the festive table. Her husband and kids didn't resemble her at all; they were all quite like Pharaoh's lean cattle: she could have easily sheltered them all under her wide wing.
We were rather horrified on entering. A few curious looking people, very much sans gêne, 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 pretty shocked when we walked in. A few odd-looking people, completely at ease, were sitting at a messy table. Even H. C.'s big appetite would have vanished at the sight. From a door leading to the kitchen came sounds of sizzling and frying along with delicious smells. The chef and his helpers were darting around 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.
We were starting to believe that after everything had gone awry, the landlord showed up at the door, swooped in on us, and ushered us off the property.
"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."
"That's not for you, sir," he said. "We have to have two rooms. Some guests will neither pay fair prices nor follow good manners, and we put them below the salt, as I've read in some of your English books. I tolerate them because it wouldn't be feasible for me to have three rooms. And then we eat when nobody else is eating, and all the waiting and running around is over for the moment. Running a hotel is definitely not an easy job."
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.
Saying this, he led the way to a large, agreeable room, its walls decorated with the sunny landscapes already described. If the perspective and colors were a bit odd, we just had to remember that variety is charming, as H. C. pointed out, and flaws could be seen as virtues. The room was brightly lit with gas, regardless of what was happening outside; we weren’t invited to a dark meal. The tablecloths were pristine white. Our host's daughters waited quietly and gracefully, dark-eyed and attractive young women, with a mix of Italian and Spanish flair, leading us to think that their plump mother was likely 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.
Throughout Catalonia, we noticed that women, once they reach a certain age—not necessarily old age—tend to become excessively overweight. Time and again, a little guy, lean, wrinkled, and short, would enter a dining room followed by a huge wife, who would come crashing down beside him like a Himalaya mountain on a sand hill. They would sit at a table, the woman arranging herself with great difficulty, while the little husband looked up at his large wife with admiration, as if she were the Venus de Milo come to life, arms, legs, and a decent outfit included. Normally, the body adapts to its weight, but here everything was flipped—the wife's broad shoulders had to carry 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.
There were no hefty ladies in the dining room tonight. At different parts of the long table sat about eight or ten people from various countries. Across from us were two Englishmen separated by a Spaniard. They were part of the same group but didn't say a word from the time they arrived until they left. Occasionally, they shot glances at each other when passing a dish or the local wine, which was served freely. We never figured out what their silent agreement or conflict was; every meal, they stuck to their quiet routine, which became almost uncomfortable. A couple of times, we wondered if they were maybe disguised monks of La Trappe, but we dismissed that thought as unlikely. The Englishmen, at least based on their expressions, definitely didn't seem devoted to fasting and penance. They were young, and life had attractions that were totally at odds with solitary cells and midnight masses. 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.
Not far away sat a priest who had probably helped celebrate many midnight masses, both in and out of a monastery. He was the most interesting person at the table, tall and distinguished-looking, with flowing white hair, a strikingly handsome face, and a magnificent head. The serving style was different from most hotels. Instead of passing dishes around, each person or group had their own dish placed in front of them, from which they could take as much or as little as they liked. We weren’t sure if the priest served as a father confessor to the ladies of the inn or if they simply had a deep respect for his position, but he always received a generous portion and sent most of it away untouched.
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.
Also, it was clear that he could judge others. The next day at lunch, he sat next to us. We were dealing with headaches, which made life feel like a burden. Serious illnesses need strong treatments. We ate dry bread and drank several cups of black coffee mixed with brandy; the brandy was half a century old and almost as smooth as milk, its healing properties unmatched. The priest sat next to us, and we almost resented him for not leaving an empty chair between us, when there were plenty of empty chairs around. The Silent Enigma at the far end of the table was quite a distance away. With our second cup, the priest looked worried; with our third, he looked disapproving; by our fourth and last cup, he could hold back no longer. But those four cups were only equal to two regular 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.
Possibly the priest thought being older gave him special rights. He was probably also impulsive and, like many people, often said and did the wrong things. But he was clearly driven by a genuine desire to help others, aiming to fix the world if he could achieve the impossible. Looking at us intently, he spoke, and then we realized he was French.
"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."
"Monsieur," he said in his own language, "that drink is really dangerous, bad for digestion, and harmful to the nerves. If I see anyone taking another one, even if it seems intrusive, I can’t hold back from speaking. When I reach the fourth cup, I feel they're in danger. And let me tell you why—I speak from experience. I once almost succumbed to that deadly temptation; for me, it was more often strong liquor without coffee than with it. For a while, it was a struggle between the temptation and my better judgment. Then there was a time when I felt miserable, going back and forth between giving in and fighting back. Eventually, I made a stronger commitment and vowed that if I found the strength to overcome this, I would dedicate my life to the Church. Soon after that, I fell seriously ill; I was on the verge of death. Weeks and months went by, and when I recovered, I found the temptation gone; I couldn't even stand the sight of brandy, with or without coffee. Remembering my vow—I was quite young back then—I decided to enter the Church; and here I am. And now, sir, I apologize for talking so much about myself and for sharing a little story from my life, even if this isn't quite the right time or place for it."
The good priest shook his head doubtfully.
The good priest shook his head in doubt.
"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."
"A dangerous remedy, sir. But now, I'm curious about you. I appreciate the friendly way you've taken my little sermon. Many would get angry and tell me to mind my own business. You've sparked my sympathy and invited my trust. Let me confess that I came here to talk. My life has been unique, both in the Church and before it: full of lessons. If you have an hour to spare before heading to bed tonight, I will share some events from my very eventful career. You might find it contains many wonders. Even if it's late, it won't be too late for me. I never go to bed before three in the morning, and I'm always wide awake by seven. Four hours of sleep in a twenty-four hour period is all I ever get. I have reason to believe I’ll soon be offered the next vacant position in the Church: I could point to the exact spot, and my sleepless nights will allow me to do much work. I hope to be granted wisdom and judgment. But what am I doing?" he straightens up. "Talking as if I’ve known you forever; sharing my trust, revealing my secrets! What power are you wielding? What does it mean? Sir, you must be a hypnotist, and I’ve fallen into your trap. Yet, no; I feel I'm not mesmerized, and you can be trusted. Yes, I’ll say again that if you give me an hour this evening, even if it’s the dead of night, I’ll share strange experiences with you that until now have been kept hidden inside me. And why not? My life is my own; I have the right to keep or share whatever I choose."
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.
The priest's words made us feel a bit uneasy. We didn't want to have any unwanted influence over anyone, especially not a stranger. Sharing secrets isn't always a good thing; but we realized that sharing doesn’t have to mean confessing. The experiences of even a simple life can be valuable, let alone those of an active, thoughtful, observant, and philosophical person in the world.
There was something unusually attractive about our priest. He possessed great refinement of face; a profile that reminded us of the fine outlines of Père 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?
There was something unusually charming about our priest. He had a very refined face; a profile that reminded us of Père Hyacinthe as we had seen him many times in a Paris pulpit, preaching with so much passion, energy, and belief, leading a crusade against the mistakes and pretenses both inside and outside the Church. When our current neighbor was a bishop, would he also stand for what is right and denounce what is wrong?
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 Père 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.
We looked closely and thought Nature hadn’t overlooked her power. As mentioned before, his long, flowing hair was white; his head was beautifully shaped; there was a resonance and richness in his soft voice that could reach the farthest corners of Notre Dame. We asked ourselves the question but couldn’t find an answer. The future keeps its own secrets and doesn’t share. But we were oddly intrigued by Père Delormais—to make a small but notable change to his name—and we promised him an hour, two hours if he wanted, and even found ourselves eagerly anticipating the meeting with curiosity and impatience. And this was the effect 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.
But all this happened on the second day. On the first night of our arrival, we didn’t need either of those things. The priest sat across the table from us, and we only noticed his distinguished look and Benjamin's servings. However, it was clear that he had been watching us closely. The Silent Enigma had caught our attention and sparked some curiosity, but that faded quickly. The other scattered guests didn’t stand out at all.
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—Mediæval dreams.
Wrong turns—H. C.'s talents and skills—Out at night—The arcades of Gerona—At the fair—Ancient shapes—Demons at work—In the dry riverbed—Roasting chestnuts—Medieval shapes—In the whirlwind—Psychics and lion trainers—Clown's despair—Deserted streets—Vision of the night—Haunted staircase—Dark and dangerous—A minor grievance—The reeds by the river—Cry of the watchmen—Hare and hounds—Fair Rosamund—Jacob's ladder—New interpretations of old proverbs—Cathedral at night—H. C. unaware—Scent fades—Return to reality—Romantic story—Last of a long line—El Sereno!—The witching hour—H. C. uncelebrated—Next morning—Grey skies—A false prophet—Magic picture—Cathedral by day—Medieval 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.
DINNER ended, we went to our rooms to get ready to explore the town. These rooms could only be reached through a maze of hallways, and until the very end, we were always taking wrong turns. H. C. had not only a great sense of direction but also a talent for rhyme, and we often had to call him from some faraway room to save us, joking that it was a bit unfair for him to have all the skills. He would graciously respond that we should be grateful for the small things, adding with great humility that all his talents and abilities, which were beyond our understanding, were offset by a sense of heavy 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.
We left the hotel with our curiosity sparked. It was very dark. No stars were shining; a small barometer indicated rain. Where we found openings in the streets, the sky above was lit with a harsh glow, reflecting the countless torches at the fair. Our own street was relatively dark.
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.
Strolling wherever fate took us, we arrived at some impressive arcades, deep, sturdy, and serious. Few towns in Spain have arcades like Gerona; they are so picturesque and well-built that time may soften them but hardly destroy them. Tonight, they weren't completely impenetrable; a little of the light from the sky or the fair—the latter being unseen but close by—seemed to faintly illuminate their shadows and add a sense of mystery to the beautifully arched shapes. They were deserted, not a soul in sight, and the shops were closed. There's no time like night and darkness for dramatic outlines and impressions.
ARCADES: GIRONA.
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.
A few steps further on, we suddenly came upon the full spectacle of the fair. Not the brightness of the sun or moon, but the glow of smoking torches and vibrant flames flickering in the wind. We could see them as far as our eyes could reach. The houses, with their unique shapes and iron balconies shaded by swaying trees, stood out clearly. A double stream of people wandered back and forth, stepping on each other's heels. At one booth, a Dutch auction was happening— a major attraction of the evening.
VIEW OF GIRONA 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.
We stood on the bridge and looked down at the riverbed. Just as our host had said, the water was really low. The stream had narrowed and half the bed was dry. Here and there, big fires were burning brightly, and men danced around them, looking like demons as the flames flickered and lit up their serious faces. They were roasting chestnuts, and as each batch was done, it was taken up to the fair to be quickly devoured by the boys and girls tonight, who were the kings and queens of the evening. Every dog has its day, and it was their time to shine. They had to make the most of it. Tomorrow, the celebrations would fade. When the clock struck twelve, Cinderella would go back to her rags and sit by the fireplace. Black Monday always comes. Every stall displayed nothing but toys, from kid-sized knives that could take off fingertips to tempting-looking purses that were a painful reminder of 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.
As we stood on the bridge, all the light and glare highlighted the beautiful houses that rise straight from the river, so that its waters wash their foundations—and at very high tides, they even lap at the ground-floor windows, a visitor more free than welcome. This doesn't happen often, but it has occurred. We could just make out their amazing outlines and their oddly charming, old-fashioned appearance; and we patiently waited for the morning and the wonders it would unveil.
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.
Plunging boldly into the crowd, we were swallowed up in the chaos. It was quite confusing. Everyone seemed to just walk back and forth in a never-ending flow, munching on chestnuts and blowing toy trumpets. Tonight, at least, the stalls were almost ignored. Maybe they hadn’t had time to soak in the excitement, and tomorrow the rewards 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.
At the end of the long street, we left behind the lights, stalls, and crowd. We arrived at a charming corner that cleverly led to another bridge. We crossed it and soon found ourselves in the large market square, which had a completely different vibe. Here, the performances had set up shop, and everyone was trying hard to entertain a disinterested crowd. It was the usual scene. The learned pig, the two-headed lady, the guy who drew portraits with his feet, the fortune teller who promised wealth and marriage, the lion tamer who stuck his head in the lion's mouth, the captivating ballet, where ladies and gentlemen spun and showed love through silent gestures: these attractions were enthusiastically promoted to the amazed crowd. A clown tried in vain to be funny, shouting until he lost his voice and blowing a trumpet until his face turned red. Bells rang and drums beat—the crowd remained unresponsive.
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?
We left them at it, not swayed by the unknown. Our day for entertainment and tricks was done. This wasn't what we had envisioned for beautiful, ancient Gerona. If we felt a bit resentful, who could blame us?
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.
Right now, we found ourselves in the darkness of night at the edge of the river. There was more water here, with no dry ground in sight. Off to the left, as far as we could see, lay the open countryside. Tall trees, shadowy and mysterious, swayed and rustled behind us. Clearly, this was one of the public parks or walking areas that exist just outside many Spanish towns, a refuge from the midday sun and evening glare; a paradise for those restless souls who wander to the music of young love's dreams; promises of eternal loyalty scribbled more or less in the 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.
The water looked cold, calm, and peaceful. Reeds grew along the shore, and the wind whispered through them. Pan was playing his pipes. Lights sparkled from the windows of many houses by the river. A bright glow still hung in the sky, and beneath it, off to our right, we could see the amazing outlines of the town. Above all, towering up like giant creatures, stood the spires of the cathedral and other churches. The scene was almost otherworldly in its dark, grand mystery. Far down on the dry riverbed, the chestnut-roasters danced around their fires like demons. No clown needed to shout about the quality of their goods; demand matched supply, and both were endless.
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.
We barely knew how we got here or how to get back again. Instinct usually leads the way in situations like this and rarely fails, unlike in the midnight streets of Toledo. But even a magician would get lost in those tight alleys, which all look alike and have no clear layout or order.
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.
To-night it was easier going. Far away, we heard the clown inviting people to his feast of delicious food. Like a siren in stormy weather, it guided us on which way to go and what to avoid. We passed along the edges of the curious crowd and found ourselves on the bridge: the dark bridge, with the river flowing below, the houses rising in a huge, impenetrable mass, and the distant chestnut vendors at their work.
Oñar Riverbanks: Girona.
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.
The evening was getting late; a nearby church clock chimed ten. This shifted the direction of one's thoughts, which had merely been flowing along with the scene in front of 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."
"Let's go to the cathedral," H. C. said. "That way we'll have two experiences instead of one. I always prefer to see a significant building at night first. The view the next morning is so different that it feels like 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.
This was true enough; but how do we get to the cathedral and back to the hotel? We didn’t want to go through that Toledo adventure again. The story of the Babes in the Wood is only entertaining to those who hear it.
"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."
"Evidently a very different town from Toledo," replied H. C. "We just have to climb the hill to get to the cathedral. Let’s play Hare and Hounds. I’ll drop pieces of paper as a trail. Or like Hop o' my Thumb, I'll scatter stones on the path."
"Wouldn't a silken thread be more poetical?"
"Wouldn't a silk thread be more poetic?"
"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."
"True; but," with a deep sigh, "there's no Fair Rosamund at the end of it. Here, we can only admire the past. Rosamund wasn't from the past."
"But this has one great virtue; it can never disappoint or play you false. And, rare merit, its charms increase with age."
"But this has one great advantage; it can never let you down or deceive you. And, a rare quality, its appeal grows stronger with time."
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.
Again, he sighed deeply. He had faced many disappointments, but he brought them on himself. Butterflies flit from flower to flower, until eventually they settle on a nettle and get stung: a little metaphor that always goes over H. C.'s head. The ability to truly understand themselves is still out of reach for humans.
"Leading to Paradise," said H. C. "Let us take it."
"Leading to Paradise," said H. C. "Let's go for it."
"Would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?"
"Would you be able to enter with all those broken promises weighing on 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.
The Oracle was silent. With a daring leap, we started the climb: a tough ascent with steep walls surrounding us; twists and turns and winding paths and rough, uneven steps; a true pilgrimage.
"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to him who climbs. I like to vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed."
"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to those who climb. I like to mix up our sayings; the old ones get worn out."
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.
As he talked, we stumbled upon a hidden left turn; it was short, straight, and clearly had a purpose. We took it without hesitation and soon found ourselves in a plaza, with the cathedral on one side and the Bishop's palace at a right angle.
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.
On this occasion, we weren’t rewarded with any impressive views. The cathedral is only famous for its interior. All the doors were locked and barred. We knocked to get in. These amazing buildings should be open at night just like during the day, and some of their best features are lost due to this strict rule. But we knocked in vain; all we got were eerie echoes in response. Ghosts can pass through doors; we’ve never heard of any friendly ghost actually opening them for the living. We knocked on the great south doorway—the Apostles' Doorway—and in the darkness, we could barely see its beautifully recessed arch. Above the cathedral stood its lone pagan tower, shadowy and surreal 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.
A wide, stunning, seemingly endless flight of steps, like few cathedrals have, faced the west front. Tonight, we couldn't see anything beyond the town and river, even though we knew the vast countryside and distant Pyrenees were out there. We would have to wait until morning to see it all. But we wouldn’t have to wait long, as night and time were speeding by. The brightness had faded from the sky; the shows and booths had turned off their lights; the crowd had gone home. Gerona could now truly be compared to a ghost town.
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.
No noise broke the silence except for the cries of the watchmen scattered around the town. One announced the time and weather, while another continued the story; at times, a jarring duet filled the air. We heard it all clearly from our fortress above the world.
Apostles' Doorway, Cathedral: Girona.
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.
As we watched, one of them slowly walked by at the bottom of the long flight of steps—steps almost as wide as the cathedral itself. His staff hit the ground, and his light cast shadows on the houses. The effect was eerie. Heavy footsteps echoed back and forth through the narrow streets, perfectly matching his monotonous chant. We had long gotten used to these old watchmen, who come burdened with a sense of history. They fit in with these towns that have ancient outlines, reminding us of days when even the faintest flicker of an oil lamp only made the darkness seem more terrifying; days when their job was not the easy one it is now, but filled with 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.
The cathedral clock chimed eleven, and as the last faint vibration faded away, we turned to leave. It felt like we had been awake for ages since we got up in the dark on that misty morning in Narbonne. H. C. had been jolted awake like a volcano erupting, and madame, wishing us a good journey over our tea and hot rolls, vanished into the mist in a flash to finalize her diner de noce.
"Now for Hare and Hounds, H. C. Lead the way."
"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."
"By the beard of Mohammed! I completely forgot about it and haven't written anything down."
"So the scent has failed?"
"Did the scent not work?"
Remorse made him silent for a moment. Then he tried to turn the tables.
Remorse made him quiet for a moment. Then he tried to flip the situation.
"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."
"After all, it was your fault. What you said about the silken thread and Fair Rosamund made me think about how amazing it would be if that romantic adventure could actually happen. Naturally, everything else slipped 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 need to make the best of it, H. C., and head back to the hotel as soon as we can. What if we change things up a bit? Those stairs look inviting; let's 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.
We went down the endless stairs, turned, and looked back. We saw a church in the clouds and a pagan tower that disappeared from view. We had come back to reality, and not far away, the old watchman was still bringing shadows and echoes to life in the narrow street. We couldn't do better than follow him, and soon we found ourselves in our charming little octagonal corner. Everything was good.
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.
The once-busy street was now abandoned. The stalls were closed, and the lights were off. It felt like a deserted banquet hall. The chestnut sellers had left their pans and baskets, but they were all empty. The riverbed was silent; the lively spirits had gone, and the smoke from their incense still rose from the dying embers. Next, the old arcades stood darker, lonelier, and more mysterious than ever. We knew they faced our street, and turning our backs to them, we found ourselves at the hotel in just a few moments.
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.
Only a couple of old security guards broke the silence, meeting at their boundaries. They stood on the pavement chatting closely, and we wondered if they were up to no good; then they shone their light on us, and no doubt returned the favor. We disappeared into the large doorway and left them to their thoughts.
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.
Up the wide staircase, the white marble shimmered in the light of the single electric lamp that still illuminated the courtyard. We thought about the lavish crowds that had moved up and down over the centuries; elegant ladies in flowing silks and dashing gentlemen with clanking swords; all the splendor and beauty of that once-ducal palace. The staircase felt haunted by ghosts and shadows, the whispers of voices, echoes of laughter, and the sound 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.
And now, in a soft and misty glow, a stunning couple stood close to each other. His arm wrapped around her waist, and her delicate white hand rested affectionately on his tunic. The love in her eyes matched the intensity and steadiness of his. Yet, a sense of sadness lingered, as this was their farewell meeting. She was the last daughter of the ducal family, the final member of her lineage. They were engaged, and their journey of true love had been smooth. But now, he was called to fight for his country and would leave at dawn.
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.
He never made it back and died on the battlefield. In his gloved hand, they found a golden lock of hair tightly held, and next to his heart was a small portrait of his gorgeous fiancée. Both were buried with him. She soon faded away and reunited with him in a place where wars and separations don’t exist. Their house and name disappeared. As we reflected on this, suddenly the staircase seemed filled with sighs, and the lights dimmed.
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.
We moved on and discovered the hotel empty and abandoned. Everyone had gone to bed, leaving the long, dark corridors in silence and solitude. We lit candles and H. C. guided us through the maze to our rooms. The windows were open, and the two old watchmen below were exactly where we had left them, seemingly still looking at the doorway we had vanished through.
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.
They looked up and wished us good night. We weren’t troublemakers after all. So they parted with a clear 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.
It wasn’t really necessary, because another watchman announced the time with a loud bell. Midnight slowly chimed across the town from all the churches. It was hard to believe an hour had passed since we were at the top of those vast stairs looking out into the darkness. How did we make our way back? Where did the time go? You get caught up in these nighttime visions, dark shadows and shapes, and time slips away without you noticing. We counted the chimes, listened to the echoes, and then H. C. headed off to his own place. The watchmen were fine in their way, but for him, an open window and a love serenade—like the one we’d enjoyed in Toledo—had way more appeal. Tonight, passionate calls and the sound of the lute were nowhere to be found. Every window was closed and dark. We also said goodnight 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.
The next morning came as expected, but not with hope. Heavy rain had fallen overnight, and dark clouds hinted at more to come. For now, though, they had called a temporary ceasefire.
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.
We went outside and felt that the gray sky matched the gray tones of the town. However, Spain really needs sunshine to reveal all its colors and vibrancy. Under dark clouds, it mostly comes off flat and lifeless, with its best features hidden.
"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."
"The rainy season has started," said H. C. "We're in for a period of wet weather. Usually, it comes in September. This year, it's been kind enough to wait until November. Just my usual bad luck."
"I fear it is so," said José 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."
"I think you're right," said José, our host's son, who, as we've mentioned, volunteered to show us around the town and share its hidden gems—excited to practice his French and teach us some Spanish. "We have a local weather expert who's never been wrong; a great meteorologist. He just wrote to the newspapers to say we're in for a month of heavy rain."
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.
It would be unfair to start, at the end of a chapter, on the amazing sights of the town that greeted us at every step and corner; however, we have to mention one experience before we finish. Let’s close our eyes, take off into the air, and land at the top of that huge 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.
We see this morning what was hidden in darkness last night. The town is mainly to our left. We overlook a sea of red and gray roofs. To our right are the old walls with their gates, round towers, and uneven shapes. Close to us is a church tower, elegant, octagonal, and beautifully designed; but the top part of its spire is missing, so 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.
Low down beyond the town is the river, winding through a beautiful countryside. We can even see the reeds and rushes along its banks, but we can't hear their murmur like we did last night. If Pan is still playing his pipes, it's just for 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.
In the distance, the Pyrenees rest in beautiful, long waves. Their outlines are simply stunning. Some peaks are capped with snow, standing out pure and white against the gray skies. It's a magical scene, and we wish to see it in the sunshine. No surprise that Pan is quiet.
We turn to the cathedral. No need to knock this morning. The great west doors are unlocked and we enter.
We head to the cathedral. No need to knock this morning. The large west doors are unlocked, and we go inside.
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.
The first thing that hits us is a deep darkness; a faint religious light that feels richer than we’ve seen in any other sacred building. But today, the gray skies have something to do with that. As our eyes adjust to the dimness, the next thing we notice is the vastness and beauty of the nave we’re in: a single span that’s seventy-three feet wide. No other church in Christianity can claim such a nave. Light streams in through high windows filled with beautiful stained glass. The color of the walls and pillars is perfect, untouched by brush or knife; a rich, muted burgundy that pleases the senses. Those great figures of the Middle Ages made no mistakes. Nothing was allowed to disrupt their love for harmony and proportion. They created wonders for the glory of their country and for all time; they understood and appreciated only one thing—the allure of perfection. Where they fell short, their efforts were hampered; they were asked 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.
Without taking a moment to check out the church more closely, we walk through a large 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 mediæval Spanish art. This also, though they would deny it, is due to French influence—happily at that time at its best and purest.
Here too is a stunning vision. Few cloisters in the world can compare to them. The four sides are uneven, but this actually enhances their charm. They have seen little alteration and are almost in their original condition. The simple round arches rest on paired marble pillars, which are slender and graceful. The capitals are incredibly rich, intricate, and delicate in their carvings. Here, Romanesque art seems to have been brought into Spain through France. The cathedrals of Catalonia are exceptionally beautiful and seem to have laid the groundwork for medieval Spanish art. This, too, although they might deny it, can be attributed to French influence—thankfully 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.
In this beautiful cloister, we got lost in dreams of the Middle Ages, a time that has celebrated the earth and feels almost as essential to us as light and air. In the center was an old well, which seems to be a must for any cloister. Shrubs and trees surrounded it, and the vibrant green contrasted beautifully with the 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.
At the end of the north passage, we went through an open porch to a wide and stunning view. A steep, rugged decline led down to the town. Below us was the ancient Benedictine church of San Pedro, with its remarkable Norman doorway and cloisters that were almost as impressive as those we had just seen. Nearby was a smaller, equally old church that had been desecrated and turned into a carpenter's workshop. We'll visit it later and get to know its sturdy owner, who spends his days working under the shadow of its former sanctity. Beyond that, on the edge of the hill outside the walls, we could see the ruins of the great castle and citadel that valiantly withstood the siege of Gerona, until the twin specters—famine and disease—joined forces 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 señora—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.
A Gerona lady—Grace and charm—Lord of creation—Morning greeting—Arcades and old houses—Draft—Gerona a discovery—Streets with steps—Old eaves and unique ironwork—Old-world corner—Desecrated church—Gothic cloisters—Ghosts of the past—Visions of today—Soldiers interested—"Happy as kings"—Lingering—Colonel seeks explanation—Not a fan of history—More draft—Dramatic scene—Pedro to the rescue—Mother and son—Sad story—Strong and merciful—Pedro thankful—Narrow interests—Colonel becomes closed off 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.
LAST night we found a lot to admire, even though we could only see the charms partially in the darkness. This morning, when we opened our window, the clouds were low and looked ominous; however, the gray tone everywhere matched the ancient city so perfectly that we hardly missed the sunny 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.
Immediately across from our window was a small fabric store run by a hardworking woman. She was up early and worked as if she had embraced all the wisdom of Solomon. A short, dark woman of true Spanish descent, lively, energetic, and willing to do all kinds of tasks, she diligently swept her sidewalk and organized her products; doing everything with a certain natural grace that was undeniably charming.
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.
We saw her as a young widow just trying to get by, but after all the work was done and everything settled, a husband showed up; clearly a man who viewed women, especially wives, as made to do the work. That was their lot in life. She had probably gotten used to this situation and accepted it as one of life's hardships.
"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.
"I hope you slept well," we heard her say with the slightest hint of sarcasm—the street was so narrow that they were almost within six yards of us. "I've been up for two hours while you were sound asleep," she said, covering her head with a graceful mantilla. "Yet you hardly look refreshed," he remarked 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."
"My dear, you are an incredible woman and the best wife anyone could ask for. I’ll admit that without your support, life would be tough for me. But for you, work is enjoyable, and I wouldn’t take that away from you for anything."
A SECTION BEYOND 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.
By this point, the mantilla was in place, and the petite woman cheerfully stepped out of the shop. Her dainty feet lightly tapped on the pavement. She looked up, noticed us staring her way, and her smile revealed the brightest white teeth.
"Ah, señor, 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."
"Ah, sir, you’ve heard our morning greeting. It’s always the same. Fate has been tough on us women. As the weaker sex, we’re often taken advantage of by our masters. Now I’m going to church to pray for a blessing on my work and for my husband to change. Not that he’s bad or unkind or tyrannical, as husbands go—just hopelessly lazy. Oh, you know it’s 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.
Upon which the little lady—she was very ladylike despite sweeping the pavement and hard work—gave us a courtly curtsy, waved goodbye to her caro sposo, and quickly and gracefully walked down the street. It is said that only Spanish women know how to walk, and there’s some truth in that saying.
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.
Rain had poured down heavily overnight, as the watchmen reported throughout the early morning hours. It had stopped—though more was expected. Remembering the saying, we grabbed our umbrellas. H. C. picked up his and put on his military demeanor. The town, although quiet, felt steeped in a military vibe since conscription was still active, and we soon stumbled 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.
We had gone out without our friendly guide to explore freely and let luck lead us wherever it wanted. In the daylight, the arcades appeared deeper, more solid, and even more picturesque than the night before. Standing on the bridge, we looked down at the dry riverbed far below. The stalls of the chestnut vendors were cold and lifeless; the spirits were missing. But even at that moment, a small group of them arrived to tend to the fires and get ready for business.
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.
The old houses on either side make this view from the bridge one of the most amazing in the world. They rise straight from the riverbed, and where water still flows, their outlines are reflected: houses that look ancient enough to be from the time of the flood—massive structures that were once white but are now yellow, brown, and black from weathering and age. All the windows seemed to have been removed, creating that peculiar look of unglazed ruin often seen in warm places. Countless balconies filled with flowers and colorful fabrics hung over the water. Above all, the silhouettes of the cathedral and other churches in the background stood out strikingly. The distant view was framed by the winding river, where the houses on both sides seemed to reach out to each other. Just beyond this, we stood last night listening to the rustling of the reeds, completely absorbed in the scene so vividly mirrored by the harsh glow of the torches.
Street in Girona.
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.
People were slowly waking up and opening their shops. All along the long street were older and larger arcades, barely noticed last night in the bustling crowd. In this country known for arcades, we had never seen any like 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."
"Gerona is amazing," H. C. said for the twentieth time. "The view from this bridge is something to dream about. Yet, one wishes for sunshine and lights and shadows. As impressive as the scene is, it's all just shades of 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.
But the town had even more surprises in store when our host's son joined us and showed us the hidden treasures of the narrow winding streets. Houses with gabled roofs, tiled tops, and windows decorated with beautiful wrought ironwork; the real feel of history throughout—still untouched. Gerona, in its fading prosperity, has, like Segovia, avoided the damage caused by restorations. Its solid mansions are just as strong and stable as they were in the distant 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.
The quirks of the place add to its charm. Built on a hillside, the streets are like a journey of rough, uneven, picturesque steps. From here, narrow passageways lead into numerous cul-de-sacs filled with ancient shapes that are truly 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 mediæval towns of Spain.
We soon arrived at one of those steep streets with its endless steps. At the top, it was topped by a church with a lone square tower and a Renaissance-style façade. The houses on either side featured amazing ironwork windows; we can't help but mention this unique detail; and many gothic window frames still showcased intricate tracery and decorative balconies; while from the deep overhanging eaves, charming water spouts craned their long necks like gargoyles from some ancient cathedral. After reaching the church and turning right down a narrow passage between tall, lifeless walls, we found ourselves in a lively scene: the building was dedicated to the rites of conscription. The location and its surroundings were among the most picturesque in Gerona. A long, wide staircase led up to an old church that had now been desecrated and converted into barracks. Groups of young soldiers were gathered together, and sentinels marched back and forth. To the left, facing the long staircase, were low ancient houses, beautiful in color and architecture, adorned with wrought iron windows, some almost Moorish in style, with upper floors that ended in round open arcades and tiled roofs with overhanging eaves; one of those old-world spots only found in these medieval 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.
We climbed the steps and faced the guard, thinking that there must be hidden cloisters connected to this old church, of which only the west front remained. But we weren’t going to get through without questions. An inner guard approached and asked what we wanted. After learning that we wanted to see the cloisters, he called over another guard who clearly worked for the colonel or the regiment's commandant. Permission was quickly granted, and after showing us the way, we were left to explore on our own.
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.
Instinct hadn't let us down. In just a few moments, we found ourselves in the middle of beautiful old cloisters with Gothic arches supported by slim paired marble columns. Above these, a gallery of round arches held up by single pillars with carved capitals rose, the wider and more open arches creating a lovely contrast with the pointed arches below. A deep archway, reached by about six steps, led through the palace to the east end of the cathedral and the town walls beyond. In the square in front of the palace and cathedral was an ancient and stunning well. Above it all, a slanted tiled roof fittingly topped off 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.
Here in the past, monks and priests walked the quiet hallways. A sacred atmosphere, untouched by the outside world, enveloped everything. Father confessors listened to the private struggles of young novices hoping to escape the distractions and temptations of life outside their cells, only to discover that during this period of testing, the conflict never truly ends. So confessions were made and penances assigned, while soft footsteps and pale faces filled those serene cloisters. Large, dark eyes—made even larger and darker by their hollow cheeks—looked up at the sky that stretched over the courtyard with such divine peace, desperately searching for answers to the mysteries of existence.
MILITARY CLOISTERS ENTRANCE: 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.
In the upper gallery, some were sewing or fixing clothes, while others were drawing water from what used to be the cloister garden. It still had its beautiful old ironwork. Monks and priests once looked down and saw pale, hooded faces reflected in the still water; and perhaps as they pulled it to the surface, they imagined another well in a distant land and a certain woman from Samaria. No such thoughts crossed the minds of the five or six closely-cropped soldiers, whose reflections below had nothing holy, troubled, or questioning about them. These rough examples of a small, undisciplined army were completely out of place against the timeless beauty and elegance that remained unchanged.
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.
We experienced the charm and oddity of the situation. The men gathered just a few yards away, thrilled to be captured by the small camera, intrigued to see themselves in the lens, and disappointed that we couldn’t instantly provide each of them with a printed and framed photo. That little machine really worked wonders.
"You all look very happy," H. C. remarked, for more carelessly contented faces were never seen—a mixture of types good and bad.
"You all look really happy," H. C. said, because you’d never seen such a mix of carefree, satisfied faces—some good, some not so great.
"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."
"As happy as kings," they replied. "We eat, drink, and sleep well. We have our clothes and a place to stay, and we never have to fight. We could use a bit more money for tobacco—but you can't have it all."
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.
Finally, we spent so much time answering questions, satisfying curiosity, and admiring the beauty of the cloisters that the colonel himself showed up in full uniform, sword and all. Not one to appreciate architecture, he couldn’t understand how anyone would take a second look at these old designs. Were we trying to extract military secrets from the men in order to ignite another Peninsular war? The colonel, who had so generously allowed us to enter, was now eager for an explanation. Pointing out the charm and value of the cloisters—the shame that they had reversed the order of things and turned pruning hooks into swords—he insisted that he couldn’t 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."
"I don't see any real beauty in these old hallways," he said, "and I would much prefer to see them filled with brave soldiers instead of a bunch of weak monks and priests."
We argued the fitness of things—a time and place for everything.
We discussed the appropriateness of everything—a time and place for all things.
"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."
"If there were another siege of Gerona, I'd turn our churches into barracks," our colonel laughed, swaggering with his sword and looking tough like a fire-eater. "And who knows? As far as I can see, we're not even close to the days of the millennium. There are more signs of global conflict than of lasting 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.
We had left the cloisters and were standing almost within reach of the west front of what used to be the church. The colonel noticed our "mild regretful gaze," chuckled, and clanked his sword again.
MILITARY CLOISTERS: GIRONA.
"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."
"What will you do?" he said. "After all, I wouldn't have done it myself; but now that it’s done, I use it without a guilty conscience. Look," he pointed to the crowd below, "we need space for our recruits. Poor Spain is not England. Our resources are limited. Yet you, gentlemen, despite being the rulers of the world, had your days of desecration under Cromwell. Given the chance, anything bad is just as possible as anything 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.
The crowd mentioned was full of intense drama. The walls of the big grey building felt charged with the possibilities of fate; the wide doorway eager to swallow up the youth of the nation. Young men went inside to play the human lottery, their faces showing anxiety or reckless humor. Free agents this morning, but by tonight, they might be trapped in servitude: a willing chains for some, and for others, worse than a death sentence.
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.
Perhaps the main focus was on the crowd of elders—parents and friends waiting for the verdict—many faces showing that painful endurance that was hard to bear. Mothers carried the weight of postponed hope, where even the thought of war felt like a nightmare; fathers were left to wonder if the boy who had become a companion and partly supported the family was about to be tossed into the whirlwind of military life with all its temptations. They had been through that in their own youth and understood that only the strong would survive. Amidst the crowd, we spotted Pedro, our acquaintance from the platform last night.
"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?"
"Why, Pedro," said the colonel—we were standing just a little above the people—"what are you doing here today? Surely you've made your contribution to the country and your son is now in 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?"
"That's true, colonel," replied this veteran, steady as an oak tree. "My son has left me; I saw him off last night and you probably heard the commotion up here; half the town was at the station. I'm not worried about him. He can tell right from wrong and has strong principles. I gave him my blessing, and God willing, he will return when the years are up. But my heart aches for these poor women who struggle with their emotions. So I thought I would come and comfort them a bit, and tell them that military discipline is really a great thing—the best thing that could happen to them if they just do their duty. You agree, colonel?"
WAITING FOR THE RULING.
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?
We noticed a pale woman near the doorway, looking downcast and sorrowful. She seemed to stand out from those around her, with a graceful mantilla partly covering her face. At that moment, a young man appeared, a strikingly handsome version of his mother—the family resemblance was instantly clear; his worn-out clothes showed he didn’t have much in terms of material wealth. As he approached, his serious expression and hesitant demeanor revealed his difficult situation. There was no need to ask any questions, and with a cry that was part sob and completely filled with despair, the mother wrapped her arms around her son’s neck as if life couldn’t bring her any more pain. In that moment, all sense of restraint disappeared. What did the onlookers matter to her? Weren’t they all sharing in the same suffering?
"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."
"A sad story," said our colonel, his eyes shining with emotion. "They were some of the most well-off people in Gerona, until the husband died and left them nearly destitute. Her oldest son went off the rails, and this boy was her last hope. She must feel like fate is really against her. Pedro," he said to the old man watching with sympathy, "tell her everything will be okay in the end. Please, gently let her know to come to my office tomorrow morning at ten and ask for me. I promise to keep a close watch on her boy. He’s special and deserves a better future than many. I’ll make sure he gets 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.
Pedro felt a deep sense of gratitude, thinking there was only one colonel in the world, and he was standing right in front of him. Being strong and kind is what truly wins people's 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."
"There’s more intrigue for me in this small group than in all your church plans,” said the colonel. “I’ve never seen a building that I didn’t get bored with in a week, but my work and my team interest me more every year. I feel like 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.
He was small and wiry, this colonel, with sharp dark eyes and a mouth that a fierce mustache couldn't hide the kindness of. One wished he had a better group of men than these recruits, too many of whom were the lowest type and didn't, to use his own metaphor, even have the wood that could be carved.
"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."
"That shouldn't worry you too much," he said. "It's surprising how many exceptions there are. After all, it’s survival of the fittest. But I can tell you’re just as interested in humanity as I am," noticing how we were focused on every movement and expression of this unfortunate little crowd. "So far, your resources are broader than mine, because when it comes to old buildings, you're just as engrossed as you are with this little drama. My interests are more limited. So, if you’d like to come to my office tomorrow morning at ten, I can give you more to think about. We’ll talk to that poor woman together and see how we can offer some comfort to the widow and the 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.
This wasn’t what anyone would think of as strict military discipline, but we couldn’t help but admire a person who, after years of experience and repeated setbacks—in spite of what he had said—still had such a warm heart and so much human faith. There’s no doubt he revealed a bit of his true self in the heat of the moment, influenced by the previous incidents. He kept all his kindness hidden from others. In the next moment, he had passed the sentry and was speaking in a voice as hard as the Pyramids and as 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.
Beauties of age—Apostles' Doorway—How the old bishops avoided temptation—Interior of the cathedral—Its vast nave—Days of Charlemagne—And of the Moors—A giant made small—Rare choir—Grumpy priest—And a friendlier one—Our guide—Dazzling treasures—Father Anselmo—Romantic story—Heaven or the world?—Doubts—The gentle Rosalie makes her choice—Sister Anastasia—Told in the sacristy—A heartfelt confession—Anselmo's mysticism—Heresy—Attractions of antiquity—Scene of his triumph—Celestial vision—Church of San Pedro—Pagan interior—Rare cloisters—Desecrated church—Unique scene—Chiaroscuro—Miguel the carpenter—His views—Daily life as a religion—Anselmo seizes his chance—"A reflected light"—Ruined citadel—War of Succession—Alvarez and Marshall—Gerona in decline—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.
THE colonel vanished, and we made our way through narrow, winding, deserted alleys until we ended up in the charming 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 mediæval 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.
Here we were again, surrounded by the beauty of the past. In front of us was the south side of the cathedral with its deeply arched Apostles' Doorway, where we had knocked in vain the night before. Perpendicular to it, the Bishop's Palace stood with grey walls matching the cathedral exactly, its charming windows protected by old ironwork. Why were they so securely locked up? Did the medieval bishops fear a change in fortunes—romantic serenades from lovely ladies tempted by forbidden pleasures? Or had they wisely kept temptation away, unsure of their own strength? Old walls are quiet and reveal nothing.
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.
The huge nave is the widest Gothic vault in existence, and stepping inside fills you with awe. The architect's design was so daring that it shocked the Bishop, Dean, and Chapter in charge at the time. They called for council after council and sought opinions from top architects in other countries. Eventually, a panel of twelve men was chosen, and they ruled in favor of Boffy, leading to the construction of the nave.
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.
This was in the year 1416. A cathedral had been on this very spot since the eighth century, dating back to the times of Charlemagne. Like many early cathedrals, it was torn down and rebuilt; sometimes, the new version wasn’t necessarily better than the old. However, that wasn’t the case with Gerona. The cathedral was rebuilt in 1016, but the nave was reserved for Boffy and his brilliance four hundred years later. When the Moors took Gerona, the early cathedral was converted into a mosque, but they allowed Catholic services to continue in the nearby Church of San Filiu, which is now missing part of its spire. In 1015, the Moors were expelled, and the old cathedral was restored.
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 nave is too short, and Boffy couldn’t help but notice that it lacks proper proportions. Either space or budget was an issue, and the giant had to be made smaller. Still, it remains massive, with a clear width of seventy-three feet. Toulouse, the next widest, measures sixty-three feet, while Westminster Abbey is only thirty-eight feet wide. The smaller choir and aisles enhance the impact of the huge vault. Above it all is its amazing tone, and the dim light highlights the pointed arches of the choir and chapels and the slender, fluted pillars with soft 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.
The choir has a stunning altarpiece and canopy made of wood and silver: a rare artwork from 1320, so impressive that we wanted to see the treasures in the sacristy. A specific priest was assigned to show them to us. The priests take turns for this duty. Today, the priest whose turn it was was unfriendly. "He wouldn't show them; he had other things to do; you’ll have to come back another day," he said hurriedly, buttoning up his heavy black cloak as he spoke; he was an unattractive example of his kind, short, dark-skinned, and unshaven. We explained that our time was limited. Without further discussion, he marched quickly down the aisle, his cloak billowing, and his hobnailed shoes making jarring 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."
Then another, friendlier priest approached; he was a completely different and more polished example of humanity. He was happy to show us the treasures if we would wait while he looked for the keys. He returned quickly, though he thought he had taken a long time. "I apologize for the wait," he said, "but the keys weren't where they should have been. Now let me take the stage and show you around."
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.
Leading the way into the large sacristy, he unlocked a cupboard and grabbed a key. With this, he opened a drawer and took out another key. The treasure was well protected. Finally, he swung open the big doors, and our eyes were dazzled as he lit a beautiful old lamp. Its light flickered on gem-encrusted crooks and crosses, enamel plates, and a chalice, a wealth of gold and silver ornaments, many dating back to the twelfth century. Some of the crosses were stunning in design and craftsmanship, while others had intriguing histories. Then he showed us rare and amazing needlework rich in gold thread and colorful silks, also dating back seven or eight hundred years. He explained everything in his own charming way, then took us through a series of rooms, each with its own unique appeal. Among the pictures were one or two of exceptional quality from a very early period.
Cathedral Cloisters: Girona.
"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."
"It’s a pleasure to show them to you," he said when we thanked him. "I love all these things that have surrounded my life; I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t connected to the cathedral. As a child, I was an altar boy and remember the joy I felt when I turned the wheel at the altar and listened to its silver chimes. I was only happy in church, assisting the priests, taking on every role a boy could. By the age of ten, I decided I wanted to be a priest and never lost sight of that goal—though I did have a moment of doubt. But I was poor, and I’m not sure if I could have made it without help from one of our canons who was rich and kind; he educated me and sort of took me in, and when he passed away four years ago, he left me a good amount of his wealth. I almost feel like one of those stories that only occasionally happen in life. But there was a moment,"—he smiled almost sadly—"when I was really tempted to give up religion for a life in 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.
"For what reason?" we asked, as he paused. Clearly, he wanted the question, and there was something so intriguing about him that we were happy to stick around 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.
"A very ordinary reason. I bet you can guess, because it was the same old story: nothing less than love. I hadn't taken any religious vows yet and was free to choose. Should it be earthly life or heavenly devotion? Few have probably been as completely captivated as I was. Whether I was walking or sleeping, my thoughts were filled with the lovely Rosalie. She was beautiful, and I thought she was perfect. Her outer grace reflected her inner 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.
"To make my struggle harder, she returned all my affection. It was perhaps unusual that her life had also been destined for the convent, just as mine was for the Church. For an entire year, we both fought, feeling miserable and unsettled. Each new meeting only seemed to strengthen our bond. A great opportunity in the world presented itself—could we take this as a sign that Heaven supported our desires? It was a tough situation, and maybe we wouldn't have been wrong to give in. During the day, it seemed that way. But night after night, I woke up with one verse echoing in my ears: 'He who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is not fit for the Kingdom of Heaven.' In my frantic, almost tortured mind, the text seemed to glow in the darkness in letters of fire. I tossed and turned on my troubled bed. Drops of anguish would bead on my forehead. On one hand was bliss that felt endless; wrapped in all the false allure and temptation of forbidden fruit. On the other was the sure service of Heaven—a higher, nobler destiny without a doubt."
"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.
"One morning—will I ever forget it?—the sun was shining, the skies were blue, and the birds and flowers were at their best and brightest. The air was filled with song and fragrance when I received a letter in the handwriting I cherished. Before I opened it, I sensed that it contained our destiny and understood its contents. The soul is never wrong in such moments."
"'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.
"'Anselmo, my love,' it said, 'I've made my choice and I trust you won't make my difficult task impossible. Last night, I had a dream where my mother visited me; her presence felt so real that I believe we communicated. Her face was full of divine love and compassion, and oh, so sad and understanding. Suddenly, she pointed, and I saw two roads ahead of me. I recognized myself on both. On the one wide road, you walked with me, hand in hand. We were both weary and broken, and our feet hurt. We seemed unhappy, filled with worries and sorrow. Romance and sunshine? They had vanished with the long-ago years. All that was left was 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.'
"'On the other road, I walked alone, but I was strong, supported by unseen forces. The journey was long, yet my steps never tired. I wore the dress of a Sister of Mercy. At the distant end, bathed in divine light, a glorified version of yourself beckoned and seemed to await me. Beyond you, there was a faint glimpse of Paradise—I knew you had moved on to a higher existence. Then my mother turned and spoke. Her voice still echoes in my ears. "My child, in this world, you will face challenges that you are not ready to endure. Your path leads to heaven." Then she pointed upward, seemed to gradually fade away, and I awakened. I felt it was a sign given to me, and rising to my knees, I dedicated my life anew to Heaven, hoping it would accept me. Beloved, you will help me; you will ease my burden. Even though we were never united on earth, we still belong to one another; we will still spend eternity together.'
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."
"Even now," the priest went on, returning to his own story, his voice a bit shaky, "even now I can’t always think about that morning calmly. I sat among the birds and flowers, entranced and heartbroken. The clear skies and bright sunshine seemed to mock my misfortune. My earthly dreams were gone. Not for a second did I doubt Rosalie's choice or try to change it. I prayed for strength, and it was given to me. She became a Sister of Mercy, and I became a priest. So our lives continue, dedicated to Heaven. We don’t seek the feverish joys of the world, but rather quiet streams untouched by worldly worries."
"And Rosalie? She still lives?"
"And Rosalie? Is she still around?"
Cloister of San Pedro: Girona.
"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."
"Yes, and in Gerona. Her new name is Sister Anastasia. We sometimes meet in the quiet streets; sometimes at the bedside of the sick and dying; occasionally at a friend’s house. I believe we are as devoted to each other as we were in our youth, but it’s a love that’s been purified and refined, holding a thousand times more real happiness than our first passionate excitement. If we are to believe her vision, I will be the first to enter the dark passage and cross into the light beyond. It might still be half a lifetime—who knows? I’m only thirty-seven, Rosalie is thirty-five—but whenever the call comes for her, I feel that I will be waiting for 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.
We were sitting in a room past the sacristy where silence and solitude filled the space, surrounded by echoes of centuries in the walls, the crucifix, and ancient Bibles—a perfect place for such a confession. Our priestly guide had a romantic aura; his pale, refined face seemed to shine with a light that, as he said, purified all earthly impurities. Yet, he was clearly very human; he had genuine sympathies and affections, and he was deeply interested in Gerona and its people. It was the kindness in his nature that made him show compassion for us when his gruffer colleague in the vineyard had ignored 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.
But our golden moments were slipping away; we couldn’t stay forever in ancient sacristies listening to heartfelt confessions. Treasures were locked away, keys hidden in their places; we returned to the church, and the sound of the large sacristy door closing echoed through the silent aisles. Each time we entered, the stunning interior appeared even more beautiful and impressive; a vision of arches, unique columns, and exquisite windows that felt wonderfully solemn and sacred. In dark corners and gloomy recesses, in shadows lost in the high, vaulted ceiling, we imagined guardian angels lurking unseen, offering rest for the weary, forgiveness for the sinner, and strength for those who were struggling along 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."
"I've often felt this," our friend said, reading our thoughts through some unspoken connection; "and I’ve spent countless hours here, completely alone, lost in thought. Sometimes, mysticism feels like it takes hold of me. Visions come to me, uninvited, not sought after; the church is filled with a brilliant celestial choir; I hear music that earthly ears cannot perceive; the rustling of angels' wings envelops me. These visions or experiences—call them what you will—usually happen after long periods of fasting, when the spirit is likely less limited by physical ties. But underlying all my days and actions, there's an intangible drive for good; I feel Rosalie's influence. You see, I’m still human, and the earthly must blend with the heavenly. I wouldn’t want it any other way as long as I have to connect with mortals, or how else could I empathize with the sin, sorrow, and suffering around me? Even our Lord had to become human, so that in all things, tempted just like we are, He can help those who are tempted."
APOSTLES' DOORWAY AND BISHOP'S PALACE: GIRONA.
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.
We were walking down the wide aisle. Anselmo had put on his long cloak, which added grace and dignity to his tall, slender figure. His pale face stood out in the surrounding darkness like a saintly presence. What strange charm did this man possess? In just a few moments, we felt like we had known him for years. He was uniquely lovable and appealing. Beneath all his gentleness, there was an undercurrent of strength; a clear self-reliance, but one that depended on a higher support than just himself. Here was someone deserving of lasting friendship if our paths hadn't been so far apart. As it was, he too would fade from our lives, and we would see his face no more. But his memory would linger.
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.
At the west doorway, we turned and gazed at the stunning scene: the impressive nave with its tall pillars and high ceiling, the far-off choir with aisles and arches both seen and hidden in the soft, spiritual light that added a sense of mystery to everything. Above all, the incredible sound.
"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."
"For twenty-five years, I've gazed at this scene, and its impact on me is just as powerful as ever," the priest said. "Here, I've discovered that peace that surpasses all understanding. How many times have I unlocked the door and retreated into these quiet aisles, away from the world, to connect with the unseen? Here, I've found the strength to face life's challenges. Here, I've written many sermons, silently confessed my sins to the Almighty, and received forgiveness. Don’t mention the heresy, but confession to another person offers me no comfort. I must go to the great Source, relying on the one Atonement and one Mediator. Nothing else brings me peace."
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.
We walked over to the doorway of the cloisters. Anselmo, not wanting to leave us, came along too. We were so happy to have him with us that we didn’t want it any other way. He really added to the magic of the place; he was like a central figure from which all our interest flowed. We were moving from the darkness of the inside into the soft daylight that the grey clouds were blocking the sun from fully shining through.
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.
The cloisters held all the charm of history. For eight hundred years, time had affected them in subtle ways. They stood as an uneven rectangle, with simple, beautiful round arches supported by paired columns, their carved capitals uniquely intricate and delicate. The allure of Romanesque architecture was rarely more apparent.
Church of San Pedro: Girona.
"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."
"I love them," said the priest. "How often have I walked these quiet hallways until the very stones seem worn by my footsteps? They witnessed the most painful moment of my life, the last great struggle—but also my triumph. For here I said my earthly goodbye to Rosalie; right here, where we stand, I let go of all human hopes and claims upon her and entrusted her to Heaven. Here I placed her cherished letter next to my heart, where it still rests; where it will remain when that heart has stopped beating and this body has returned to the dust from which it was made."
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.
We went through the small north doorway into the outside world. In the distance, the snow-covered Pyrenees rose towards the sky like a heavenly sight. In the plain, the shining river snaked along, listening to the love songs of the reeds and rushes. Close to us was the beautiful octagon tower, missing its spire. Outside the old walls, we followed the remnants of the fortress, and within them stood the even older churches of San Pedro and its defiled counterpart.
"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."
"Let’s go down to them," Anselmo said. "Let’s check out the amazing little cloisters and meet Miguel the carpenter. He doesn’t seem to mind that where the sound of the saw and the swish of the plane are heard now, there used to be the voices of priests in worship and quiet whispers from 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.
It was a tough descent, but the scene was uniquely captivating. We found ourselves in narrow streets lined with ancient houses, their windows adorned with beautiful ironwork. Last night, the watchmen had walked the streets, calling out the hour and waking the echoes, calling forth the silent shadows with their lanterns. Today, the streets and houses lost their sense of mystery; daylight has a way of removing illusions. We had to make do with charming gables and old-fashioned silhouettes. Behind us stood one of the strong, massive ancient gateways that led directly into the cathedral grounds. Framed by its archway, we glimpsed part of the immense flight of steps topped by the unremarkable west front. It was one of the best, most old-world parts of Gerona, and within a small area were relics and shapes that would have provided an artist with enough inspiration for half a lifetime.
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 turned our backs on all of this and headed towards San Pedro. Here, everything contrasts with the cathedral; the outside of this Benedictine church is its highlight. Turning a corner, we get a full view of the beautiful west Norman doorway with its finely crafted carvings and fern-leaf capitals. Above the doorway is an impressive cornice, and above that is a stunning rose window: all in all, a rare example of Italian Romanesque architecture. The whole church is striking, with its elegant octagonal tower and Norman apses built into the old town walls. Just beyond the tower, a gateway leads to the citadel and the countryside beyond. A church has existed here since at least the tenth century—possibly even earlier; the current church dates back to the early twelfth century 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.
We walked through the beautiful old doorway into the dull interior: a nave and aisles with rough arches and plain, square pillars. There was something cold and primitive about the overall vibe, made even more noticeable by the contrast with the cathedral we had just come from. Anselmo was definitely affected by it.
"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."
"If I were the Vicar of San Pedro, half of my happiness would be gone," he said. "Instead of enjoying a refined, almost heavenly atmosphere, life would just be a daily struggle against paganism. Let's move 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.
Here the scene changed. Smaller than those of the cathedral, they were almost as beautiful and impactful, though more worn down 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?"
"Not time but reckless mischief has been at play here," Anselmo said. "The destruction was caused by the French during the Peninsular War. Which of Spain's treasures did they leave unharmed?"
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.
Nevertheless, a big part of their beauty stayed intact. The paths were filled with gathered fragments: old tombs, broken columns, carved capitals, and ancient crosses—a museum of antiquities. The Norman arches resting on their marble shafts provided a fantastic backdrop for it all. Above them, around the cloisters, a series of small blind Norman arcades rested on delicately carved brackets—charming and unique detail.
San Pedro Gateway: 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.
Within a few yards of San Pedro was an even older and more interesting church with a beautiful interior; however, it’s no longer a church, as it has been converted into workshops. A low octagonal tower sits atop a red-tiled roof with slightly overhanging eaves. Beneath the eaves are small blind arcades, and here and there in the lower hall, other arcades are slowly crumbling. The stunning roof is rounded and broken into sections to fit the building's layout. Ancient openings let in faint rays of light, and a graceful rounded arch leads to what was once the main entrance.
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 interior is domed, vaulted, and massive, darkened by age. It feels small, evoking the times when Christians were scarce and worshipped in secret. Now functioning as a carpenter's shop, it's filled with the sounds of hammers and planes. In one corner, workers are melting glue and heating irons by a large fireplace. The floor is uneven and lower than the road outside. Light struggles to come in. It’s a vague, evocative scene that would be perfect for Rembrandt, who would have loved this blend of mysterious darkness and human activity.
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.
The master, a strong Spaniard, invited us in and welcomed us. He was probably someone who didn’t worry much about religion, but his respect and admiration, even fondness for Father Anselmo, were clear.
"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."
"You honor me with your presence and bring a sacred vibe back to this place that has been disrespected," he said to the priest. "You don't come across scenes like this every day. Yet, there’s something fitting about it after all. Wasn't Joseph a carpenter? And didn't our Savior work in a carpenter's shop? So, it seems to me, this trade has become more noble than any other. And if this church has to be used for something secular, we have chosen the best path. To me, there’s no feeling of desecration. You have San Pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there’s more than enough space 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."
"I worry you hardly bring in new worshippers," Anselmo said gently reproaching him. "But, Miguel, how many times have I told you there is goodness in you—a sense of the beauty of a religious life—if only you wouldn’t let it fade away."
"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."
"Father," Miguel replied cheerfully—it’s amusing to hear an older man talk to a younger one like this—"all in good time. I think I'm living a decent life, working hard, treating my wife well, and taking care of my kids. But for some reason, I can't go to confession—what could I possibly have to confess, honestly?—and I never feel any better after Mass, whether it's high or low. So I just make a religion out of daily life, and eventually, when I'm older, I’ll try to find value in your established rituals 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.
Anselmo shook his head. We knew how much he agreed with at least one of Miguel's concerns, even though he couldn’t say it out loud. He just looked like he wanted to argue, which Miguel responded to with the easy smile that felt like a natural part of him.
"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."
"Last Sunday," Anselmo said, putting his hand on Miguel's shoulder, "I chose for my message some of the most serious, most despairing, and most cautionary words in the entire Bible: 'And the door was shut.' There, Miguel, is a sermon in a nutshell. Keep it in mind and think about it. Your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure about tomorrow? Forgive me," he turned to us, "I didn't come here for this, but Miguel and I are old friends and understand each other. Just like constant dripping can wear away a stone, I rarely miss the chance to share a word when we meet, though today I might have held back for your sake. It will matter in the end," he nodded at Miguel, "because he has a conscience, and I won’t let it rest. And what a place to deliver a sermon!" He looked up and around. "These darkened ceilings, those massive, time-defying walls, this earthy, uneven floor—everything suggests a past that is more pagan than Christian. If anything could amplify the atmosphere, it's those strange workers at the fire with their faces lit up by flames. It all feels like a leftover from barbarism. But it's a remarkable spot, and I keep coming back; every time, it offers a new lesson to the soul. The whole place seems filled with ghostly shadows. And it’s perfect, as you can see; transepts, a chancel, and apses; nothing is missing. So, Miguel, you who live in the aura of sanctity, on ground once blessed, within walls that were devoted to serving Heaven, should be inspired 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."
"Then I worry it will always just be a reflected light," laughed Miguel, "and that coming from your respected and beloved self. I'll be happy if only the shadow of Elijah's cloak brushes against me as it falls."
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.
We left the amazing little building, packed with so much interest from both the past and present. Miguel said he felt honored by our visit, and as he stood outside his door, he indicated that he wanted to be photographed with our instant camera. We did that, and the results would be ready soon. We walked away, leaving him there—a tall, strong, impressive man of his race, with graying hair and rugged features that showed a certain strength.
VANDALIZED 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."
"That man has the potential to be a hero," Anselmo said as we walked through the gateway in the old wall. "In a different position in life, he could have been a master of the world. But I always believe that the lives and destinies of such individuals, missed here, will be perfected in another state of existence. Great powers were never meant to be wasted. Here he is the acorn; there he will grow into a 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.
We were climbing toward the ruined citadel and finally found ourselves inside the once-mighty fortress. Much still remained to show the strength of what it had been, but its vast expanse was now surrendered 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.
"It has a really sad vibe and evokes a lot of melancholic memories," Anselmo said. "One's mind drifts back to those terrible days of the past. First, the War of Succession, when Gerona, with two thousand brave but ultimately hopeless men, resisted Philip V. and his army, which was five times larger. Then in 1808, with just three hundred men, mostly English, we pushed back Duhesme and his six thousand soldiers. In 1809, the French surrounded us with thirty-five thousand troops. Alvarez, who was the Governor at the time—you probably noticed his house in the cathedral square—was in a tough spot. He had very little food and barely any ammunition, yet he was one of the bravest and smartest men in Spain. The siege was long and brutal, and the suffering was immense. The English were a big help, but your brave Colonel Marshall was killed on the front lines. It’s said that Alvarez cried when he died, saying he had lost his right hand. The situation was so desperate that even the women formed a group dedicated to Santa Barbara. The enemy never managed to take the city; there was never a more courageous and determined resistance. Many of the generals leading the siege gave up in frustration and left."
"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.
"But finally, two new enemies emerged—hunger and illness—inseparable shadows. Gerona couldn't withstand them. Everything relied on Alvarez, and he succumbed to fever. A new leader was appointed, whose first and last action was to surrender. The siege lasted nearly eight months, and the French lost fifteen thousand men. So," looking around, "we are on historic ground, sacred to bravery, marked by human suffering, soaked with rivers of human blood. Gerona has never recovered. She has continuously declined and still declines.
OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GIRONA.
Nevertheless, she is and ever will be Gerona the brave and beautiful."
Nevertheless, she is and always 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.
Anselmo wasn't exaggerating. Gerona is truly amazing. It's not a Segovia—there's only one Segovia in the world—but it's still one of Spain's most charming and fascinating towns, even if it's not well-known or frequently visited. Nature and art have come together to create this beauty—the art from the Middle Ages, not from today. There is a modern aspect, but the new and the old, the ugly and the beautiful, are so distinctly separated by the river that you can stroll through the ancient streets without being bothered by the nineteenth century and feel like you're in a dream.
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.
We had climbed to the highest point of the ruins and settled ourselves on the embankment. Pieces of the old citadel were scattered in all directions; crumbling walls, abandoned chambers, dark doorways leading to underground vaults. Tall, sorrowful weeds grew everywhere, evoking thoughts of vanished lives and lost glory. It was a romantic scene, and as we sat and reflected, the citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast army; the ground shook with the sound of horsemen and the marching of troops. In our imagination, we saw the dead and dying, the brave resistance against human enemies, and the collapse before something that wasn’t human. The air was filled with the shouts of warriors, the glint of swords, and the roar of cannons. Then the vision faded, leaving just the empty, deserted scene in front of us. The grass beneath us was dotted with flowers, and wild thyme filled the air with its strong scent. A little below us, stretching far around, were the old town walls, gray 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.
The ground in front dropped into a ravine, revealing fresh outlines of towers, walls, and old houses. San Pedro stood out, and just beyond it was the short octagon of the ruined church. In its rich, sheltered slope, a lush garden thrived, filled with hanging shrubs, weeping trees, and various fruits. Today, it was a scene of peace and abundance; wars and rumors of wars might never have happened or ever happen again. Above all, within the ancient walls, the outlines of the cathedral rose, overlooking the entire town and the vast surrounding countryside as if in constant blessing. Next to us sat Father Anselmo, his pale, refined face and sharp features radiating 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.
Suddenly, the huge cathedral bell chimed twelve times for noon, and we stood in silence as the last faint echoes faded away among 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."
"It’s my time to go," said the priest. "I wish I could stay with you, but my duties pull me in another direction. I can’t say goodbye. Let’s meet again tomorrow."
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.
We promised; then looking steadily at him, we saw a wave of emotion pass over his expressive face. Following his focused gaze, our eyes landed on a slight, graceful figure in the attire of a Religieuse, moving quietly through the small square next to the desecrated church. Miguel, who was standing at his door, bowed as if to a saint.
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 señora prepares for the fair—Grievance not very deep seated—Bewitching appearance—Señora dramatic—Ernesto—Marriage a lottery—Every cloud its silver lining—Gerona en fête—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—Fénélon—One creed, one worship—Not peace but a sword—Not dead to the world—Angel of mercy—H. C. mistaken—Earthly idyll.
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"—The unexpected happens—under scrutiny—Wise caution—Born to lead—Contrasts—Nothing new under the sun—The lady gets ready for the fair—Grievance not very deep—Captivating appearance—Dramatic lady—Ernesto—Marriage is a gamble—Every cloud has a silver lining—Gerona in celebration—Delormais' mission—Deceptive looks—Problems of conscription—Ernesto's ambition—The good days of life—Rosalie—A lovely image—Strange resemblance—Looking upwards—Anastasia or Rosalie—Her dreams and visions—Modern Paul and Virginia—Eternal possession—A saint of Gerona—The better choice—More heresy—Fénélon—One belief, one worship—Not peace but conflict—Not detached from the world—Angel of mercy—H. C. mistaken—Earthly dream.
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.
THAT same afternoon, people had shaken off their daze. The fair was in full swing, Gerona was lively. It was a public holiday, and work came to a halt. The shops were open, but no one bothered to shop. Even our hardworking lady with the lazy husband stopped hoping for customers and chose to enjoy herself. And she approached her enjoyment with the same seriousness she gave to her work.
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.
Luncheon was long over. Black coffee and a headache were behind them. The Silent Enigma had gone on their way. Without a word, they had gotten up, put on their hats, and left in a group of three. Delormais had given his usual lecture; and after so oddly opening up, he had headed into town to carry out his mission. He didn’t say whether it involved checking out the various convents, a private message from the Pope, or some other important task only meant for someone with tact and judgment.
"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."
"That's a completely fair question, but I have to keep quiet about that," he replied. "My mission—I can share this much—is sensitive and important. It's confidential, but the secret isn't mine to share, and it's as untouchable as a confession. When I said I would share part of my life with you earlier, I was speaking from my own experience. No one has the right to stop me. My experiences don’t harm anyone. I could publish them tomorrow without bothering anyone. But right now, I see myself as an ambassador—though not imprisoned like St. Paul—and everything I do and say needs to be guided 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."
"Who would have thought something so significant could be found in this small town?" we said. "Before we got here, we saw it as a ghost town, the farthest corner of the world. From the train, Gerona looks like it's in the final stages of poverty and despair."
"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?"
"Can a prophet really come from Galilee?" said the priest. "The unexpected happens. I've learned not to judge too quickly; especially not to be swayed by appearances. Rags can hide the noblest heart, and a fancy outfit can cover a traitor's chest. Admit it," he laughed, "when I just sat down next to you, you thought I was being intrusive; you must have said to yourself: 'Why is this old man taking up my space when there are ten empty chairs further down? He’s a nuisance. I’ll give him the cold shoulder.' And now everything has changed, and you want me to sit next to you at dinner. Isn’t that right?"
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."
So close to the truth, it felt like being under intense X-rays. "Suffering makes people dislike others," we said. "It's not physical pain, but emotional pain that brings out empathy. So it's risky to ask a favor from someone suffering from gout—or a headache."
"All which really means that I knew you better than you know yourself," returned Père 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."
"Basically, what I'm saying is that I understood you better than you understand yourself," replied Père Delormais, in his deep, smooth voice. "That's just a common experience. And now I'm off. If everything goes well, we'll see each other again at dinner. Ah! I always say that with a caveat. How many times have I had an evening appointment canceled by death at noon."
Street in Girona.
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.
He left the room; a tall, impressive figure with hair as white as snow; a man brimming with life and energy, clearly born to lead and occupy the high places of the earth: a force for good or evil depending on whether he was guided well or poorly. He was very different from Anselmo, whom we had left at midday. One ruled the destinies of men; the other was content to follow the Divine path of humility and love, satisfied with a limited view, doing good through teaching and example but seeking no broader domain than his small world. Yet, in his own way, he could still influence human hearts and inspire enthusiasm in a great cause if only the spark of ambition ignited his passion. The methods and impacts of the two men were very different, even though both aimed for the same result. But in the diverse aspects of human nature, some must be led, while others need to be driven. One hears the still, small voice; another requires the burning bush; James was the Son of Thunder, Barnabas of Consolation. Just like in the days of old, so it is now.
Street in Girona.
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.
We also made our way down the wide marble staircase of the old palace, but we didn't have a secret or delicate task to complete like Delormais. We had followed pretty closely, but there was no sign of him left on the street. We didn't know if he had gone right or left. The place was empty. Looking up, all we could see were the outlines of the rare old houses. Here and there was a gabled roof and a dormer window; many wrought-iron balconies; many Gothic windows rich in design and decoration; many lower windows secured by strong iron grilles, a source of frustration for serenaders, comfort for parents, and paradise for artists.
It was now that we saw our industrious and amiable señora 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.
It was now that we saw our hardworking and friendly señora getting ready for the fair. Once more, the mantilla was being elegantly styled. The lady—quite rightly—clearly had no intention of ignoring the good looks that nature had given her.
"Ah, señor," 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?"
"Ah, sir," as we paused to exchange greetings, "for an entire week this fair turns our town upside down. It brings all its attractions and noise; it distracts us; we might as well close the shutters for all the business that gets done; and in the end, it takes away all our extra cash. And who actually benefits from 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.
But the lady's complaint clearly wasn't very serious since she laughed while arranging her mantilla to look more flattering, and glancing at a mirror, she could only admit that she was pleased with her charming 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.
Near her stood a good-looking boy of about fourteen, who clearly thought the attractions of the fair were way more important than his mother's preparations. He was eager to leave.
"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, señor, you will think me very old, when you see me the mother of this great boy!"
"Calm down, my love," she said gently. "The day is still young. Not all the chestnuts will be roasted, and not all the trumpets will be sold. These things are endless and abundant, just like the snow in the Sierra. Oh! youth, youth, with all its possibilities!" she added dramatically. "Ah, sir, you’ll think I’m so old when you see me as the mother of this big boy!"
We gallantly protested she was under a delusion: he must be her brother.
We confidently argued that she was mistaken: he had to be her brother.
"My son, señor, 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. Ahimé! 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."
"My son, sir, my son. I got married at sixteen, when I was almost as much of a child as he is, and I honestly feel more like his sister than his mother. Oh dear! If I had just waited a few more years, I might have made a better choice; maybe I would have found a husband who could support me instead of me supporting him. Marriage is a gamble."
We suggested that every cloud has its silver lining.
We suggested that every cloud has a silver lining.
"True, señor. 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."
"That's true, sir. And after all, even if I didn't draw the highest number, I also didn't end up with the lowest. This dear young man is a comfort. He's interested in swords and trumpets, but he will never be a soldier. I've been saving money for a substitute in case he gets unlucky. That said, luck has favored my hard work, and in our own small way, we're comfortable."
This recalled the scene witnessed in the earlier hours of the morning and the appointment half made with the colonel for the morrow.
This brought back the scene seen earlier in the morning and the partially arranged meeting with the colonel for tomorrow.
"Evidently you do not approve of conscription, madame, which to-day seems to be running hand-in-hand with the revels of the fair."
"Evidently, you don't approve of conscription, ma'am, which today seems to go hand in hand with the festivities 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."
"I understand that conscription is a necessary evil," replied madame, "because without it, we wouldn't have soldiers; but you'll never convince me that anything good can come from it. The idea that my son, who has been raised with care, should suddenly be exposed to the worst and most vile people—no, disaster is unavoidable. So, Ernesto, never set your heart on a military life, because it can never be, it never will be. I would rather have you become a priest, though I have no ambition in that direction 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.
To give the boy his due, he seemed quite willing to give in, found the idea of becoming a priest hilarious, and although he liked swords and trumpets, his enthusiasm for the military didn’t go beyond that. If you were to guess, a civilian life would be his preference, and it could be a successful one, as he seemed to have inherited his mother's energy along with her dark eyes and vibrant coloring. But at that moment, the fair and only the fair was the focus of his affections. This made perfect sense for his age—a fleeting time when life is sweet and happiness comes from indulging in the whims and desires of the moment.
"Now I am ready," said the mother, evidently very happy herself. "Ah, señor, 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."
"Now I’m ready," said the mother, clearly very happy herself. "Ah, sir, you are too kind," as we gave a generous coin to the boy and told him to buy his mother a treat and himself some chestnuts and dreams. "But really, the joy of creating happiness is the best feeling in the world. There's nothing quite like it. So maybe I should envy you, not criticize 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.
They walked off together, the boy holding his mother's arm with that trusting affection and understanding that's so common in other places. To him, the world was still a paradise, and his mother was at the top of all the good angels. The beautiful days of life—short-lived, but always remembered. So, parents, treat your children well but don’t spoil them. One can be done 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.
It was going to be a day full of meetings. We walked after our joyful couple down the empty street, admiring the mother’s graceful stride, the boy's tall, straight, well-built figure, and his light footfalls. As they turned the corner heading toward the busy scene ahead, a calm figure emerged from beneath the beautiful arcades and came toward us. She was dressed as a Sister of Mercy and appeared to glide silently along the ground.
"Rosalie," we breathed, turning to H. C. for confirmation.
"Rosalie," we said, looking to H. C. for confirmation.
"Without doubt," he replied. "There could not be two Rosalies in one town."
"Definitely," he replied. "There can't be two Rosalies in the same town."
"Or in one world."
"Or in a single 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.
On a whim, we went up and, without our hats, talked to her; we felt like we knew her—had known her for a long time. Anselmo's intense confession had replaced the need for time and tradition.
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.
Yes, it was Rosalie. A more beautiful face was rarely seen, and never one more sacred; all the refinement and calmness of Anselmo combined with an infinite feminine grace and softness. They were even strangely similar, as if the same inspiration in their lives, a constant focus on each other, and their passionate yet pure affection had created a resemblance in their features and expressions. Hers was the face of someone whose life is directed steadily towards heaven, who, whether awake or asleep, occasionally catches fleeting glimpses of unseen glories, one whose daily work on earth is that of a helping spirit. As far as it is possible or allowed here, Rosalie showed the signs of a perfect and pure life that had never looked back or tried to serve two masters. Perhaps she could have become a mystic, but the serious and practical nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy place, free from excessive self-reflection. She was walking her lonely journey along the narrow path of her dreams with steady, unwavering steps. The end, though still distant for Anselmo and for her, could not be doubted.
"Ma sœur, 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."
"Sister, you are Anastasia, committed to good deeds; and once you were Rosalie devoted to Anselmo," we said, without pausing to pick our words. "There could not be another Rosalie in Gerona, just 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, señor, which sweetens my days and makes me brave in life's battles."
"Nah," she replied, "I’m still Rosalie, and I’m still devoted to Anselmo. There’s no past tense for our love, sir, which brightens my days and gives me courage in life’s struggles."
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.
She didn’t seem surprised or taken aback by our sudden approach. She maintained her calm composure the entire time, even though in our haste we might have been digging into a half-healed wound or stirring up long-buried feelings.
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.
But it was quite the opposite. Naturally, as Anselmo shared his story, she responded to our greeting. They were an amazing pair, these two. Together, their lives would have taken a very different path, but always in a way that was pure and genuine. As we spoke to her, a faint blush appeared on her pale, beautiful face, a light sparkled in her eyes, and a gentle smile graced her lips. She seemed almost childlike in her innocence, completely unselfconscious.
"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. Señor, you have been with Anselmo and he has told you our story—or how could you know?"
"Yes, I was Rosalie," she repeated; "and I’m still Rosalie, even though my life forces me to take on a new name. But I always think of myself as Rosalie, and in my dreams, I am the Rosalie of the past. Sometimes my mother visits me in those dreams and calls me Rosalie. If we keep our names in the next world, I will be Rosalie again. Sir, you have been with Anselmo, and he has told you our story—or how else would 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."
"It’s true. We were with Anselmo, spent time with him this morning, and parted ways at noon. As the clock struck twelve, we stood on the ruined citadel and saw you cross the San Pedro square."
"Ah, señor, 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."
"Ah, sir, I saw you too because I recognized Anselmo. He’s never far from me, and whether I see him or not, I know when he’s around. Some instinct always tells me he’s nearby."
"You are both remarkable. Your love and constancy ought to be placed side by side with the histories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and Héloïse. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above them."
"You both are amazing. Your love and loyalty should be compared to the stories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and Héloïse. Yet you are unique and different from them, as you stand above them."
"Señor, 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."
"Sir, if we only knew, there are thousands of stories in the world similar to ours, but they never get told. Shakespeare wrote about a Juliet, Chateaubriand wrote about an Atala, and they became immortal; but what about the countless heroines who have had no writer to carry their story into the future? Believe me, they are as numerous as the sand on the beach. And is it really so much to give up for Heaven? Anselmo and I still have each other; and that bond lasts forever. You might find it strange to hear a Sister of Mercy talking about love in such a calm and unpassionate way," she smiled. "You think I’m cold and strict. You don’t believe that I have feelings deep as the ocean, vast as eternity. It’s true that my love for Anselmo is just the love we should all show one another; but for him, it’s the highest and most profound feeling beyond words. In my dreams, he comes to me as a bright angel, encouraging me to be brave; in my waking moments, he is my closest and truest friend, my hero, and my king. Isn’t this better than all those passionate promises that rarely last beyond our youth and often fade under the pressures of daily life? To me, Anselmo is still surrounded by all the romance of our early years. He is like an earthly light guiding me forward."
Cathedral Cloisters: Girona.
"Regret?" she softly murmured. "A hundred times since it happened conviction has been vouchsafed to me in my dreams, strengthening my faith, showing the wisdom of my choice. Every day of my life I thank Heaven for the power it gave me. Had I married Anselmo, he would have become my religion; my heart's best affection given to him, Heaven would have come second. I know and feel it. And we know Who has said: 'He that loveth father and mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.' Yet that would have been my case in the earlier years; and in the later—who can tell?—perhaps what I have described."
"Regret?" she softly said. "A hundred times since it happened, I've been convinced in my dreams, reinforcing my faith and showing me the wisdom of my choice. Every day of my life, I thank Heaven for the strength it gave me. If I had married Anselmo, he would have become my everything; my deepest love would have been for him, and Heaven would have come second. I know it and I feel it. And we know Who has said: 'Anyone who loves father and mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.' Yet that would have been my situation in the earlier years; and in later years—who can say?—perhaps what I've mentioned."
"Impossible, for Anselmo is worthy of all love, and could never change. One rarely meets any one like him. He seems little less than saint."
"Impossible, because Anselmo deserves all the love and could never change. You rarely meet anyone like him. He seems almost like a saint."
"He is very saintly," replied Rosalie, with almost a look of ecstasy. "I frequently meet the priesthood in the sick-room, at the bedside of the dying. The difference in the ministrations is wonderful. The very entrance of Anselmo brings consolation, seems to sanctify the chamber. Sometimes it is almost as though an angel spoke."
"He is really saintly," replied Rosalie, looking almost ecstatic. "I often see the clergy in the sick room, at the bedside of the dying. The difference in their care is amazing. Just the arrival of Anselmo brings comfort and seems to bless the room. Sometimes it feels like an angel is speaking."
If she at all exaggerated, who could wonder? She saw and heard and judged everything through her own nature; and to the sick and sorrowing no doubt came herself as a rainbow of hope.
If she exaggerated at all, who could blame her? She perceived and interpreted everything through her own lens; and to those who were sick and suffering, she probably appeared as a beacon of hope.
"You have done wisely and chosen the better part," we said. "Your life in consequence is peaceful and happy."
"You made a smart choice and picked the better option," we said. "Because of that, your life is calm and joyful."
"It could not be more so," answered Rosalie. "I have my earthly shekinah to lighten my path. My heart is so much in my work that if I lived for a century I should never weary of it. What higher mission or greater privilege could there be? I am constantly at the bedside of the sick, assisting the last moments of the dying, helping to restore others to health. The love they give me is unbounded. My existence is made up of love. I feel I have many in the other world who pray for me, perhaps watch over my daily life."
"It couldn't be more true," Rosalie replied. "I have my own guiding light to brighten my path. I'm so invested in my work that even if I lived for a hundred years, I would never get tired of it. What greater purpose or privilege could there be? I'm always by the bedside of the sick, helping ease the final moments of the dying, and assisting in restoring others to health. The love they show me is endless. My life is filled with love. I believe there are many in the afterlife who pray for me, maybe even watch over my daily life."
"But are they not in purgatory?" For of course Rosalie was a Roman Catholic.
"But aren't they in purgatory?" Because, of course, Rosalie was a Roman Catholic.
"I do not believe in purgatory," she murmured in subdued tones. "I have seen many die who cannot possibly be going to torment. If there be a transition state, it is one of bliss and holiness, where the soul, in gratitude to God for His mercies, grows and expands until it becomes fit for the heaven of heavens."
"I don't believe in purgatory," she said quietly. "I've seen many people die who definitely aren't going to suffer. If there's a state in between, it's one of joy and holiness, where the soul, grateful to God for His kindness, grows and evolves until it's ready for the highest heaven."
"But this is perplexing. Here are two devout Romanists who reject the very first conditions of their faith. Anselmo believes not in confession, you reject purgatory. Of course we agree with you, but then we are Protestants."
"But this is confusing. Here are two devoted Catholics who deny the fundamental aspects of their faith. Anselmo doesn’t believe in confession, and you reject purgatory. We definitely agree with you, but then we are Protestants."
"Hush!" murmured Rosalie. "The very walls of Gerona have ears. We can only act up to our convictions, and where they disagree with the Church keep differences to ourselves. What Anselmo believes, I believe. It is wonderful how we think alike in all great matters. This morning I had the privilege of a long conversation with Père Delormais, who is staying for a week here. There, indeed, is a broad-minded Churchman who ought to be Pope of Rome. He would favour Protestants as much as Roman Catholics—and scandalise the narrow-minded community. In that he reminds me of the Abbé Fénélon, who is so earnest and devout. Do you know his 'Spiritual Letters,' señor?"
"Hush!" whispered Rosalie. "The walls of Gerona have ears. We can only act according to our beliefs, and where they differ from the Church, we should keep those differences to ourselves. What Anselmo believes, I believe. It's amazing how we share the same views on major issues. This morning, I had the chance to talk for a long time with Père Delormais, who is staying here for a week. He’s truly a broad-minded clergyman who should be the Pope of Rome. He would support both Protestants and Roman Catholics—and that would shock the narrow-minded community. In that way, he reminds me of Abbé Fénélon, who is so sincere and devoted. Have you read his 'Spiritual Letters,' señor?"
"It is one of our favourite books, Rosalie. Those who read and follow Fénélon will hardly go wrong. We have always felt he was a Protestant at heart."
"It’s one of our favorite books, Rosalie. Those who read and follow Fénélon will hardly go wrong. We’ve always felt he was a Protestant at heart."
"A follower of Christ at heart," returned Rosalie, "without distinction of forms and ceremonies. To him if the heart was right, the rest mattered little. He cared not whether a soul worshipped within or without the Church of Rome. Would that all errors could be swept away and we were all Protestants and Catholics, united in one creed and ritual, even as we worship the one true God and believe in the all-sufficient Saviour."
"A follower of Christ at heart," Rosalie replied, "regardless of forms and ceremonies. For him, if the heart was in the right place, the rest didn't matter much. He didn’t care if someone worshipped inside or outside the Church of Rome. I wish all the misunderstandings could be cleared away and that we could all be Protestants and Catholics, united in one belief and practice, just as we worship the one true God and believe in the all-sufficient Savior."
"That day is far distant. We must wait the millennium, Rosalie. Until then it is not to be peace but a sword. The bitterest persecutors are those who fight for what they call Religion."
"That day is a long way off. We have to wait a thousand years, Rosalie. Until then, there won't be peace but conflict. The most ruthless persecutors are those who believe they are fighting for what they call Religion."
"'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,'" quoted Rosalie. "That applies equally to the 'Household of Faith.' There is the prophecy. I suppose we must not look for a Church Triumphant until the Church Militant has ceased. But I must go my way. Señor, I rejoice that you spoke to me. I am glad to know you. Whether the acquaintance be of hours or years, you are evidently Anselmo's friends, therefore mine. Do not think my heart closed to all human interests because I wear a religious garb and go through life as Sister Anastasia, ministering to the sick and dying. On the contrary, I take pleasure in all the worldly concerns of my friends. I like to hear of their being married and given in marriage. Nothing delights me more than the sight of a happy home and devoted family. And I like to hear of all the changes, improvements, inventions that are turning the world upside down and revolutionising the lives of men. If you are staying in Gerona we shall meet again. I am constantly flitting to and fro. My life is a great privilege, as I have said. You will keep a corner in your heart for me and for Anselmo; one niche for both. Adieu, señor. Adieu."
"'A man's enemies will be those of his own family,'" Rosalie quoted. "That’s just as true for the 'Household of Faith.' That's the prophecy. I guess we shouldn’t expect a Church Triumphant until the Church Militant is over. But I have to go my way. Sir, I’m glad you talked to me. I’m happy to know you. Whether we spend just a few hours or many years together, you are clearly Anselmo's friends, so you are mine too. Don’t think my heart is closed off to all human interests just because I wear a religious outfit and live as Sister Anastasia, caring for the sick and dying. On the contrary, I enjoy all the everyday matters of my friends. I love hearing about their marriages and new beginnings. Nothing brings me more joy than seeing a happy home and a loving family. I’m also interested in the changes, advancements, and inventions that are shaking up the world and transforming lives. If you’re staying in Gerona, we will meet again. I’m always moving around. My life is such a privilege, as I have said. You will keep a special place in your heart for me and for Anselmo; one spot for both of us. Goodbye, sir. Goodbye."
She glided away rapidly with her quiet graceful motion; an angel of mercy, we thought, if earth ever held one.
She moved away quickly with her quiet, graceful motion; we thought of her as an angel of mercy, if there was ever one on earth.
"Never, never should I have had strength to give her up," said H. C., following her with all his susceptible nature in his eyes. "This morning I admired Anselmo, now I feel quite angry with him."
"Never, never should I have had the strength to let her go," said H. C., following her with all his emotional nature in his eyes. "This morning I admired Anselmo, but now I feel pretty angry with him."
"You do wrong and are mistaken. It was her choosing, not his. He behaved nobly. They have found their vocation. Both are happy, and we cannot doubt it is Heaven's ordering. There is no shadow in their lives; remember how rare that is. You know Mrs. Plarr's lines:
"You are mistaken and you've got it wrong. It was her choice, not his. He acted with honor. They have discovered their purpose. Both are happy, and we can’t doubt that it’s by Heaven's design. There’s no darkness in their lives; remember how rare that is. You know Mrs. Plarr's lines:
| 'There are twin Genii both strong and mighty, |
| With their guidance, humanity remains, |
| Never divided where one can enter, |
| Each one captivates the other; |
| And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure, |
| "And the name of the dreadful one is Pain." |
For them the genii have separated. Their life has no pain. Think of Rosalie's vision. Had they married it might have been all sorrow and suffering. No, best as it is. Their story is an idyll too perfect for this world. They have had their romance, and have kept it."
For them, the spirits have parted ways. Their lives are pain-free. Consider Rosalie's dream. If they had married, it could have been filled with nothing but grief and hardship. No, it's better this way. Their story is a perfect idyll that doesn't belong in this world. They've experienced their romance and have managed to hold onto it."
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.
Demons at work—In the crowd—Ernesto and his mother—Roasted chestnuts—Tool of torture—New school of anatomy—Rhinestones or diamonds?—Happy mother—Honest confession—Risks of sharp tools—Cayenne lozenges for the monkeys—Joseph—Early compliments—Ernesto pleads in vain—Down by the river—Music of the reeds—Bright future—Faust—Singers of the world—Joseph takes tickets—Gerona stays up late—Its little great world—Between the acts—Successful evening—In the dark night—On the bridge—Silence and solitude—Astral bodies—Joseph becomes 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 set—"Only the truth is painful"—Lost in thought.
WE were facing the wonderful arcades which still seemed haunted by Rosalie's shadow, so vivid the impression she left behind her. It was one of the most striking bits of Gerona the beautiful, with its massive masonry and deep recesses requiring sunlight to relieve their mysterious gloom.
WE were looking at the beautiful arcades that still seemed to be touched by Rosalie's presence, so strong was the impression she left. It was one of the most remarkable parts of lovely Gerona, with its thick walls and deep alcoves needing sunlight to brighten their mysterious darkness.
In a few moments we stood once more on the bridge, looking upon the remarkable scene. The demons were in full work down in the dry bed of the river; their altars threw out tongues of flame as wood, coal and braise mingled their elements, and the air seemed full of the scent of roasted chestnuts.
In a few moments, we found ourselves back on the bridge, taking in the incredible scene. The demons were hard at work in the dry riverbed; their altars shot out flames as wood, coal, and other materials mixed together, and the air was filled with the smell of roasted chestnuts.
Those marvellous houses stood on either side with their old-world outlines and weather-beaten stains. Above them rose the towers of Gerona's churches, sharply cutting the grey sky. To our right, the boulevard stretched far down, with its waving, rustling trees. All the shows were in full operation; streams of people went to and fro; the booths were making a fortune; the Dutch auction was giving away its wares—if the auctioneer might be relied on.
Those amazing houses stood on either side with their classic shapes and weathered stains. Above them, the towers of Gerona's churches rose sharply against the grey sky. To our right, the boulevard stretched out, lined with swaying, rustling trees. Everything was in full swing; streams of people moved back and forth; the booths were raking in money; the Dutch auction was selling its goods—if the auctioneer could be trusted.
We joined the crowd and presently felt a tug at our elbow. It was Ernesto with radiant face, his hands full of chestnuts freely offered and accepted. We found it easy to persuade ourselves the indigestible horrors were excellent.
We joined the crowd and soon felt a tug at our elbow. It was Ernesto with a beaming face, his hands full of chestnuts being freely offered and accepted. We easily convinced ourselves that the indigestible horrors were actually great.
"Ernesto, you are taking liberties," said his mother, as the boy took our arm to confide his purchases. A Rhine-stone brooch for the mother, which Mrs. Malaprop would have declared quite an object of bigotry and virtue; a wonderful knife for himself, full of sharp blades and secret springs. A purse capable of holding gold, and a pocket-book that would soon become dropsical with a boy's treasures. Finally, from the innermost recess of a trousers' pocket, he produced for an instant—a catapult; to be held a profound secret from the mother.
"Ernesto, you’re pushing your luck," his mother said, as the boy took our arm to share what he had bought. A rhinestone brooch for his mom, which Mrs. Malaprop would have called quite a show of bias and morality; a fantastic knife for himself, packed with sharp blades and hidden springs. A purse big enough to hold gold, and a wallet that would soon bulge with a boy's treasures. Finally, from the deepest corner of his pants pocket, he briefly revealed—a slingshot; meant to be kept a deep secret from his mom.
"It keeps her awake at night," he confided; "and when she does get to sleep she dreams of smashed windows and murdered cats. Now I never smash windows, though I do go for the cats when I have a chance. It does them no harm. If I hit them, you hear a thud like a sound from a drum—the cats are not over-fed in these parts—but instead of tumbling down dead, which would be exciting, they rush off like mad."
"It keeps her up at night," he shared; "and when she finally does fall asleep, she dreams about broken windows and dead cats. I never break windows, though I do go after the cats when I can. It doesn’t hurt them. If I hit them, it makes a thud like a drum—cats around here aren’t well-fed—but instead of collapsing dead, which would be thrilling, they dart off like crazy."
"Perhaps they die afterwards, Ernesto, of fractured liver or broken heart."
"Maybe they end up dying later, Ernesto, from liver failure or a broken heart."
This was at once negatived.
This was immediately rejected.
"Oh no, cats haven't livers and hearts like human beings. Their insides are nothing but india-rubber. You can't kill a cat. If one fell from the top of San Filiu, it would get up, shake its paws and run away."
"Oh no, cats don’t have livers and hearts like humans. Their insides are just like rubber. You can't kill a cat. If one fell from the top of San Filiu, it would get up, shake its paws, and run away."
We noted this revelation, intending to bring it before the Faculty on our return to England, which evidently still gropes in Egyptian darkness. The catapult was restored to safe depths, and before long no doubt many a domestic tabby would be missing; there would be widowed cats and orphaned kittens in many a household.
We took note of this revelation, planning to present it to the Faculty when we got back to England, which clearly still struggles with ignorance. The catapult was returned to safe depths, and soon enough, many household cats would go missing; there would be lonely cats and orphaned kittens in many homes.
"I believe they have made a mistake, and these are real diamonds," he cried excitedly, kissing his mother and duly admiring the effect. "And I haven't spent half my pocket-money yet."
"I think they've made a mistake, and these are real diamonds," he said excitedly, kissing his mom and appreciating the effect. "And I haven't even spent half of my allowance yet."
"Thanks to you, señor," said the happy mother. "I was his first thought. He bought me the brooch before he would look at a knife or chestnut. It shall be kept amongst my treasures."
"Thanks to you, sir," said the happy mother. "I was the first thing on his mind. He bought me the brooch before he even considered a knife or chestnut. It will be treasured among my things."
She was evidently almost as happy and light-hearted as the boy, her eyes flashing with proud affection. No great care haunted her life in spite of her conjugal good-morning.
She was clearly just as happy and carefree as the boy, her eyes sparkling with proud affection. No significant worries troubled her life despite her marital good-morning.
"Confess that your lot is favoured," we said, "and you would not change your lazy husband even if you had the chance. Confess you adore him and are to be envied."
"Admit that you're really lucky," we said, "and you wouldn't swap your lazy husband even if you could. Admit that you love him and that people should be jealous of you."
"Well, señor, you are not my father-confessor," she laughed, "but I will confess to you all the same. I admit I would rather bear the ills I have than fly to those of which I know nothing," unconsciously quoting Shakespeare.
"Well, sir, you’re not my confessor," she laughed, "but I’ll admit something to you anyway. I’d rather deal with the problems I know than jump into ones I know nothing about," unconsciously quoting Shakespeare.
"Then the conjugal good-morning must be a little sweetened. It is dangerous to play with edged tools."
"Then the good-morning between partners should be a little sweeter. It’s risky to handle sharp objects."
Again she laughed, a laugh free from anxiety.
Again she laughed, a carefree laugh.
"We understand each other, señor. If I received him too amiably he would not appear upon the scene till twelve o'clock. Not that I really mind; but it is a bad example for Ernesto. The boy, however, takes after me. Never will grass grow under his feet."
"We get each other, sir. If I welcomed him too nicely, he wouldn’t show up until noon. Not that I actually care; it just sets a bad example for Ernesto. The kid, though, is just like me. He never sits still."
Ernesto was impatient to be off; he must certainly act up to the proverb to-day.
Ernesto was eager to get going; he definitely had to live up to the saying today.
"Now for the shows," cried the lad. "We are losing too much time here. I smell roasted chestnuts, but their flavour is better. We must cross the iron bridge to get to the shows. I want to hear the lions growl, and administer cayenne lozenges to the monkeys. It is great fun to see them. You must often have done the same, señor?"
"Now for the shows," shouted the boy. "We're wasting too much time here. I can smell roasted chestnuts, but their taste is even better. We need to cross the iron bridge to get to the shows. I want to hear the lions roar and give cayenne lozenges to the monkeys. It's a lot of fun to watch them. You must have done the same often, sir?"
We virtuously disowned the impeachment. But he was full of harmless mischief, after the manner of boys healthy in mind and body; free and open in his thoughts and ways.
We morally rejected the impeachment. But he was full of innocent mischief, like a healthy boy in both mind and body; open and honest in his thoughts and actions.
A few minutes and we found ourselves in the market-place listening to the clown who had used superhuman exertions last night, still apparently in excellent health and spirits. Night was the great harvest-time, but even now his labours were receiving fair success. The people had got over their first glamour and were responding.
A few minutes later, we found ourselves in the marketplace listening to the clown who had put in a superhuman effort last night, still seemingly in great health and good spirits. Night was the prime time for harvesting, but even now his efforts were showing promising results. The crowd had moved past their initial fascination and were engaging with him.
"There is José, your landlord's son, señor, looking to right and left," said madame, in the interval between two terrific trumpet blasts. "Probably searching for you. Ah! he sees us."
"There’s José, your landlord's son, sir, looking around," said Madame during a break between two loud trumpet blasts. "He’s probably looking for you. Oh! He sees us."
The tall, slight young man was making his way through the few remaining stalls in the market. These sold nothing but fruit and were altogether neglected. Gerona did not shine in that department.
The tall, slender young man was walking through the few remaining stalls in the market. These only sold fruit and were completely ignored. Gerona didn’t excel in that area.
"I have been looking for you everywhere," said our young host as he came up, bowing politely after the fashion of his country. "I thought, señor, you might want me to pilot you about the town; but you are in the hands of a fairer guide, and I am not needed."
"I've been searching for you everywhere," said our young host as he approached, bowing politely in the manner of his country. "I thought, sir, you might want me to show you around the town; but you’re with a more beautiful guide, so it looks like I'm not needed."
Joseph had evidently not pursued his studies at Tours for nothing, and was beginning early to turn compliments.
Joseph had clearly not studied at Tours for nothing and was starting early to give compliments.
"On the contrary, we shall be glad of your company," we replied. "Ernesto and his mother are going in to hear the lions roar and administer delicacies to the monkeys. And having no ambition to shake in our shoes or be taken up for cruelty to animals, we would rather explore the antiquities of Gerona under your care. So you appear at the right moment."
"Actually, we’d love to have you join us," we said. "Ernesto and his mom are going in to listen to the lions roar and give treats to the monkeys. And since we don’t want to be scared or accused of being cruel to animals, we’d prefer to check out the historic sites of Gerona with you. So you showed up at just the right time."
"Ah, señor, do come in," pleaded Ernesto. "I should enjoy it so much more. And you would shriek with delight when you saw the antics of the monkeys eating cayenne——"
"Ah, sir, please come in," urged Ernesto. "I would enjoy it so much more. And you would scream with excitement when you saw the monkeys going wild over the cayenne——"
"Ernesto, you are incorrigible," we interrupted, laughing. "We decline the risk; and whilst detesting monkeys, we have a conscience. Yours evidently has still to be awakened. But you may come and tell us your experiences at the hotel later on—that is if you are still at large."
"Ernesto, you are impossible," we interrupted, laughing. "We won't take the risk; and while we really dislike monkeys, we still have a conscience. Yours clearly still needs to be awakened. But you can come and share your experiences at the hotel later—that is, if you’re still free."
So the boy, taking his mother's arm, boldly mounted the steps, and with a final happy nod, and flourishing a small packet of cayenne lozenges, he disappeared beyond the curtain. How the lions would roar or the monkeys receive the indignity remained to be seen. Ernesto was not wanting in purpose and might be trusted to do his best.
So the boy, taking his mother's arm, confidently climbed the steps, and with one last cheerful nod, waving a small pack of cayenne lozenges, he disappeared behind the curtain. How the lions would roar or how the monkeys would react to the indignity was yet to be seen. Ernesto was determined and could be relied upon to give it his all.
We left the shows and the crowd for a moment, went round to the banks of the river, and listened to the whispering reeds and rushes. What repose; what a contrast to the glare and glitter and crowding of the fair. Not a soul visible excepting the ferryman a little way up-stream, waiting dejectedly in his boat for custom that would not come. The rustling reeds harmonised musically with the quiet flow of the water as it rippled and plashed on its way to the sea. To the left the plain spread far and wide—a rich, productive country with much fair beauty about it. Where we stood the river was broad and reflected the magic outlines of the town, faint and subdued under the grey skies. Above the music of the rushes we could hear the distant hum of the pleasure-seekers, where everything was life and movement.
We stepped away from the shows and the crowd for a bit, went to the riverbank, and listened to the soft whispers of the reeds and rushes. What a peaceful moment; such a contrast to the bright lights and bustling crowd of the fair. There wasn't a soul in sight except for the ferryman a little ways upstream, hopelessly waiting in his boat for customers that wouldn’t arrive. The rustling reeds blended beautifully with the gentle flow of the water as it rippled and splashed on its way to the sea. To the left, the plain stretched out wide—a rich, productive landscape filled with lovely scenery. Where we stood, the river was wide and mirrored the enchanting outlines of the town, faint and muted under the grey skies. Above the sound of the rushes, we could hear the distant buzz of the people seeking pleasure, where everything was alive and vibrant.
Presently passing the theatre, we saw "Faust" announced for that evening. An operatic company had arrived from Barcelona. Wonders would never cease. In this dull town, decaying remnant of Spain, there was an Opera-house, and the tempter was to play off his wiles on beautiful Margaret. What would the performance resemble?
Presently passing the theater, we saw "Faust" advertised for that evening. An opera company had come in from Barcelona. Wonders never cease. In this dull town, a fading remnant of Spain, there was an opera house, and the tempter was going to work his magic on beautiful Margaret. What would the performance be like?
"Quite a large house," said Joseph, "and a very fine one; the players are often excellent."
"That's a pretty big house," said Joseph, "and it's really nice; the performers are often great."
Of course he judged from his own experience, which had never gone beyond Tours; never dreamed of the great voices of the world. Who indeed could dream of Titiens, never having heard of her? Or of Ilma di Murska?—those stars in the world of song: not to mention Grisi and Malibran the incomparable, of the far-gone days. Still, he spoke with enthusiasm, and we felt we must hear this Faust and Marguerite.
Of course, he was judging based on his own experience, which had never gone beyond Tours; he never even imagined the great voices of the world. Who could really dream of Titiens if they had never heard of her? Or of Ilma di Murska?—those stars in the world of music; not to mention Grisi and Malibran, the incomparable ones from the past. Still, he spoke with enthusiasm, and we felt we had to hear this Faust and Marguerite.
"Take three tickets for to-night, José, and you shall point out all the élite of Gerona; the great, the good, the beautiful."
"Get three tickets for tonight, José, and you can show me all the elite of Gerona; the great, the good, the beautiful."
Joseph needed no second bidding. Diving through the doorway to the office he returned with three excellent stalls. The performance was to be fashionably late. Everything in the way of entertainment is late in Spain, and especially in Gerona. At night the streets are soon deserted, but people do not go to bed. They sit up in their own homes, amusing themselves.
Joseph didn't need to be asked twice. He rushed into the office and came back with three great stalls. The performance was set to start fashionably late. Everything related to entertainment runs late in Spain, especially in Gerona. At night, the streets quickly become empty, but people don't go to sleep. They stay up in their homes, keeping themselves entertained.
OLD HOUSES BY THE RIVER: GERONA.
Accordingly before eight-thirty we found ourselves in our seats waiting the lifting of the curtain. The house was nearly empty, though it was within five minutes of the appointed hour. Not a sign of any orchestra. We feared a cold reception and a dead failure.
Accordingly, before eight-thirty, we found ourselves in our seats waiting for the curtain to go up. The theater was nearly empty, even though it was just five minutes until showtime. There was no sign of the orchestra. We worried about a lukewarm reception and a total flop.
"Not at all," said Joseph. "It is always the same. Before nine o'clock the house will be full, with hardly an empty seat anywhere."
"Not at all," Joseph said. "It's always the same. Before nine o'clock, the house will be packed, with barely an empty seat anywhere."
So it proved. About twenty minutes to nine the orchestra streamed in and took their places, laughed, talked and made jokes, as if the audience—now quickly appearing—had been so many cabbage-stalks. In various parts of the house there were notices forbidding smoking; but the musicians lighted their abominable pipes and cigars without ceremony, and soon ruined the atmosphere. We wondered how this would affect the singers, and when they came on they coughed, sneezed, and looked reproachful.
So it turned out. Around twenty minutes to nine, the orchestra came in and took their seats, chatting, joking, and laughing, as if the audience—who was now arriving quickly—were just a bunch of cabbage stalks. Throughout the venue, there were signs prohibiting smoking; but the musicians lit up their awful pipes and cigars without hesitation, quickly ruining the atmosphere. We wondered how this would affect the singers, and when they appeared, they were coughing, sneezing, and looking disapproving.
It was a large, well-appointed house, of excellent proportions. Half the town might surely find room here. Curtains and all such elements disturbing to the voice were conspicuous by their absence. Before nine o'clock every seat was filled, as Joseph had foretold.
It was a spacious, nicely decorated house with great proportions. Half the town could definitely fit in here. Curtains and other things that would muffle the voice were clearly missing. By nine o'clock, every seat was taken, just as Joseph had predicted.
Between the acts we were able to survey the little world of Gerona. Many clearly thought themselves members of a great world. Humility was not their leading virtue. From the construction of the house, every one was very much in evidence, and from our places in the front stalls we saw and heard perfectly. "Monarchs of all we survey," said H. C. after a long stare in all directions. "No, I don't quite mean that; it would be slightly embarrassing. I mean that we survey everything as though we were monarchs. It comes to the same."
Between the acts, we were able to take in the little world of Gerona. Many clearly saw themselves as part of a larger world. Humility was not their strong suit. The layout of the house made everyone very noticeable, and from our seats in the front row, we saw and heard everything perfectly. "Monarchs of all we survey," H. C. said after a long look around. "No, that’s not exactly what I mean; that would be a bit awkward. What I mean is that we take in everything as if we were monarchs. It amounts to the same thing."
Every species of temperament was represented; the solemn and sober, excited and flirting, prude and profligate. Extremes met. Some of the ladies made play with their eyes and fans, were full of small gestures and rippling laughter. Many were dressed "in shimmer of satin and pearls," their white arms and necks very décolletés. Thus we had both a play and an opera. It was quite as amusing to study the audience between the acts, as to watch the drama upon the stage. Ladies were admitted to the stalls, and the house looked more civilised in consequence. Many of the men in this polite Spain sat with their hats on until the curtain drew up. Altogether the house presented a very lively appearance.
Every type of personality was present; serious and reserved, lively and flirtatious, modest and reckless. Opposites came together. Some of the ladies were playful with their eyes and fans, filled with little gestures and bubbling laughter. Many wore "shimmering satin and pearls," their bare arms and necks quite exposed. So, we had both a play and an opera. It was just as entertaining to observe the audience between the acts as it was to watch the performance on stage. Ladies were allowed in the stalls, which made the venue feel more civilized. Many of the men in this polite Spain kept their hats on until the curtain went up. Overall, the audience had a very lively vibe.
"Who would have thought it!" said H. C. "The place overflows with wealth and rank. These people might be dukes and duchesses—and look the character much more than many of our 'Coronets and Norman blood.' Yet as we passed Gerona in the train it seemed nothing but an encampment for beggars. Beggars? Let me apologise. Beggars would want something more recherché. In these days that flourishing profession dines at eight o'clock and sleeps on down."
"Who would have thought it!" said H. C. "The place is full of wealth and status. These people could easily be dukes and duchesses—and they definitely look the part much more than many of our 'nobles and aristocrats.' Yet as we passed Gerona on the train, it seemed like just a campsite for beggars. Beggars? Let me take that back. Beggars would want something a bit more refined. These days, that thriving profession eats dinner at eight o'clock and sleeps on nice bedding."
In the foyer, between one of the acts, we came into closer contact with this aristocratic crowd.
In the foyer, between acts, we got a closer look at this high-society crowd.
It was a very large long room, gorgeously fitted up; great mirrors giving back full-length reflections. Few ladies honoured it with their presence, but a crowd of short, dark, handsome Spaniards went to and fro, smoking cigarettes, wildly gesticulating about Margaret, abusing the unfortunate Siebel, openly passing their opinions upon the ladies of the audience. Mixing freely amongst them we heard many an amusing remark upon people we were able to identify on returning to our seats. At the end of the third act we began to feel like old habitués. A week in Gerona and we should be familiar with every one's history.
It was a very large, long room, beautifully decorated; big mirrors reflecting full-length images. Few ladies graced it with their presence, but a crowd of short, dark, good-looking Spaniards moved back and forth, smoking cigarettes and animatedly talking about Margaret, criticizing the unfortunate Siebel, and openly sharing their opinions on the women in the audience. Mixing freely among them, we heard many funny comments about people we recognized when we returned to our seats. By the end of the third act, we started to feel like regulars. A week in Gerona and we would know everyone’s story.
"A happy thought, coming here to-night," said H. C. "I am now quite at home amongst these people, and should like to call upon some of them to-morrow. That exquisite creature, for instance, with the lovely eyes, perfect features, and complexion of a blush rose. I believe—yes, I am sure—look—she is gazing at me with a very sweet expression!"
"A nice thought to be here tonight," said H. C. "I feel completely at home with these people now and would love to visit some of them tomorrow. That beautiful woman over there, for example, with the stunning eyes, perfect features, and a complexion like a blush rose. I think—yes, I'm sure—look—she's looking at me with a really kind expression!"
He was growing excited. We grasped his arm with a certain magnetic touch which recalled him to himself. Keepers have this influence on their patients.
He was getting excited. We held his arm with a kind of magnetic touch that brought him back to himself. Caregivers have this effect on their patients.
Here, fortunately, the curtain went up, and H. C.'s emotions passed into another channel.
Here, thankfully, the curtain rose, and H. C.'s emotions shifted to another direction.
Street in Girona.
The performance had equalled our modest expectations. One must not be too critical. If Faust was contemptible and Siebel impossible, Margaret and Mephistopheles saved all from failure. She was pretty and refined, with a certain touching pathos that appealed to her hearers. She sang with grace, too, but her voice was made for nothing larger than a drawing-room, and when the orchestra crashed out the dramatic parts, we had to imagine a great deal.
The performance met our modest expectations. We shouldn't be too critical. While Faust was frustrating and Siebel impossible, Margaret and Mephistopheles kept it from failing. She was beautiful and elegant, with a certain touching sadness that resonated with the audience. She sang gracefully, but her voice was suited for nothing bigger than a living room, and when the orchestra erupted during the dramatic moments, we had to fill in a lot of gaps.
Siebel was the great stumbling-block and burlesque; her singing and acting so excruciating that when the audience ought to have melted to tears they laughed aloud. When Valentine died she clasped her hands, not in despair but admiration of the fine performance, looked at the audience as much as to say, "Would you not like him to get up and die again?" and when his body was carried off, skipped after it, as though assisting at some May-day frolic.
Siebel was the major point of ridicule and absurdity; her singing and acting were so painful that instead of crying when the audience should have, they laughed out loud. When Valentine died, she clasped her hands, not in sorrow but in admiration of the great show, looked at the audience as if to say, "Wouldn't you like him to get up and die again?" and when his body was taken away, she hopped after it, as if she were joining in on some May Day celebration.
Faust was beneath criticism, and one felt angry with Margaret for falling in love with him. In reality she must have hated him. Mephistopheles, on the contrary, was admirable, and would have done honour to Her Majesty's in the days of Titiens and Trebelli.
Faust was beyond criticism, and it was frustrating to think that Margaret fell in love with him. In truth, she must have despised him. Mephistopheles, on the other hand, was impressive and would have been a credit to Her Majesty during the era of Titiens and Trebelli.
The "Old Men's Chorus" was crowning triumph of the performance. Three decrepit objects came forward and quavered through their song. When it was ended the audience insisted upon having it all over again, whilst they kept up a running accompaniment of laughter, in which the old men joined as they retreated into the background.
The "Old Men's Chorus" was the highlight of the performance. Three frail figures stepped forward and sang their song with a shaky voice. When it was over, the audience demanded to hear it again, laughing along while the old men joined in as they faded into the background.
Altogether it was a successful evening. Every one left in good humour, and many were charmed.
Altogether, it was a successful evening. Everyone left in good spirits, and many were enchanted.
We went out into the night, glad to exchange the atmosphere. It looked doubly dark after the brilliancy of the house. Every light was out, every house buried in profound slumber. We turned to the bridge, and stood there until all the playgoers had streamed homewards, and silence and solitude reigned. Once more the chestnut-roasters had departed and their sacrificial altars were cold and dead. Down the boulevard not a creature was visible. Stalls and booths were closed, torches extinguished. The leaves of the trees gently rustled and murmured in the night wind. We almost felt as though we still saw Ernesto and his mother walking up and down in close companionship. It must have been their astral bodies. Both no doubt were slumbering, and perhaps the same vision haunted their dreams; broken windows and four-footed victims—seen from different points of view.
We stepped out into the night, happy to exchange the atmosphere. It felt even darker after the brightness of the house. Every light was off, and every house was deeply asleep. We turned to the bridge and stood there until all the theater-goers had headed home, and silence and solitude took over. Once again, the chestnut vendors had left, and their stands were cold and lifeless. Down the boulevard, not a single creature was in sight. Stalls and booths were shut, and torches were put out. The leaves of the trees gently rustled and whispered in the night breeze. We almost felt like we could still see Ernesto and his mom walking together closely. It must have been their spirits. Both were surely asleep, and maybe the same vision haunted their dreams—broken windows and four-legged victims—seen from different angles.
In the firmament a great change had taken place. The clouds had rolled away; not a vapour large as a man's hand remained to be seen; stars shone clear and brilliant; the Great Bear ploughed his untiring way, and Orion, dipping westward, was closely followed by his faithful Sirius. All seemed to promise fair weather.
In the sky, a huge change had happened. The clouds had cleared away; not even a tiny puff the size of a man's hand could be seen; the stars shone bright and clear; the Great Bear was moving steadily along, and Orion, leaning toward the west, was closely followed by his loyal Sirius. Everything seemed to promise good weather.
"What do you think of it, Joseph? Is your weatherwise astronomer for once proving a false prophet?"
"What do you think, Joseph? Is your weatherwise astronomer finally proving to be a false prophet?"
"It looks like it," replied Joseph, gazing north and south. "No man is infallible," philosophically. "But our prophet has never been wrong yet, and I expect you will find the skies weeping in the morning."
"It seems that way," Joseph said, looking north and south. "No one is perfect," he added thoughtfully. "But our prophet has been right every time so far, and I bet you'll see the skies crying by morning."
"You are a Job's comforter, and ought to be called Bildad the Shuhite. Was not he the worst of the three, and would have the last word?"
"You’re a false comforter, and you should be called Bildad the Shuhite. Wasn’t he the worst of the three, always wanting to have the last word?"
Joseph shook his head. He was not acquainted with the Book of Job.
Joseph shook his head. He wasn't familiar with the Book of Job.
"I am jealous for the honour of my prophet," he laughed.
"I’m jealous about the honor of my prophet," he laughed.
Standing on the bridge, we could see the dark flowing water beneath—a narrow shallow stream here, which reflected the flashing stars. The houses were steeped in gloom, all their quaint, old-world aspect hidden away. The night was growing apace, and it suddenly occurred to us that we had made a half-engagement with Delormais to hear passages from his life. Would he hold us to it? Or would reflection have brought a change of plans and an early pillow?
Standing on the bridge, we could see the dark water flowing beneath us—a narrow, shallow stream that reflected the twinkling stars. The houses were shrouded in darkness, their charming old-world appearance hidden away. The night was advancing quickly, and it suddenly occurred to us that we had made a tentative agreement with Delormais to hear stories from his life. Would he expect us to follow through? Or would he consider a change of plans and head to bed early?
Surely there is a mental or psychological magnetism about people, neither realised nor understood, never sufficiently taken into account. As the thought flashed over us, a tall dark form in long cloak and round hat, full of dignity and power, turned the corner and approached the bridge. It was the priest.
Surely there's a mental or psychological magnetism about people, one that's neither recognized nor understood, and often overlooked. As this thought crossed our minds, a tall figure in a long cloak and round hat, exuding dignity and power, turned the corner and walked toward the bridge. It was the priest.
"I knew it!" he cried in that sonorous voice which was like a deep and mellow diapason. "An unseen influence guided me to the bridge. You told me you were going to the opera. I felt that when it was over you would come here star-gazing and lose yourselves in this wonderful scene. And here, had I not sought you out, you would have remained another hour, forgetting the engagement to which I hold you."
"I knew it!" he exclaimed in a rich voice that sounded deep and smooth. "Something unseen led me to the bridge. You said you were going to the opera. I sensed that when it was done, you'd come here to look at the stars and get lost in this beautiful scene. And if I hadn't found you, you would have stayed another hour, forgetting the plans we made."
"My approach influenced you," said Delormais: "work of the magnetic power constantly passing to and fro between kindred spirits, as real as it is little estimated. No one believed in it more firmly than Goethe, who in spite of his contradictory life was in close touch with the supernatural. And amongst my own people, how many have declared the reality of this mysterious link between the material and spiritual. Even sceptical Voltaire admitted some invisible influence he could not analyse. Sceptical? Will you persuade me a man with so terrible a death-bed was ever sceptic at heart? It is impossible. But how could you think I should change my mind and forget my engagement? Uncertainty plays no part either in your character or mine. Let us to our rooms. There you will lend me your ears, and I will brew you black coffee to refresh you after your evening's dissipation. And if you like you shall bring your century-old flask, and I will not read you a homily. Or was it only the contents of the flask that was a century old?"
"My approach influenced you," said Delormais. "It's the magnetic power that constantly flows between kindred spirits, as real as it is often overlooked. No one believed in it more firmly than Goethe, who, despite his contradictory life, was in close touch with the supernatural. Among my own people, many have declared the reality of this mysterious connection between the material and spiritual. Even skeptical Voltaire acknowledged an invisible influence he couldn't analyze. Skeptical? Can you really convince me that a man who had such a terrible deathbed could ever be a skeptic at heart? It's impossible. But how could you think I would change my mind and forget my engagement? Uncertainty has no place in either your character or mine. Let’s go to our rooms. There, you can lend me your ears, and I’ll brew you some black coffee to refresh you after your evening out. And if you want, you can bring your century-old flask, and I won’t preach to you. Or was it just the contents of the flask that were a century old?"
The hotel was at hand. We four alone possessed the street and awoke the silent echoes. Always excepting the ubiquitous old watchmen, who seemed to spend half their time in gazing at the great doorway, flashing weird lights and shadows with their lanterns. These they now turned upon us, but recognising the ecclesiastical figure, quickly lowered their lights, turned the spears of their staffs to the ground, and gave a military salute.
The hotel was nearby. The four of us were the only ones on the street, breaking the silence. Except for the ever-present old watchmen, who appeared to spend half their time staring at the grand entrance, casting strange lights and shadows with their lanterns. They directed their lights toward us but, upon recognizing the clerical figure, quickly lowered them, pointed their staffs to the ground, and gave a military salute.
"As a member of the Church Militant such a greeting is perhaps not out of place," he laughed. "No general on this earth ever fought more valiantly than I to gain battles—but the weapons are wide as the issues. They fight for an earthly, I for a heavenly kingdom."
"As a member of the Church Militant, that greeting is probably appropriate," he laughed. "No general on this earth has ever fought more bravely than I have to win battles—but the weapons are as varied as the issues. They fight for an earthly kingdom, while I fight for a heavenly one."
He spoke a few words to the watchmen; bade them be strong and of good courage; and we fancied—we were not quite certain—that he glided a small token of good-will into their hands.
He said a few words to the guards, encouraging them to be strong and brave, and we thought—we weren't completely sure—that he slipped a small gesture of goodwill into their hands.
Then we crossed the road, entered the courtyard, and passed up the broad marble staircase.
Then we crossed the street, entered the courtyard, and went up the wide marble staircase.
It was the hour for ghosts and shadows and unearthly sounds. Again we thought of the rich and rare crowd that had passed up and down in sacques and swords in the centuries gone by; every one of whom had long been a ghost and shadow in its turn. Again we saw clearly as in a vision that last happy pair who had separated—he to find death on the battlefield, she to rejoin him in the Land o' the Leal. Distinctly we heard the rustle of the gown, the fervency of their last embrace, the sighs that came in quick succession. So easily imagination runs away with us.
It was the hour for ghosts and shadows and eerie sounds. Again we thought of the rich and rare crowd that had walked up and down in cloaks and swords in the centuries past; each one of whom had long since become a ghost and shadow in its turn. Again we saw clearly, as in a vision, that last happy pair who had separated—he to meet his fate on the battlefield, she to reunite with him in the Land of the Leal. We clearly heard the rustle of the gown, the intensity of their last embrace, the sighs that came in quick succession. It’s so easy for our imagination to run wild.
We were awakened to realities by José, who, heavy-eyed and dreamy, was politely wishing us good-night, hardly wakeful enough to reach his room.
We were brought back to reality by José, who, with heavy eyes and a dreamy expression, was politely saying goodnight to us, barely awake enough to make it to his room.
"I will follow his example," said H. C. "The air of Gerona conduces to slumber. I verily believe you never sleep. To-morrow I shall hear that the good father's confessions terminated with the breakfast hour. Ah! I shall miss the black coffee—but I have a flask of my own, though its contents have nothing to do with the centuries."
"I'll follow his lead," said H. C. "The air in Gerona makes you sleepy. I truly believe you never get any rest. Tomorrow, I’ll find out that the good father's confessions ended with breakfast. Ah! I'll miss the strong coffee—but I have my own flask, even if what’s inside has nothing to do with the ages."
Then Delormais turned to us, his eyes full of kindly solicitude.
Then Delormais turned to us, his eyes filled with genuine concern.
"Are you equal to a vigil? Is it not too bad, after your hard day's work—pleasure is often labour—to ask you to give an old man an hour or two from your well-earned slumbers? Do you not also find the air of Gerona conducive to sleep? I warn you that at the first sign of drooping eyelid I dismiss the assembly."
"Are you up for a vigil? Isn’t it too much to ask, after a long day of work—because pleasure often feels like work—to take an hour or two from your well-deserved sleep for an old man? Don’t you also find the air in Gerona makes you sleepy? I’ll let you know that the moment I see anyone's eyelids drooping, I’ll end the gathering."
"A challenge! Never was sleep less desired. Though the breakfast hour finds us here, as H. C. foretells, there shall be no want of attention. But do not forget the black coffee!"
"A challenge! Never has sleep been less wanted. Although it's breakfast time here, as H. C. predicts, we won't lack for attention. But don't forget the black coffee!"
We heard H. C.'s receding echoes through the labyrinthine passages; the closing of a door; then a voice gently elevated in song, utterly oblivious of small hours and unconscious neighbours. "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine," it warbled; "leave but a kiss within the cup, and I'll ne'er ask for wine."
We heard H. C.'s fading echoes through the winding hallways; the sound of a door closing; then a voice softly singing, completely unaware of the late hour and nearby neighbors. "Just drink to me only with your eyes, and I'll respond with mine," it sang; "just leave a kiss in the cup, and I won’t ask for wine."
Delormais led the way through the corridors. His light threw weird shadows around. A distant clock struck the hour of one. The hush in the house was ghostly. The very walls seemed pregnant with the secrets of the past. They had listened to mighty dramas political and domestic; heard love-vows made only to be broken; absorbed the laughter of joy and the tears of sorrow. All this they now appeared to be giving out as we went between them, treading quietly on marble pavement sacred to the memory of the dead.
Delormais led the way through the corridors. His light cast strange shadows around. A distant clock chimed one o'clock. The silence in the house felt eerie. The walls seemed filled with the secrets of the past. They had witnessed powerful political and personal dramas; heard promises of love made only to be broken; absorbed laughter from joy and tears from sorrow. All of this now seemed to be emanating as we walked among them, carefully stepping on marble floors sacred to the memory of the dead.
We entered Delormais' sitting-room. At once he turned up two lamps, and lighting some half-dozen candles produced an illumination.
We walked into Delormais' living room. He immediately turned on two lamps and lit about six candles, creating a bright light.
"One of my weaknesses," he said. "I love to take night walks and lose myself in thought under the dark starlit skies, but that is quite another thing. In my room I must have brilliancy."
"One of my weaknesses," he said. "I love taking night walks and getting lost in my thoughts under the dark, starry skies, but that's a completely different thing. In my room, I need brightness."
"When you are a bishop you will so indulge this weakness that your palace will be called a Shining Light, its lord a Beacon of the Church."
"When you become a bishop, you will embrace this weakness so fully that your palace will be known as a Shining Light, and you, its leader, will be called a Beacon of the Church."
A peculiar smile passed over the face of Delormais. We did not understand it at the moment, but knew its meaning later on.
A strange smile crossed Delormais's face. We didn't get it at the time, but we understood its meaning later on.
Then he brought forward the coffee equipage, for which, if truth must be told, though slumber was never farther from us, we were grateful.
Then he brought out the coffee setup, and to be honest, even though we were wide awake, we appreciated it.
"I had it all prepared by our amiable host, and I have my own spirit-lamp, without which I never travel," said the priest. "There are times when I visit the most uncivilised, hope-forgotten places, and if I had not a few accessories with me, should fare badly."
"I had everything set up by our friendly host, and I always bring my own spirit lamp when I travel," said the priest. "Sometimes I go to the most uncivilized, forgotten places, and if I didn’t have a few supplies with me, I wouldn’t do so well."
The water soon boiled, an aromatic fragrance spread through the room; the clear black coffee was poured into white porcelain cups.
The water quickly boiled, and a pleasant aroma filled the room; the rich black coffee was poured into white porcelain cups.
"But where is the supplement? I do not see the century-old flask," said Delormais.
"But where's the supplement? I don’t see the century-old flask," Delormais said.
"That is sacred to headache—or the charm would go; there are other fixed rules besides the Persian laws."
"That is sacred to headaches—or the charm would disappear; there are other strict rules besides the Persian laws."
He placed for us a comfortably cushioned armchair near the table, and one for himself. Our coffee equipage was between us, the steaming incense rising. A shaded lamp threw its rays upon the white china and crimson cloth, gently illumined the intellectual and refined face of Delormais. We could note every play of the striking features, every flash of the large dark eyes.
He set a comfy armchair for us near the table and one for himself. Our coffee setup was between us, with steam rising like incense. A shaded lamp cast light on the white china and red cloth, softly highlighting Delormais's intellectual and refined face. We could see every nuance of his striking features and every glint of his large dark eyes.
A sudden stillness came over him; he seemed lost in profound thought, his eyes took a deep, dreamy, far-away look. They were gazing into the past, and saw a crowd of events and people who had lived and moved and had their being, but were now invisible to all but the mental vision. The hands—firm, white, well-shaped and made for intellectual work—were spread out and met at the tips of the long slender fingers. The legs were crossed, bringing into prominence a shapely foot and ankle set off by a thin well-fitting shoe. In all matters of personal appointment Delormais was refined and fastidious.
A sudden stillness fell over him; he seemed lost in deep thought, his eyes taking on a deep, dreamy, distant look. They were gazing into the past, seeing a crowd of events and people who had lived and moved and had their existence, but were now invisible to everyone except his mind's eye. His hands—strong, white, well-shaped and made for intellectual work—were spread out and met at the tips of his long slender fingers. His legs were crossed, highlighting a shapely foot and ankle accentuated by a sleek, well-fitting shoe. In all matters of personal grooming, Delormais was refined and particular.
For some minutes he appeared thus absorbed in mental retrospect. The man of life and energy had suddenly changed to contemplation. Apparently he had forgotten our presence, and the silence of the room was profound. One almost heard the rising of the incense from the coffee-cups, as it curled upwards in fantastic forms and devices, and died out. We were motionless as himself. Not ours to break the silence, though it grew strained. We had come to listen, and waited until the spirit moved him. Nor had we to wait long. He roused himself from his reverie; the dreamy light passed out of his eyes; his spirit seemed to come back to earth as he turned to us with a penetrating, kindly gaze.
For a few minutes, he looked completely lost in thought. The energetic man had suddenly turned into a deep thinker. It seemed he had forgotten we were there, and the silence in the room was intense. You could almost hear the rising aroma from the coffee mugs as it curled up in strange patterns and then faded away. We stayed as still as he was. It wasn't our place to break the silence, even though it started to feel awkward. We had come to listen and waited until he felt inspired to speak. And we didn't have to wait long. He pulled himself out of his daydream; the dreamy look in his eyes faded; his spirit seemed to return to reality as he turned to us with a thoughtful, warm gaze.
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—Ægina—Groves of the Sacred Plain—Narrow escapes—Pleasures of home-coming—Rainbow atmosphere—Orange and lemon groves—The nightingales—Impressionable childhood—Fresh plans—The Abbé Rivière—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.
Magnetism—Past life—Impulsive nature—First impressions—Scented air—A gentle soul—Haunted woods—Blue waters of the Levant—Great devotion—A rose bloom—Back to the angels—Special providence—Lovely Provence—Charmed days—Adventures—Islands of Greece—Ossa and Pelion—City of the violet crown—Spinning jennies have a lot to answer for—Olympus—Ægina—Groves of the Sacred Plain—Narrow escapes—Delights of homecoming—Rainbow-like atmosphere—Orange and lemon groves—The nightingales—Impressionable childhood—New plans—The Abbé Rivière—Rare talent—Domestic chaplain—Debt of gratitude—Treasure chest of strength—Welcoming to all—First great sorrow—Passing away—Decision to travel—"I can't do this anymore"—The old Adam is hard to shake—Fate decides.
DELORMAIS roused himself to the present as one who awakes from a dream. Those large dark eyes seemed capable of every expression; could flash with intellect, melt with fervent love or grow earnest with condemnation; sparkle with wit, or suffuse with sympathy and pathos. In Delormais susceptibilities and intellect seemed equally balanced.
DELORMAIS came back to reality as if waking up from a dream. Those large dark eyes appeared capable of expressing everything; they could shine with intelligence, soften with deep love, or become serious with judgment; twinkle with humor, or fill with compassion and sadness. In Delormais, sensitivity and intellect seemed perfectly balanced.
"I have been reviewing my life," he began. "And I am asking myself why we are here seated together as old familiar friends. How it is that to you, a comparative stranger, I have promised to speak of the past, open my heart, disclose secrets unknown to the world? It must be that you deal in magnetism. Or that we were born in the same mystic sphere, or under the same conjunction of stars; and that for the third time in my life I discover one who is altogether sympathetic to me; to whom I feel I can speak as to my other self. Nor is it necessary that this feeling should be shared by you in an equal degree. Enough that you are not antagonistic; even approach me with a friendly liking. I, many years your senior, am the dominant power. You follow where I lead. But a truce to metaphysics; searchings into spiritual conditions we cannot altogether fathom; wandering into realms withholden from mortal vision. Let us leave the unseen and uncertain, and turn altogether to the present world."
"I've been thinking about my life," he started. "And I'm wondering why we’re sitting here as old friends. How is it that I've promised to share my past and open up to you, a relative stranger, revealing secrets that no one else knows? It must be that you have some kind of magnetism. Or maybe we came from the same mystical place or under the same star alignment; this is the third time in my life that I've found someone so in tune with me—someone I feel I can talk to like my other self. It’s not necessary for you to feel the same way. It’s enough that you’re not against me; you even approach me with a friendly vibe. I’m many years older than you, so I hold the lead. You follow where I go. But let’s put aside the metaphysics; the questions around spiritual matters we can’t fully understand; wandering into areas that are beyond our sight. Let’s focus on the present world instead."
We made no reply. Our sympathy was strongly awakened in this singular man. Here was a nature rare as it was powerful; distinguished by all the finest and noblest qualities vouchsafed to mankind. But we wished him to take his own way, utter his own thoughts, not disturbed by remark or turned aside by suggestion.
We didn't say anything. We felt a deep sympathy for this unique man. He was extraordinary, possessing all the best and noblest qualities that humanity can have. But we wanted him to find his own path, express his own thoughts, without being interrupted or influenced by others.
He rose for a moment, replenished the cups, and went on with his narrative.
He stood up for a moment, filled the cups, and continued with his story.
"I have not asked you to join me to-night to read you a lesson," he continued. "In reviewing my past life, I find it full of incident and action. But it has none of those startling dramas and strange coincidences, none of those high achievements or fatal mistakes, which occasionally make biographies a solemn warning to some or a pillar of fire to others. I have brought you here simply for the pleasure of spending an evening with you. If I beguiled you at this late hour under any other impression I am guilty of false pretences. But late though it be it is still evening to me, to whom all hours are alike. For a whole week at a time I have slept an hour in the twenty-four in my arm-chair, and found this sufficient rest. We give too much time to sleep. Like everything else it is a habit. The day will come soon enough for the folding of the hands. At any time I can turn night into day, and feel no sense of fatigue or loss of power. Nature never takes her revenge by turning day into night. I cannot remember the time when the daylight hours caught me napping.
"I didn't invite you here tonight to give you a lesson," he continued. "Looking back on my life, I see it's full of events and activities. But it lacks those shocking dramas and strange coincidences, those major accomplishments or critical mistakes that sometimes make biographies a serious warning to some people or an inspiring beacon to others. I brought you here just to enjoy an evening with you. If I misled you into thinking otherwise at this late hour, that's on me for false pretenses. But even though it's late, it still feels like evening to me, as all hours feel the same. There are times when I've only slept an hour in twenty-four while sitting in my chair, and that’s been enough rest. We spend too much time sleeping. Like everything else, it becomes a habit. The time will come soon enough to rest. I can switch night into day whenever I want, without feeling tired or drained. Nature never punishes us by turning day into night. I can’t remember the last time daylight caught me sleeping."
"So then, for the pleasure of your company, and that we may become better acquainted, I have persuaded you to join me; not that I have much to tell you that can be useful or instructive. And yet it is said that the record of every life is a lesson. But all this you do not require. I was presumptuous enough at mid-day to read you a homily of which black coffee was the text and strong waters were the application. It was done partly from the impulsiveness of my nature which has carried me into a thousand-and-one unpremeditated scenes and circumstances; partly that my heart warmed towards you and I thought it a surer introduction to a better acquaintance than the usual topic of the weather. Throughout my life of more than sixty years, from the day I was able to observe and reflect I have been a student of human nature. You see even my rashness did not mislead me. I was not rebuked. On the contrary, your heart immediately responded to the singular and presuming old man."
"So, to enjoy your company and get to know each other better, I convinced you to join me; not that I have much to share that's useful or informative. Yet, it's said that every life has a lesson. But you don’t really need that. Earlier today, I was bold enough to share a little talk where black coffee was the main point and strong drinks were the takeaway. I did this partly because of my impulsive nature, which has led me into countless unplanned situations, and partly because I felt a connection with you. I thought it would be a better way to start a friendship than just talking about the weather. For over sixty years, since I learned to observe and think, I’ve been studying human nature. As you can see, my boldness didn’t steer me wrong. I wasn’t turned away. On the contrary, you immediately connected with this quirky, daring old man."
He called himself old, but in reality, though six decades had rolled over his head, he was still in full force and vigour of life.
He called himself old, but in reality, even though sixty years had passed, he was still full of energy and vitality.
He paused a moment. The deep musical voice echoed through the room in subdued cadences. There was nothing harsh or loud in its tones. Delormais was too well-bred, too much a man of the world and student of human nature, as he had said, not to know the charm and value of modulation.
He paused for a moment. His deep, musical voice resonated softly through the room. There was nothing harsh or loud about it. Delormais was too refined, too much a worldly man and keen observer of human nature, as he had mentioned, not to appreciate the appeal and importance of modulation.
He paused, but we the patient listener: Saul sitting at the feet of Gamaliel: made no reply.
He paused, but we, the patient listeners—Saul sitting at the feet of Gamaliel—didn't respond.
"Nevertheless, if I cannot instruct, I think I can interest you," continued Delormais, breaking the momentary silence. "My life has been singular and eventful. I will rapidly sketch some of its passages: a mere outline. To go through it circumstantially, in detail, would prolong the narrative to days and weeks. To write the life chapter by chapter, incident by incident, would fill many volumes.
"Still, if I can’t teach you, I believe I can engage your interest," Delormais said, breaking the brief silence. "My life has been unusual and full of experiences. I’ll quickly outline some of its key moments: just a brief summary. Going through it in full detail would stretch this story out for days and weeks. Writing my life chapter by chapter, incident by incident, would take up many books.
"I have a good memory and it carries me back to the earliest scenes of childhood: scenes full of fairy visions and sweet remembrances. Orange-groves and lemon-groves, olive-yards and vineyards, orchards where grew all the luscious fruits of the earth, gardens filled with its choicest flowers, these are my first impressions. I breathed an air for ever perfumed.
"I have a good memory that takes me back to the earliest moments of my childhood: moments filled with magical visions and sweet memories. Orange groves and lemon groves, olive fields and vineyards, orchards overflowing with all the delicious fruits of the earth, gardens filled with its most beautiful flowers—these are my first impressions. I inhaled an air that was always fragrant."
"These realms were inhabited by beings fitted for paradise. My mother's lovely and gentle face haunted the groves; my father's voice filled the house with music and energy. He was a man born to command, but ruled by charm, not by power: expressed a wish rather than gave an order. Most lovable of husbands and most indulgent of fathers, we, who were to him as the breath of his nostrils, worshipped him. I was his constant companion. Day after day, when just old enough to run by his side, he would sail about with me in his white-winged boat, on the blue waters of the Levant. On the terrace in front of the château my mother would sit and watch us, an open book before her to which only half her thoughts were given and nothing of her heart. That followed the little craft skimming to and fro in the sunshine.
"These places were home to beings made for paradise. My mother’s beautiful and gentle face lingered in the groves; my father’s voice filled the house with music and energy. He was a man born to lead but ruled by charm, not by force: he expressed a wish rather than gave an order. He was the most lovable husband and the most indulgent father; we, who were to him like the breath of his lungs, adored him. I was his constant companion. Day after day, when I was old enough to run by his side, he would sail with me in his white-winged boat on the blue waters of the Levant. On the terrace in front of the château, my mother would sit and watch us, an open book in front of her to which she only half paid attention, with none of her heart invested. Her thoughts followed the little craft skimming to and fro in the sunshine."
"Or in a larger yacht, we would take longer voyages; but if my mother were not with us these absences were rare, three days their limit. I was the idol of the sailors, just as my father was their king, who could do no wrong.
"Or on a bigger yacht, we would go on longer trips; but if my mom wasn’t with us, these absences were uncommon, with three days being the maximum. I was the favorite of the sailors, just like my dad was their king, who could do no wrong."
"All my days and surroundings were coloured by this gentle, dark-eyed mother of exquisite loveliness and delicate refinement, whose only failing was too great a devotion to her husband and boy. I was an only surviving child, and for that reason doubly precious to my parents. A little daughter had first been born to them; a child, I have heard, the very counterpart of her mother—frail, delicate, and too good for earth; her soul too pure and her face too fair. At the age of three, when she was budding into loveliest rose-blossom, she went back to the angels.
"All my days and surroundings were shaped by this gentle, dark-eyed mother of stunning beauty and delicate grace, whose only fault was her overwhelming devotion to her husband and son. I was their only surviving child, which made me even more precious to my parents. A little girl had been born to them before me; I've heard that she was just like her mother—fragile, delicate, and too good for this world; her soul was too pure and her face too beautiful. When she was three, just as she was blossoming into a lovely rose, she returned to the angels."
"There never was any fear of that sort for me. From the first I was strong and sturdy, escaping even the ordinary ailments of childhood. So far I saved my parents all anxiety. Their only care was to check my high and venturesome spirit, which now would cause me to be fished up from the bottom of shallow waters; and now would bring me down to earth with a broken olive-bough that possibly had borne fruit for centuries and might have done so for ages yet to come. I never came to harm. A special providence watched over me—I record it with all reverence.
"There was never any fear of that kind for me. From the start, I was strong and resilient, avoiding even the typical illnesses of childhood. So far, I saved my parents from any worry. Their only concern was to rein in my bold and adventurous spirit, which would sometimes land me pulled from the bottom of shallow waters, and at other times, bring me crashing down with a broken olive branch that might have produced fruit for centuries and could have continued doing so for ages. I never got hurt. A special guidance watched over me—I acknowledge it with complete respect."
"As the bird flies my home was not so very far from here, though it was in France, not Spain. We lived in one of the loveliest spots of fair Provence, where indeed the earth brought forth abundantly all her fruits and flowers.
"As the bird flies, my home wasn't too far from here, though it was in France, not Spain. We lived in one of the most beautiful places in Provence, where the land produced an abundance of fruits and flowers."
"My mother had offended her family by her marriage, yet in no sense of the word was my father her inferior. But she was of noble birth and he was not, though a patrician. He was a gentleman in all his thoughts and deeds, a great landed proprietor, a man of vast intellectual culture and refinement. The mésalliance her people chose to see in the matter existed only in their worldly minds and wicked ambitions. For to marry my father she had refused the Duke of G., an empty-headed bon vivant, with nothing but his title and wealth to recommend him. For fifteen years my mother's life was happy as life on earth can be. The day came when her people acknowledged the wisdom of her choice, the hollowness of theirs. But one circumstance in her father I have always thought condoned all his obstinacy. He finally yielded to her wishes. Without this the marriage would have been impossible. When he saw that her very existence depended upon it, he at length dismissed the duke and gave his consent—reluctantly, with a bad grace it must be admitted, but it was done. The duke married elsewhere. Wild, unprincipled, unstable as water, he entangled himself in all sorts of intrigues, gambled, and finally fell into embarrassment. Not until then was my father really and truly received without reservation as a son of the family—a position to which he was in every possible way entitled.
"My mother upset her family by marrying my father, but he was definitely not inferior to her in any way. She came from a noble background, while he did not, although he was of a distinguished class. He was a gentleman in every thought and action, a large landowner, and a man of great intellectual depth and refinement. The mésalliance her family believed existed in their minds was just a product of their worldly views and selfish ambitions. To marry my father, she turned down the Duke of G., a shallow bon vivant who had nothing to offer except his title and wealth. For fifteen years, my mother's life was as happy as life on earth can be. Eventually, her family recognized the wisdom of her choice and the emptiness of their own. However, I believe one aspect of her father’s character ultimately justified all his stubbornness. He eventually conceded to her wishes. Without this, the marriage wouldn’t have happened. When he realized that her very happiness depended on it, he finally dismissed the duke and gave his reluctant consent. The duke married someone else and, being wild, unprincipled, and unstable, got involved in various intrigues, gambled, and ultimately faced financial troubles. It wasn’t until then that my father was truly accepted as a son of the family—a status he absolutely deserved."
"Those were charmed and charming days of childhood and youth. It has been said that when the early years are specially happy, the after-life is the opposite. I cannot say that this has been my experience, though, as you will see, the hand of sorrow has sometimes been heavy upon me.
"Those were magical and delightful days of childhood and youth. It's been said that when your early years are particularly happy, the rest of your life is the opposite. I can't say that has been my experience, although, as you'll see, I've felt the weight of sorrow at times."
"My father was wealthy. He spent much time in his library, where my mother might almost always be found, her seat near to him. By stretching forth his hand he could occasionally clasp hers, as though to assure her that his heart still beat for her alone. In all my father's intellectual pursuits she was thoroughly at home—no study was too deep or abstruse for her comprehension.
"My dad was rich. He spent a lot of time in his library, where my mom was usually found, sitting close to him. By reaching out his hand, he could sometimes hold hers, as if to reassure her that his heart still belonged to her alone. In all of my dad's intellectual interests, she was completely comfortable—no subject was too complex or obscure for her to understand."
"Now and then she would accompany us in our yacht, and it was delightful to witness the reverence and devotion of the crew on those occasions—men who remained with us year after year, nor ever thought of change. I believe that every one of them would have laid down his life for her. She never liked the sea; the least rising of wind or ruffling of water alarmed her. When she accompanied us our excursions would be lengthened. We explored the islands of the Mediterranean, visited friends in some of the more distant towns on the seaboard. How well I remember a longer absence than usual, when we made acquaintance with all the Greek isles, and explored the fair city of the violet crown. Who that has approached those classic shores can forget the first sight of Ossa and Pelion—scene of the battle between the gods and Titans—though Homer reverses possibilities in placing Pelion upon Ossa! Who can forget his first impression of the rocky gorge and valley between Ossa and Olympus! All is now in a state of sad but picturesque ruin and poverty, but in days gone by industries flourished here—a happy and contented people. The spinning-jennies of England have a little to answer for in this.
"Now and then, she would join us on our yacht, and it was wonderful to see the respect and loyalty of the crew during those times—men who stayed with us year after year without ever considering leaving. I believe each of them would have sacrificed their life for her. She never enjoyed the sea; even the slightest wind or ripple in the water would frighten her. When she was with us, our trips would be extended. We explored the islands of the Mediterranean and visited friends in some of the more distant coastal towns. How well I remember a longer absence than usual when we got to know all the Greek islands and visited the beautiful city known for its violet crown. Who can forget the first sight of Ossa and Pelion—site of the battle between the gods and Titans—although Homer mixes things up by putting Pelion on top of Ossa! Who can forget their first impression of the rocky gorge and valley between Ossa and Olympus! Everything is now in a state of sad but picturesque ruin and poverty, but in the past, industries thrived here, and the people were happy and content. The spinning jennies of England have a little to answer for in this."
"To my mother's classic mind, all ancient history appealed with a special charm. The shores of Greece, like our own, were washed by the blue waters of the Mediterranean. There too the hills, in all their exquisite form, stood out in a bright clear atmosphere. We journeyed leisurely from the frontier to the Piræus; visited the islands of the Peloponnesus, with all their ancient and romantic interest; rested ourselves at the Monastery of Daphne, and from the summit of the pass gazed upon that wonderful view of Athens. Together we ascended Mount Olympus and pictured ourselves amongst the gods of the ancient mythology. We admired its richly-wooded slopes, where the endless mulberry trees put forth their spreading foliage, and visited the Monastery of St. Dionysius, which lies in that wonderful Olympian amphitheatre—one of the grandest scenes in nature.
"To my mother's classic mind, all ancient history had a special charm. The shores of Greece, like ours, were washed by the blue Mediterranean waters. There too, the hills, in all their stunning form, stood out in a bright, clear atmosphere. We traveled leisurely from the border to the Piraeus; visited the islands of the Peloponnesus, filled with their ancient and romantic allure; rested at the Monastery of Daphne, and from the top of the pass looked out at the amazing view of Athens. Together we climbed Mount Olympus and imagined ourselves among the gods of ancient mythology. We admired its lush, wooded slopes, where countless mulberry trees spread their foliage, and visited the Monastery of St. Dionysius, which is located in that incredible Olympian amphitheater—one of nature's grandest scenes."
"All Athens opened its doors to us. They could not greet too warmly or fête too highly my mother's beauty and grace, my father's rare gifts of heart and mind.
"All of Athens welcomed us with open arms. They couldn't express enough warmth or celebrate my mother's beauty and grace, or my father's exceptional gifts of heart and mind."
"But our happiest hours were spent alone. Together we studied the wonders of the capital, and grew familiar with the Byzantine churches. We passed days upon lovely Ægina where blow the purest of Heaven's pure winds. We stood almost in awe before the wonderful ruins of the Doric Temple of Zeus, Ægina's glory, whose columns have stood the test of 2,500 years. What can be lovelier than the view from the summit of that rugged hill crowned by its imperishable monument? I remember as though it were yesterday my first glimpse of Helicon and Parnassus, as we sailed through the Gulf of Corinth; the walk through the olive-groves of the Sacred Plain, where, turn which way you will, the eye rests on historic ground. In the fair city we thought of Paul as he preached to the Athenians under the shadow of the Parthenon. We haunted the Acropolis with its barren rocks and fragments of past glories. From the charmed heights we gazed upon the sapphire sea ever flashing in brilliant sunshine. In the distance, faint and hazy and dreamlike, were ever the sleeping mountains, Ægina and Argolis protecting the magic ranges. Sometimes we penetrated too far inland, and more than once my father's adventurous spirit had nearly brought us within the grasp of the lawless, a condition of things that would have been the death of my mother, and for which he would never have forgiven himself.
"But our happiest hours were spent alone. Together, we explored the wonders of the capital and became familiar with the Byzantine churches. We spent days on lovely Ægina, where the purest winds of heaven blow. We stood in awe before the magnificent ruins of the Doric Temple of Zeus, Ægina's pride, whose columns have endured for 2,500 years. What could be more beautiful than the view from the top of that rugged hill, crowned by its lasting monument? I remember as if it were yesterday my first glimpse of Helicon and Parnassus as we sailed through the Gulf of Corinth; the walk through the olive groves of the Sacred Plain, where, no matter which way you look, your gaze lands on historic ground. In the lovely city, we thought of Paul as he preached to the Athenians under the shadow of the Parthenon. We wandered around the Acropolis with its bare rocks and remnants of past glories. From the enchanting heights, we looked out over the sapphire sea, always shimmering in bright sunshine. In the distance, faint and hazy and dreamlike, were the sleeping mountains, Ægina and Argolis, guarding the magical ranges. Sometimes we ventured too far inland, and more than once my father's adventurous spirit almost got us caught by the lawless, a situation that would have devastated my mother and for which he would never have forgiven himself."
"But all the pleasure of our wanderings never equalled the charm of our home-coming. There was our life and our delight. There we were truly happy. Looking back, I see that it was an ideal existence: a condition Heaven never permits to remain too long unbroken, or we might forget that this is not our abiding city.
"But all the joy of our adventures could never match the magic of coming home. That was our life and our happiness. That’s where we were really content. Looking back, I realize it was an ideal life: a state that Heaven doesn’t let last too long, or we might forget that this isn’t our permanent home."
"My father filled his leisure moments by cultivating vineyards, which in those days were very successful, and in the form of wine returned rich revenues. We lived in a rainbow atmosphere, and, if you know Provence—as doubtless you do—you will also know that this is no mere figure of speech. The airs of heaven were ever balmy. In those days one never heard of cold and snow and frost on the Riviera. We have since approached some degrees nearer to the North Pole. Little need for others to go off in search of it and bring it to us. At that time we lived in perpetual summer. The sapphire waters of the Mediterranean for ever flashed and flowed upon the white sands of the shores that belonged to us. It seems to me now that the skies were always blue and the sun ever shone. Olive-yards and vineyards, I have said, surrounded us. Orange and lemon-groves sent forth an exquisite perfume only known to those who live amongst them. An amphitheatre of hills rose about us; the lovely Maritime Alps with all their graceful undulations, all their rich foliage. Birds flashed in the sunshine. In the balmy nights of May the nightingales never ceased their song.
"My father spent his free time cultivating vineyards, which were very successful back then and generated good profits in the form of wine. We lived in a vibrant atmosphere, and if you're familiar with Provence—as I’m sure you are—you know this isn't just a saying. The weather was always pleasant. At that time, you never heard about cold, snow, or frost on the Riviera. We've since moved a bit closer to the North Pole. There was little need for others to go searching for it and bring it to us. Back then, we lived in a constant summer. The sapphire waters of the Mediterranean continuously sparkled and flowed onto the white sands of our shores. It seems to me now that the sky was always blue and the sun was always shining. As I mentioned, olive groves and vineyards surrounded us. Orange and lemon trees released a delightful fragrance known only to those who live among them. A circle of hills rose around us; the beautiful Maritime Alps with all their graceful curves and lush greenery. Birds shone in the sunlight. In the gentle nights of May, the nightingales sang their hearts out."
"I must have been an impressionable child, with all my strong, sturdy health, inheriting something of my mother's romantic nature. It is certain that the memory of those early days has never faded, but has been the background and colouring of all my after life. Even now in thought I often go back to them. There are times when I am a little undecided how to act. I ask myself how my father or mother would have acted under the circumstances, and in their clear, sensible tones seem to hear the reply.
"I must have been an impressionable kid, full of strong, robust health, picking up some of my mom's romantic nature. It's clear that the memories of those early days have never faded and have shaped the background and color of my entire life. Even now, I often think back to them. There are moments when I feel a bit uncertain about what to do. I find myself wondering how my dad or mom would have handled the situation, and I can almost hear their clear, sensible voices responding."
"Up to the age of seven they were my sole instructors. Then fresh plans were formed. A precocious child, it was felt that I ought to enter upon more serious studies than they had leisure to direct.
"Up until I was seven, they were my only teachers. Then new plans were made. As a quick learner, it was believed that I should start more serious studies than they had time to guide me in."
"A tutor was found; the Abbé Rivière; a man of large mind and solid attainments; a profound thinker. To this he added the simple nature of a child. The marvel was that he condescended to become tutor and companion to a lad of seven. We soon found that his ambition was to have leisure for the writing of metaphysical works. His present appointment gave him his heart's desire. He had no parish or people to look after. With less singleness of purpose and more worldliness, he might have risen to any position in the church. No better companion for a boy could have been found, and he possessed the rare faculty of imparting knowledge. His mind could unbend, and he adapted his conversation to his hearers. No mere bookworm was he, dry, tedious and incomprehensible. My studies were a delight. I knew afterwards that one of the joys of his life was to watch day by day the unfolding of his pupil's mind. Thus he took the keenest interest in his work, and considered his days doubly blessed. I have heard him say that the offer of the triple crown could not have tempted him to change his life.
A tutor was found: Abbé Rivière, a man of broad intellect and solid knowledge; a deep thinker. To this, he added the simplicity of a child. The surprising thing was that he chose to be the tutor and companion of a seven-year-old boy. We soon realized that his ambition was to have time to write metaphysical works. His current job allowed him to pursue this dream. He had no parish or community to manage. With a bit more ambition and worldly focus, he could have achieved any position in the church. There couldn't have been a better companion for a boy, and he had the rare talent of sharing knowledge effectively. His mind could relax, and he adjusted his conversations to match his audience. He wasn't just a boring bookworm—dry and hard to understand. My studies were a joy. Later, I learned that one of the greatest pleasures in his life was to see his pupil's mind develop day by day. He took a genuine interest in his work and felt his days were doubly blessed. I once heard him say that not even the offer of a papal crown could lure him away from this life.
"He did not live in the château, but in a small house on the estate. It was supposed that here he would feel himself more his own master, free to order, to come and go as he would, whilst every comfort was secured to him. My father was the most generous of men, full of thoughtful consideration for all in any way dependent upon him. From the highest to the lowest, none were passed over. He soon discovered the Abbé's true character; the high purpose that actuated his life; and became devoted to him. My father's mind was quite equal to the Abbé's, though he had not spent his life in metaphysical studies. Still, he sympathised with his pursuits, and read his works in MS. Now he agreed with the writer and now differed. His clear, correct vision many a time won over the Abbé to his opinion.
He didn’t live in the château, but in a small house on the estate. It was thought that here he would feel more in control, free to manage his time and come and go as he pleased, while having all the comforts he needed. My father was the most generous person, always considering everyone who depended on him in any way. From the highest to the lowest, no one was overlooked. He quickly recognized the Abbé's true character and the high purpose driving his life, and he became devoted to him. My father’s intellect matched the Abbé’s, even though he hadn’t spent his life studying metaphysics. Still, he understood his interests and read his works in manuscript. Sometimes he agreed with the writer, and other times he disagreed. His clear, accurate perspective often convinced the Abbé to accept his viewpoint.
"The Abbé became, so to say, our domestic chaplain. As often as he could be persuaded, he made a fourth at the dinner-table, and said grace in his quiet, refined tones. And he needed far less persuasion on these occasions than when the château was filled with guests. He was always an acquisition. A man of deep and varied thought, possessing the gift, not always given to great men, of putting his thoughts into words. An earnest, fluent talker, who could unstring his bow and throw a charm even over ordinary topics. This was far more apparent, far more exercised when we were alone and he was sure of the sympathy of his hearers, than when others were present. If he only spoke of the passing clouds, the ripening fruit, or the flashing sea, his rare mind would clothe his ideas in a form peculiarly his own, and especially attractive.
"The Abbé became, in a way, our home chaplain. Whenever he could be convinced, he joined us at the dinner table and said grace in his soft, refined voice. He needed much less persuasion to join us when the château was not filled with guests. He was always a great addition. A man of deep and diverse thought, he had the rare ability, not always found in great thinkers, to articulate his ideas clearly. He was an earnest, fluent speaker who could relax and even charm us with ordinary topics. This was especially true when we were alone and he felt confident in the sympathy of his audience, rather than when others were around. Even if he spoke about passing clouds, ripening fruit, or the sparkling sea, his unique and captivating way of expressing his thoughts made everything he said special."
"I often think Providence helped my father in his selection. When indeed does Providence not direct the paths of its children? Without doubt I owe the Abbé a deep debt of gratitude. He did much to shape and consolidate my character. I was his pupil in all those important years when the seeds are being sown to bear fruit in the after life. From the age of seven to nineteen, I was seldom absent from him. Occasionally he would join in our yachting excursions. Then, unbending, throwing work to the winds, he became the most delightful of companions. In spite of his more than fifty years and his long white hair, he could be almost child-like in his ways. His was one of those simple and rare natures that never grow old.
"I often think that fate helped my father in his choice. When does fate not guide the paths of its children? Without a doubt, I owe the Abbé a huge debt of gratitude. He did a lot to shape and strengthen my character. I was his student during those crucial years when the seeds are sown to bear fruit later in life. From age seven to nineteen, I was rarely away from him. Sometimes he would join us on our yachting trips. Then, relaxed and carefree, he became the most enjoyable company. Despite being over fifty and having long white hair, he could be almost child-like in his behavior. He had one of those simple and rare natures that never grow old."
"Rightly or wrongly, my parents elected to keep me at home. I was their all in life; they would have me under their own roof. And why not? My future was assured. I should be wealthy. It was not necessary to go out into the world to learn to fight my way, as it is called. In the matter of education I certainly did not suffer. Experience of the world came soon enough.
"Right or wrong, my parents decided to keep me at home. I was everything to them; they wanted me under their own roof. And why not? My future was secure. I was bound to be wealthy. There was no need to venture out into the world to learn how to make my way, as people say. When it came to education, I definitely didn't miss out. Life experience would come soon enough."
"So our quiet and charming life went on. Looking back, I would not change one single circumstance of those early days. They are a treasure-house on which I still draw for strength and guidance.
"So our peaceful and delightful life continued. Reflecting on it, I wouldn't change a single aspect of those early days. They are a source of strength and guidance that I still rely on."
"We were by no means isolated. My father was given to hospitality and delighted in receiving his friends. We mixed freely with the few families of our own rank in the neighbourhood. Nevertheless these were exceptional times. He was happiest—we all were—when the house was free from guests and we were all in all to each other. It was a paradise of four people; for the Abbé in time became as one of ourselves. If good influence were wanted, he gave it. He was a deeply religious man in the wide acceptance of the term; not thinking of saints and fasts and penances, but of the higher life which looks Above for strength and consolation. I much fear me he would have passed but a poor examination before the Consistory of Rome. I doubt if he would have escaped excommunication. Holy, upright man!" cried Delormais with emotion. "He was as much above ordinary human nature, with all its petty ways and narrowing limits, as the stars are above the earth."
"We weren't really isolated. My dad loved hosting and enjoyed having his friends over. We interacted easily with the few families of our social class in the area. Still, those were special moments. He was happiest—we all were—when the house was guest-free and we focused on each other. It was a paradise for four; the Abbé eventually became like one of us. If we needed a positive influence, he provided it. He was a deeply religious man in the broad sense; not fixating on saints, fasting, or penance, but on a higher life that seeks strength and comfort from Above. I fear he wouldn't have done well in a test before the Consistory of Rome. I doubt he would have avoided excommunication. "A holy, upright man!" cried Delormais with emotion. "He was as far above ordinary human nature, with all its petty ways and limiting boundaries, as the stars are above the earth."
Again he paused, and for a moment seemed plunged in profound sadness. He had evidently reached a painful crisis in his life. A deep sigh escaped him which seemed weighted with the burden of years. Then with an effort, still turning upon us that kindly, penetrating eye, he went on with his narrative.
Again he paused, and for a moment seemed overwhelmed with deep sadness. He had clearly hit a painful point in his life. A heavy sigh escaped him, carrying the weight of many years. Then, with some effort, still looking at us with that warm, piercing gaze, he continued his story.
"At the age of fifteen came my first great sorrow—the greatest sorrow of my life. I could not have conceived that our cloudless sky would so suddenly become overcast with the blackness of night.
"At fifteen, I experienced my first major heartbreak—the biggest sorrow of my life. I never could have imagined that our clear blue sky would so suddenly turn dark like night."
"My mother died. A man loses his wife, and however much he loved her, he may get him another. But he can have but one mother in his life, one father.
"My mother died. A man loses his wife, and no matter how much he loved her, he can find another. But he can only have one mother in his life, one father."
"For long she had been gradually failing. Much as I loved her, my boyish eyes did not perceive the change that was coming. I did not see that this earthly angel was quietly passing away to heaven. She herself was conscious of it. There were times—how well I remembered it afterwards—when I would find her eyes fixed upon me with a yearning ineffable sadness. Her whole soul and spirit seemed to be speaking to me without words. She was about to leave me to the temptations and tender mercies of the world—how would it fare with me in the years to come? But she never spoke or gave me word or sign of warning.
"For a long time, she had been slowly fading away. As much as I loved her, my youthful eyes didn’t notice the change that was happening. I didn’t realize that this earthly angel was quietly moving on to heaven. She was aware of it, though. There were moments—how clearly I remembered it later—when I’d catch her gazing at me with a deep, indescribable sadness. Her entire being seemed to communicate with me silently. She was about to leave me to face the temptations and gentle kindness of the world—how would I manage in the years ahead? But she never spoke or gave me any warning or sign.
"My father also saw the change coming, but would not admit it; could not believe or realise it. The loss would be his death-blow. For him there could be no second wife, no other companion. When the blow fell, it crushed him. He was never the same again. I never again heard him laugh, scarcely saw him smile. His body was still on earth, thought and spirit seemed to have followed his wife into the unseen world. His affection for me, the kindly remonstrances of the good Abbé, even these were not powerful enough to restore his desire for life. He went on quietly, patiently for four years, then followed the wife without whom it seemed he could not remain on earth.
"My father saw the change coming, but wouldn’t admit it; he couldn't believe or accept it. Losing her would be his breaking point. For him, there could be no second wife, no other partner. When the blow hit, it shattered him. He was never the same after that. I never heard him laugh again and rarely saw him smile. His body remained here, but his thoughts and spirit seemed to have gone with his wife into the unknown. His love for me and the gentle advice from the good Abbé weren’t enough to bring back his will to live. He carried on quietly, patiently for four years, then followed the wife he seemed unable to live without."
"I told you just now their life was too happy to remain long without interruption. Fifteen years of perfect companionship had passed as a flash, the dream of a long day, and then vanished.
"I just told you their life was too happy to go on without any disruptions for long. Fifteen years of perfect companionship had gone by in the blink of an eye, like the dream of a long day, and then it disappeared."
"I was now nineteen, but mentally and physically more like five-and-twenty. A restlessness seized me. My home was haunted by the spirits of my parents; by the remembrance of days whose perfect happiness made that remembrance for the moment intolerable. I had passionately, tenderly loved both father and mother. If I went into the groves, her face seemed ever gazing at me amidst the fruit and foliage. Her accustomed place in the terrace was filled with her presence. In every room in the house I heard my father's voice, felt the clasp of his hand.
"I was now nineteen, but mentally and physically more like twenty-five. A restlessness took hold of me. My home felt haunted by the memories of my parents; the recollection of days filled with perfect happiness made those memories unbearable in the moment. I had deeply and affectionately loved both my father and mother. When I walked through the groves, her face always seemed to be watching me among the fruit and leaves. Her usual spot on the terrace felt filled with her presence. In every room of the house, I heard my father's voice and felt the warmth of his hand."
"The good Abbé was my frequent companion, but the blow had told upon him also. He had aged wonderfully. Though he tried to be cheerful for my sake, it was clearly forced. My life grew impossible. I felt that I must change the scene if I would recover mental tone and vigour. For a time I must travel; see the world; wander from place to place, country to country, until rest and calm returned to my soul. Even the Abbé, sorry as he was to part from me, commended my resolution.
"The good Abbé was my regular companion, but the blow had affected him too. He had aged remarkably. Although he tried to stay positive for my sake, it was obviously forced. My life became unbearable. I realized I had to change my surroundings if I wanted to regain my mental strength and energy. For a while, I needed to travel; see the world; move from place to place, country to country, until peace and calm returned to my spirit. Even the Abbé, though sad to say goodbye, supported my decision."
"I was my own master; wealthy; free to come and go as I would; everything favoured the idea. At home I would change nothing. The Abbé should remain in his little house, his days and leisure at his own disposal. The old servants were retained in the château. Only the living-rooms should be closed to the ghosts that haunted them. The able superintendent of all outdoor concerns, a domestic chargé-d'affaires, who had for years filled the position under my father, remained at the head of all things. The only change in his routine was that once a week he should have a morning with the Abbé. All matters were to pass under the scrutiny of that wise judgment. If any difficulty arose he was to be appealed to. It was the only service I asked at the hands of my old tutor in return for the home and stipend it was my privilege to afford him. He had long been white-haired, and was now venerable beyond his nearly seventy years. He gave me his solemn benediction at parting, and for the first time I saw him break down. He wept as he placed his hands upon my head. 'This third parting is too much for me,' he cried. 'I can no more.'
"I was my own boss; wealthy; free to come and go as I pleased; everything supported that idea. At home, I wouldn’t change a thing. The Abbé would stay in his small house, with his days and free time at his own disposal. The old servants were kept at the château. Only the living rooms would be closed off to the ghosts that haunted them. The capable superintendent of all outdoor affairs, a domestic chargé-d'affaires who had held the position under my father for years, remained in charge of everything. The only change in his routine was that once a week he would have a morning with the Abbé. All matters would be reviewed under that wise judgment. If any issues came up, he was to be consulted. It was the only favor I asked of my old tutor in return for the home and stipend I was privileged to provide for him. He had long been gray-haired and was now venerable at nearly seventy years old. He gave me his solemn blessing as we parted, and for the first time, I saw him break down. He cried as he placed his hands on my head. 'This third farewell is too much for me,' he exclaimed. 'I can't take it anymore.'"
"So I turned my back upon my home, my face to the world. I was strong, energetic, full of life and spirit, though for the moment clouded and subdued. The Abbé had taken care that my mental powers should be thoroughly trained. For twelve years I had been his constant care. In many things he thought me his superior. Mathematics and classics, the sciences, these by his rare skill he had made my amusement. But my impulsive nature, quick sometimes to rashness, had not been conquered. He had only given me a certain amount of judgment and common-sense which must stand by me in moments of difficulty or danger. Altogether I was well-fitted to take care of myself, in spite of my love of adventure and quick temperament. You see that it clings to me still," added Delormais with a smile. "The old Adam dies hard within us. Who else would have treated you to a homily on black coffee and strong waters as I did this morning?
"So I turned my back on my home and faced the world. I felt strong, energetic, and full of life and spirit, even though I was briefly clouded and subdued. The Abbé had ensured that my mental abilities were thoroughly trained. For twelve years, I was under his constant care. In many ways, he thought I was his equal or even superior. He had skillfully turned mathematics, classics, and the sciences into my sources of enjoyment. However, my impulsive nature, which sometimes tipped into rashness, hadn’t been fully tamed. He had only given me a certain amount of judgment and common sense to rely on in tough or dangerous situations. Overall, I was well-equipped to take care of myself, despite my love for adventure and quick temper. You can see it still lingers in me," Delormais added with a smile. "The old urges die hard within us. Who else would have lectured you on black coffee and strong drinks like I did this morning?"
"I departed on my travels with no fixed purpose other than to see the world. To which point of the compass I turned, chance should decide."
"I set off on my travels without any specific goal other than to explore the world. Whichever direction I chose, fate would determine."
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.
Rome—Count Albert—Happy months—Sweet moments of companionship—Egypt—Unusual experiences—Calm weeks—Sinai—Liberation 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—Back home—New scenes—Algeria—Hanging gardens of the Sahel—Mount Bubor and its wonders—Impulsive decision—At twilight—Earthly paradise—Beautiful Eve—Passionate love—Arouya—Nature's revenge—Not meant to last—Eternal requiem of the sea—In the backwoods—Hunting wolves—California prairies—Honolulu—Active volcanoes—Lake of fire—Rare birds and wildflowers—Worship of Peleus—An eruption—Huge upheaval—Labrador coast—Hunting bears.
"THE first morning that I wakened up away from home I found myself in the Eternal City. I had always loved Rome. Here I thought I might lose myself in ancient history. In imagination I trod the palace of the Cæsars, and in the Coliseum beheld the martyred Christians. I pictured the gilded pageantries of the Tiber, the splendours of the pleasure-lost citizens. I saw the vast Campagna clothed with its armies, listened to the clash of arms and shouts of warriors ascending heavenwards. I walked the Appian Way with St. Paul and at the Three Taverns seemed to hear his voice in sorrowful farewell. At the shrine of Cecilia Metella I lingered in sympathetic communion; and from the Pincio Hill watched the sunsets of those matchless skies. Why are the skies of Rome more beautiful than any other? The Vatican opened its doors to me and the Pope gave me his most intimate and friendly benediction. I fear that I thought too lightly of the latter.
THE first morning I woke up away from home, I found myself in the Eternal City. I had always loved Rome. Here, I thought I could lose myself in ancient history. In my imagination, I walked through the palace of the Caesars and witnessed the martyred Christians in the Coliseum. I envisioned the lavish celebrations along the Tiber and the glories of the pleasure-seeking citizens. I saw the vast Campagna filled with armies, listening to the clash of swords and the shouts of warriors rising to the heavens. I strolled along the Appian Way with St. Paul, and at the Three Taverns, I seemed to hear his voice bidding a sorrowful farewell. I lingered in sympathetic connection at the shrine of Cecilia Metella, and from Pincio Hill, I watched the sunsets of those incomparable skies. Why are the skies of Rome more beautiful than any other? The Vatican welcomed me, and the Pope offered me his most personal and friendly blessing. I worry that I didn’t take the latter seriously enough.
"What just then was more to my purpose, in Rome I found a great friend. He, Count Albert, was the nephew of the duke my mother had refused to marry. We had been intimate from childhood, but he was five years my senior. I need not say that he was a very different man from his uncle: high-minded, earnest, a cultivated citizen of the world. About to visit Egypt and Palestine, he begged me to join him. His happiness he declared would then be complete.
"What just then was more to my purpose, in Rome I found a great friend. He, Count Albert, was the nephew of the duke my mother had refused to marry. We had been close since childhood, but he was five years older than me. I don’t need to mention that he was a very different man from his uncle: principled, serious, a well-educated citizen of the world. As he was planning to visit Egypt and Palestine, he asked me to join him. He said his happiness would then be complete."
"Thus chance, or an over-ruling Providence, decided for me. I willingly acquiesced, and the many months we spent together remain as some of the happiest of my life. Though never ceasing to mourn my loss, I quickly threw off depression in the excitement of ever-changing scenes. Only in the still darkness of the night hours would the beloved faces and voices come to me with an ever-recurring sense of loneliness, and, man though I was, my pillow was frequently wet with tears. But our friendship for each other was sincere and has remained so. For the Duke of G.—he has now by the decrees of fate become the head of his family—is still living, though we have seldom met of late years.
"So, fate or a higher power decided for me. I accepted it willingly, and the many months we spent together are some of the happiest times of my life. Even though I never stopped grieving my loss, I quickly shook off the sadness in the excitement of constantly changing scenes. Only in the still darkness of the night would the faces and voices I loved come to me, bringing a recurring sense of loneliness. And, even though I was a man, my pillow often ended up wet with tears. But our friendship for each other was genuine and has stayed strong. The Duke of G.—who, by the whims of fate, has now become the head of his family—is still alive, although we haven’t seen each other much in recent years."
"We travelled together, enjoying those sweet pleasures of companionship only given us in youth. With Egypt and Palestine we became intimate and familiar. Cairo delighted us. It was less modern in those days than in these. We were never tired of visiting the mosques with all their sacred and historic charm. We made the acquaintance of the sheikhs, saw them perform impossible magic, heard strange things revealed in a drop of ink. To me these mysteries have remained unsolved to this day. We spent hours and days amongst the tombs of the Caliphs, revelling in their wonderful refinement. We visited all the ancient cities of the Nile: Thebes with its hills and ruins, Memphis with its palm forests and Pyramids—those monuments the most ancient in the world. We contemplated the great Pyramids of Ghizeh by moonlight and felt steeped in mystery. In the same weird light I have stood before the Sphinx and asked the reason and origin of its existence, but only profound silence has answered me. At Dendera, that perfect temple begun by Cleopatra and finished by Tiberius, I gazed upon the features of the famous queen and compared them with those of Hermonthis. I found they resembled each other and confess that I wondered in what consisted the beauty of the woman who changed the fate of the world—but beautiful she must have been. We chartered our dahabeah and travelled up to the Second Cataract. Never shall I forget the soothing repose of those quiet weeks, the delight of our uninterrupted companionship, the books we read together, the daily thoughts we exchanged, the ruined cities we explored. It was an experience that comes only once in a lifetime.
"We traveled together, enjoying the sweet pleasures of companionship that are only available to us in our youth. We grew close to Egypt and Palestine. Cairo thrilled us. It was less modern back then than it is now. We never got tired of visiting the mosques with all their sacred and historic charm. We got to know the sheikhs, watched them perform unbelievable magic, and heard strange things unfold with just a drop of ink. To this day, these mysteries remain unsolved for me. We spent hours and days among the tombs of the Caliphs, reveling in their incredible refinement. We visited all the ancient cities along the Nile: Thebes with its hills and ruins, Memphis with its palm forests and Pyramids—those monuments are the oldest in the world. We admired the great Pyramids of Giza by moonlight and felt surrounded by mystery. In that same eerie light, I stood before the Sphinx and wondered about the reason and origin of its existence, but only deep silence answered me. At Dendera, that perfect temple started by Cleopatra and finished by Tiberius, I looked at the features of the famous queen and compared them with those of Hermonthis. I found they resembled each other and confessed that I was curious about what made the woman who changed the fate of the world beautiful—but beautiful she must have been. We chartered our dahabeah and traveled up to the Second Cataract. I will never forget the calming peace of those quiet weeks, the joy of our uninterrupted companionship, the books we read together, the daily thoughts we shared, the ruined cities we explored. It was an experience that comes only once in a lifetime."
"We both felt strongly the connection between Sacred Geography and Sacred History: how the one would be better understood if the other were visited. So together we became acquainted with the Peninsula of Sinai, its mountains, plains, and sea. The charm and freedom of the desert I had often dreamed about, but how far greater was the reality! Here we revelled day after day in the wonderful isolation: sky and sand and nothing else. A mingling of gorgeous tones: a vast expanse of blue and yellow; a molten sun burning down upon all by day, at night the infinite repose of darkness and star-lit skies. How endless were those sandy wastes, broken only by the wild broom and acacia yielding its gum arabic, the wild palm and manna-giving tamarisk!
"We both felt strongly connected to Sacred Geography and Sacred History: understanding one was enriched by visiting the other. So, we got to know the Sinai Peninsula, with its mountains, plains, and sea. The charm and freedom of the desert I had often dreamed of were nothing compared to the reality! Here, we delighted in the incredible isolation day after day: just sky and sand. A blend of beautiful colors: a vast stretch of blue and yellow; a blazing sun shining down all day, and at night, the endless calm of darkness and starry skies. Those sandy expanses seemed endless, interrupted only by wild broom and acacia producing gum arabic, wild palms, and tamarisks that provided manna!"
"We traversed the desert in which the Israelites wandered for forty years, and crossed the Red Sea over the very spot where Pharaoh and his host were drowned. We ascended Mount Serbal and the cluster of Jebel Mûsa, and therefore must have trod the very Sinai of Israel. We stayed for days at the wonderful convent of St. Catherine, a strange building to exist in the very centre of the desert, with its massive walls, gorgeous church and galleries, monkish cells and guest chambers, its wonderful gardens. We spent much time in the Library, examining its ancient and singularly interesting MSS. We conversed frequently with the monks, and wondered why they should be Greek and not Arabian; and whether, so far removed from the world, temptation and sin and sorrow still assailed them.
"We crossed the desert where the Israelites wandered for forty years and walked over the spot in the Red Sea where Pharaoh and his army drowned. We climbed Mount Serbal and the Jebel Mûsa range, so we must have walked the very Sinai of Israel. We stayed for several days at the amazing convent of St. Catherine, a strange building to find right in the middle of the desert, with its thick walls, beautiful church and galleries, monk cells, and guest rooms, along with its stunning gardens. We spent a lot of time in the Library, checking out its ancient and uniquely interesting manuscripts. We often talked with the monks and wondered why they were Greek instead of Arabian and if, being so far from the world, they still faced temptation, sin, and sorrow."
"In the Valley of the Saint we visited the tomb of Sheikh Saleh, the 'great unknown,' where the tribes of the Desert assemble once a year and hold their races and dances and offer up burnt sacrifices. We looked upon Hebron, that wonderful sepulchre of the Patriarchs, and passed through the Valley of Eschol, once so abundant in the fruits of the earth. We visited the three Pools of Solomon on our way to Bethlehem. Never can I forget the gorgeous splendour of the scene, the wonderful undulations of those vine-clad hills. In the vast depression lie the sleeping pools, square and regular, and sky and atmosphere seem full of flaming colours, and one realises the true meaning of the glories of the East. Beyond lies Rachel's tomb, and from the top of a neighbouring hill one looks down upon Jerusalem the Golden. We feel that we are treading the holiest ground on earth.
"In the Valley of the Saint, we visited the tomb of Sheikh Saleh, the 'great unknown,' where the Desert tribes gather once a year to hold their races and dances and offer burnt sacrifices. We looked upon Hebron, that amazing burial place of the Patriarchs, and passed through the Valley of Eschol, which was once rich with earthly fruits. We visited the three Pools of Solomon on our way to Bethlehem. I will never forget the stunning beauty of the scene, the incredible rolling hills covered in vines. In the large depression lie the calm pools, square and even, and the sky and atmosphere are filled with vibrant colors, revealing the true essence of the glories of the East. Beyond is Rachel's tomb, and from the top of a nearby hill, one gazes down upon the Golden Jerusalem. We feel like we are stepping on the holiest ground on earth."
"We went up the Passage of Michmash to Bethel; that dreary and barren spot where Jacob made him a pillar of stones and dreamed his dream. You remember his words: 'Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not.... This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.' The spot is very desolate; no wonder Jacob feared as he gazed around.
"We went up the Passage of Michmash to Bethel, that dull and empty place where Jacob set up a pillar of stones and had his dream. You remember his words: 'Surely the Lord is in this place, and I didn't know it... This is nothing less than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.' The place is really deserted; it’s no surprise Jacob was afraid as he looked around."
"We visited Lebanon, and in its grove reposed under the few remaining cedars, listened to the cry of the cicale, and watched the birds of brilliant plumage flitting from branch to branch. Though in the midst of the desert there was no silence. A wonderful spot, with its rushing streams, its vineyards and corn-fields, the magnificent sea flashing in the sunshine. What a forest life it must have been before Sennacherib laid it low!
"We visited Lebanon, and in its grove resting under the few remaining cedars, we listened to the sound of the cicadas and watched brightly colored birds flitting from branch to branch. Even in the middle of the desert, there was no silence. It was a beautiful place, with its rushing streams, vineyards, and cornfields, and the magnificent sea sparkling in the sunlight. What a vibrant forest life it must have been before Sennacherib destroyed it!"
"So we became thoroughly acquainted with Sinai and Palestine. I can never understand those who leave this magic land with a sense of disappointment. It is true that we were young, full of life and vigour, ready to extract all the honey from our sweets; but to me no after experience ever equalled this first lengthened journey of my manhood. With what sorrow and regret I brought it to an end and parted from my friend, you will easily imagine.
"So we got to know Sinai and Palestine really well. I can never understand people who leave this amazing place feeling disappointed. Sure, we were young, full of life and energy, eager to enjoy every moment; but for me, nothing after this long journey in my early adulthood ever compared. You can easily imagine how sad and regretful I was when I had to end it and say goodbye to my friend."
"But it had to be. I had been long absent from home. The Abbé wrote to me regularly; all had gone well and quietly, but I began to feel anxious to gaze once more upon the beloved groves and familiar shores; to hear once more the voice of the good old man who I knew hungered and thirsted for my return.
"But it had to be. I had been away from home for a long time. The Abbé wrote to me regularly; everything had gone well and quietly, but I started to feel anxious to see once again the beloved groves and familiar shores; to hear once more the voice of the good old man who I knew was longing for my return."
"One morning when the sun was shining and everything looked bright and happy, I suddenly appeared before the Abbé. He was absorbed upon a MS., putting the finishing touches to a chapter of peculiar merit, when he looked up and saw the desire of his eyes. For a moment I thought he was about to lose consciousness. Then the blood rushed to his pale, refined face, and I found myself clasped in his arms.
"One morning when the sun was shining and everything looked bright and happy, I suddenly appeared before the Abbé. He was focused on a manuscript, wrapping up a particularly noteworthy chapter, when he looked up and saw what he had always wanted. For a moment, I thought he might faint. Then the blood rushed to his pale, delicate face, and I found myself in his embrace."
"We spent a quiet happy month together. I took up my abode in his house, not in the château. Everything was pursuing the calm and even tenor of its way. Every one was happy, and the return of the master made that happiness complete. They all hoped I had come to remain; but I found that could not be. I was unable to settle down to a quiet domestic life. This home-coming had brought back all my loss, the happiness of days gone for ever. I felt I must seek fresh scenes, and soon departed again on my wanderings. This time they were not very distant.
"We spent a happy, quiet month together. I moved into his house, not the château. Everything continued at a calm and steady pace. Everyone was happy, and the return of the master made that happiness complete. They all hoped I was there to stay, but I knew that wasn't possible. I couldn’t settle into a quiet, domestic life. Coming home had reopened all my previous losses, the happiness of days long gone. I felt the need to explore new places, and soon I was off wandering again. This time, it wasn’t far away."
"I crossed over to Algeria, and from the bright green slopes of the Sahel learned to love the white terraces and hanging gardens that contrasted so well with the matchless blue of the Mediterranean. That was not all that I learned to love.
"I crossed over to Algeria, and from the bright green hills of the Sahel, I learned to appreciate the white terraces and hanging gardens that contrasted beautifully with the incredible blue of the Mediterranean. That wasn’t all I learned to love."
"I mixed freely with the Arabs and the French of all classes. Fate took me to Djidjelly. I wished to ascend Mount Bubor, and from its summit gaze as it were upon all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. Here I committed the most rash, most impulsive act of my life. You will say it was impossible in one brought up as I had been. I have learned that nothing is impossible. Remember also my youth; that I was in a sense alone in the world; had never loved, never even thought of love. I will now tell you a secret hitherto locked within my own breast. In a word, I married. Djidjelly has been considered almost impregnable, but no fortress can keep out the arrows of Cupid.
"I mingled easily with the Arabs and the French from all backgrounds. Fate brought me to Djidjelly. I wanted to climb Mount Bubor and from its peak look out over all the kingdoms of the earth and their splendor. Here, I made the most reckless, impulsive decision of my life. You might think it was impossible for someone raised as I was. But I've learned that nothing is impossible. Also remember my youth; I was somewhat alone in the world, had never loved, not even thought about love. Now, I’ll share a secret I had kept to myself. In short, I got married. Djidjelly has been seen as nearly impregnable, but no fortress can block the arrows of Cupid."
"I had been in the town for about a week, exploring the rocks and heights, picturing that terrible expedition two centuries ago, when the Kabyles brought Beaufort and his men to utter defeat. One day I had walked some ten miles into the interior. I was revelling in the perfume of one of the lovely groves that abound, when suddenly I came upon a vision of grace and beauty that absolutely dazzled and astounded me. It was that witching hour of evening when the sun nears the horizon and all nature seems sinking to repose. A perfect paradise of orange and almond trees, olives and pomegranates interspersed with the wild laurel, surrounded me. Never did paradise boast a fairer Eve. The declining sun threw deep shadows athwart the paths; branches and foliage traced fairy pictures of sunlight and shade.
"I had been in the town for about a week, exploring the rocks and heights, imagining that terrible expedition two centuries ago when the Kabyles brought Beaufort and his men to total defeat. One day, I had walked about ten miles into the interior. I was enjoying the fragrance of one of the beautiful groves that are everywhere, when suddenly I came upon a sight of grace and beauty that completely dazzled and amazed me. It was that magical time of evening when the sun was close to the horizon and all of nature seemed to be settling down for the night. A perfect paradise of orange and almond trees, olive and pomegranate trees mixed with wild laurel surrounded me. Never did paradise have a more beautiful Eve. The setting sun cast deep shadows across the paths; branches and leaves created enchanting patterns of light and dark."
"In this enchanting scene stood a young Kabyle woman, lovelier than anything I had ever seen before or have ever dreamed of since. She was about seventeen, but here, as you know, women develop early. Her form was perfect as her face. If she walked, her step was light and majestic. If she ran, it was with the grace of the gazelle. Everything about her was harmonious. Her abundant dark hair crowned a small and shapely head. Her eyes, large, dark and soft, flashed with sensibility and intelligence beneath pencilled eyebrows and long drooping eyelashes that almost swept her cheek. Her expression was one of singular purity and guilelessness. All the passionate temperament of the East seemed to have passed her by. Yet how purely, how fervently she could love. Over a silken robe she wore a haick or burnous of fine gossamer that fell about her in graceful folds. When her small coral lips parted they revealed the most exquisite of pearly teeth. Her voice was music. You will say that I am making her too perfect. This would indeed be impossible. I have never met any one to approach her either in grace of mind or beauty of feature.
"In this enchanting scene stood a young Kabyle woman, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen or dreamed of since. She was about seventeen, but as you know, women mature quickly here. Her figure was just as perfect as her face. When she walked, her step was light and regal. When she ran, it was with the grace of a gazelle. Everything about her was harmonious. Her abundant dark hair framed a small and shapely head. Her large, dark, soft eyes sparkled with sensitivity and intelligence beneath elegantly shaped eyebrows and long, drooping lashes that almost brushed her cheek. Her expression radiated a unique purity and innocence. All the passionate temperament of the East seemed to have skipped her. Yet how purely, how passionately she could love. Over a silky robe, she wore a haick or burnous made of fine gossamer that draped around her in graceful folds. When her small coral lips parted, they revealed the most stunning pearly teeth. Her voice was like music. You might think I'm making her too perfect. But that would be impossible. I've never met anyone who could match her in grace of mind or beauty of feature."
"But Nature had been cruel. She had bestowed those matchless charms only to withdraw them too soon. I saw her and from that moment loved her: loved her for ever. There was no doubt or wavering in my mind. I approached her. She met me fearlessly, naturally, without thought of guile. To my delight she spoke perfect French, was evidently refined and educated. Her father was the proprietor of this little paradise. This meant that he was probably at ease in the world without being exactly rich. I quickly got to know him. Wooing in this part of the world is not a matter of months or years. Within a week of our first meeting, I was engaged to Arouya. Her father was only too willing to give her to one who was young, good-looking, above all had wealth at his command. Almost immediately, without counting the cost or reflecting upon the mistake of a union with one of another race and religion, we were married. But all the reflection in the world would have made no difference. I was borne on by a mighty torrent against which there was no struggling.
"But nature had been harsh. She blessed her with unmatched beauty only to take it away too soon. I saw her, and from that moment, I loved her: loved her forever. There was no doubt or hesitation in my mind. I approached her. She faced me bravely, naturally, without any hint of deceit. To my delight, she spoke perfect French and was clearly refined and educated. Her father owned this little paradise, which meant he was probably doing well in life without being exactly wealthy. I quickly got to know him. Dating in this part of the world doesn't take months or years. Within a week of our first meeting, I was engaged to Arouya. Her father was more than happy to give her to someone who was young, good-looking, and, most importantly, had wealth at his disposal. Almost immediately, without considering the cost or the implications of marrying someone from a different race and religion, we were married. But no amount of reflection would have changed anything. I was swept away by a powerful current against which there was no resistance."
"For six months I lived a charmed, enraptured, secluded life with Arouya, my wife. We were intensely happy in each other's love: bliss that is rarely given to mortals. It was not a mere life of the senses; her mind was wonderfully pure, bright and expansive. From the very first I laboured to convert her to Christianity, and with singular clearness she grasped and embraced all its profound yet simple truths: became deeply, devotedly religious. This only seemed to strengthen her affection for me.
"For six months, I lived a joyful, captivated, and secluded life with Arouya, my wife. We were incredibly happy in our love for each other: a bliss that’s rarely experienced by anyone. It wasn’t just a physical connection; her mind was wonderfully pure, bright, and open. From the very beginning, I worked to convert her to Christianity, and with remarkable clarity, she understood and accepted all its deep yet straightforward truths: she became deeply and devotedly religious. This only seemed to strengthen her affection for me."
"But it was not to last. Almost from the day of our marriage I felt the shadow of the sword. Our happiness was to be as fleeting as it was perfect. Arouya was already stricken with mortal illness. Consumption had set its seal upon her. Before we had been married three months she began to droop; at the end of six months she died. Died in my arms, blessing the hour in which we had first met. I laid her in her far-off grave, within sound of the sea, which chants her eternal requiem.
"But it didn’t last. Almost from the day we got married, I felt the weight of impending doom. Our happiness was short-lived, even though it felt perfect. Arouya was already suffering from a serious illness. Tuberculosis had taken hold of her. Before we had been married for three months, she started to decline; by six months, she was gone. She died in my arms, thanking the moment we first met. I buried her in a distant grave, close enough to the sea, which now sings her eternal farewell."
"I will draw a veil over my grief. For the third time in my young life I was heavily stricken. But I have learned to see the hand of mercy in the blow, and in time I lived it down. It was an episode in my life so romantic, so sacred, that I never spoke of it even to the good Abbé. You are the first to whom I have confided it. The secret is locked in my own breast—and in yours.
"I will cover up my sorrow. For the third time in my young life, I was deeply affected. But I've learned to see the blessing in the hardship, and eventually, I moved past it. It was a moment in my life that was so romantic, so precious, that I never talked about it, even with the kind Abbé. You are the first person I've shared it with. The secret is safe with me—and now with you."
"I left Algeria and sought distraction from my grief by going farther abroad. I visited America, where I saw Nature on a gigantic scale. There I went through endless experiences and adventures. In the backwoods of the North I have spent whole nights watching for wolves, and heard their howlings on all sides. Often I have been sore beset. Many a tree have I climbed to save my life; from its branches shot many a tiger whose glaring eyes and deep growls told me one or other must conquer. But as in childhood, so in later years I seem to have carried about with me a charmed life. Many a time has my thirst been assuaged by the monkeys, who in return for stones pelted me with cocoanuts. In the Indian jungle I have hunted lions, and once was surprised and sprung upon by a tiger that at that very moment was providentially shot by my servant. Otherwise I should not now be here to tell you the tale. It was a narrow escape.
"I left Algeria and looked for a way to distract myself from my sadness by traveling further abroad. I visited America, where I experienced Nature on a massive scale. There, I went through countless adventures. In the remote North, I spent whole nights waiting for wolves and heard their howls all around me. I often faced serious danger. I've climbed many trees to save my life; from those branches, I saw tigers whose fierce eyes and deep growls made it clear that it was a battle of survival. But just like in childhood, I seemed to carry a lucky charm with me in my later years. Many times, I had my thirst quenched by monkeys, who would throw coconuts at me in exchange for stones. In the Indian jungle, I hunted lions, and once, a tiger surprisingly attacked me, but my servant managed to shoot it just in time. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here to share this story. It was a close call."
"In the vast prairies of California I delighted. Here I saw vegetation as I had never conceived it. Even the cedars of Lebanon paled before these gigantic monarchs of the forest. Loveliest flowers of gorgeous hues, wonderful tree-ferns, abounded. There was no limit to their wealth. Once, whilst here, the desire seized me to visit Hawaii—the Sandwich Islands as they are called: those wonderful volcanic isles of the Pacific. Beside them, everything else of a like nature fades into insignificance. Vesuvius, Ætna, Hecla, these are child's play in comparison. The eight islands form a rich and productive chain.
"In the vast prairies of California, I found great joy. Here, I saw plants like I had never imagined. Even the cedars of Lebanon seemed small next to these towering giants of the forest. Beautiful flowers in vibrant colors and amazing tree ferns were everywhere. Their abundance was limitless. Once, while I was here, I felt a strong urge to visit Hawaii—the Sandwich Islands, as they are known: those incredible volcanic islands in the Pacific. Compared to them, everything else of a similar kind seems unimportant. Vesuvius, Etna, Hecla—they're just child's play in comparison. The eight islands form a rich and productive chain."
"I embarked from San Francisco for Honolulu, and reached it after a run of sixteen days before the wind. Here I found much to repay me. The island is full of rocky spurs which form so great a contrast to the green plains of the interior with their clear flowing streams and endless forests. Vast craters are ever in a state of eruption: the largest volcanoes in the world: some extinct, others in a state of activity. One of these days I believe that a tremendous upheaval will take place and the islands will disappear. The mountain peaks of Hawaii, Mauna Kia and Mauna Loa, 14,000 feet high, with their eternal snows, would alone repay a visit. Perpendicular precipices 3000 feet high present a bold savage front to the sea, and looking at them you think that never before have you gazed upon rock scenery. The sandy shores have the loveliest, most perfect of coral reefs. The waters surrounding the islands are clear and brilliant with every rainbow colour. Here the world is a paradise; but its people, though harmless enough, are not angels.
"I left San Francisco for Honolulu and arrived after a journey of sixteen days with the wind at my back. There, I discovered much to reward my efforts. The island is dotted with rocky spurs that create a striking contrast against the lush plains in the interior, complete with clear flowing streams and endless forests. Huge craters are constantly active: the largest volcanoes in the world, some extinct and others still erupting. I believe that one day, a massive upheaval will occur and the islands will vanish. The mountain peaks of Hawaii, Mauna Kia and Mauna Loa, rising 14,000 feet, with their perpetual snow, would alone make a visit worthwhile. Sheer cliffs 3,000 feet high present a bold and wild facade to the sea, and looking at them, you feel like you’ve never seen rock scenery quite like this before. The sandy beaches boast the most beautiful and perfect coral reefs. The waters surrounding the islands are clear and vibrant, filled with every color of the rainbow. Here, the world is a paradise; however, while the people are generally harmless, they aren’t exactly angels."
"Kilanea on Mauna Loa is the largest of the active volcanoes. Its oval-shaped crater is nine miles in circumference and 6000 feet above the level of the sea. Within this a lake of fire is for ever burning and seething, moving and heaving to and fro in liquid waves of molten lava. Imagine the tremendous, the awful sight. I was there in 1856 when it was in a very active state and continued so for some years. At night the spectacle was sublime beyond description. Herds of wild horses roam the islands. There is a curious bat that flies by day. Many of the trees are productive. The sugar-cane flourishes; the palm, banana, cocoanut and ti. The natives bake and eat the roots of the latter and thatch their huts with its leaves. The snow-clad hills are the most distinctive feature, here and there rising in overpowering masses wreathed in fantastic vapours. Above these the clear blue sky rises in brilliant contrast and unbroken serenity. At sundown the white snow-tops flush a rosy red. Wonderful creepers interlace the trees of the forest, so that you walk under an endless magic roof of green, through which the sun at mid-day penetrates only in delicate gleams and patches. Gorgeous wild-flowers grow everywhere through the pathless woods. Birds of rare plumage flash from bough to bough, chattering and calling, but soulless in point of song. Everywhere one meets the pungent odour of wild fruit. Here too I found orange and lemon-groves that almost rivalled those of my Mediterranean home. You have heard of those wonderful trees with their wealth of blossoms that live one day, changing colour three times in the daylight hours: white in the morning, yellow at noon, red at sundown—blushing their life away.
"Kilanea on Mauna Loa is the largest active volcano. Its oval-shaped crater is nine miles around and 6,000 feet above sea level. Inside, a lake of fire is always burning and bubbling, moving and rolling in waves of molten lava. Imagine the incredible, terrifying sight. I was there in 1856 when it was very active and stayed that way for several years. At night, the view was indescribably beautiful. Herds of wild horses roam the islands. There's a strange bat that flies around during the day. Many trees bear fruit. Sugarcane thrives; along with palm, banana, coconut, and ti. The locals bake and eat the roots of the latter and use its leaves to thatch their huts. The snow-covered hills are the most distinctive feature, rising in massive shapes surrounded by fantastic mist. Above them, the clear blue sky stands out in bright contrast and unbroken calmness. At sunset, the white snowcaps turn a rosy red. Beautiful vines weave through the trees of the forest, so you walk under an endless magical green canopy, where the midday sun only gets through in soft beams and patches. Gorgeous wildflowers bloom everywhere in the untraveled woods. Birds with rare feathers flit from branch to branch, chattering and calling, but lacking in song. You can smell the strong scent of wild fruit everywhere. Here too, I found orange and lemon groves that almost rival my Mediterranean home. You’ve heard about those amazing trees that bloom with a wealth of flowers that last just one day, changing color three times during the day: white in the morning, yellow at noon, red at sunset—blushing their life away."
"The heat of the days was intense, but at sunset a cool breeze would spring up, laden with the perfume of orange and lemon-groves. I mixed freely with the natives, a curious, superstitious race.
"The days were scorchingly hot, but as the sun set, a cool breeze would come in, carrying the scent of orange and lemon groves. I socialized easily with the locals, a fascinating and superstitious group."
"It was here that I first experienced the sensation of earthquakes. They are common enough in these volcanic islands, and unless violent, excite little attention. I had been travelling for two days. Suddenly I felt the ground as it were slipping under my feet. The trees about us swayed, the leaves rustled as though moved by a strong wind. In the air was a brooding stillness. We were not far from a tremendous volcano. An eruption was evidently about to take place. I had two or three native servants with me, and an acquaintance who was half a Frenchman and had settled in the island. The former were frightened and superstitious, given up to the worship of Peleus, goddess of the volcano.
"It was here that I first felt the sensation of earthquakes. They are pretty common in these volcanic islands, and unless they’re severe, they don’t attract much attention. I had been traveling for two days. Suddenly, I felt the ground slipping beneath my feet. The trees around us swayed, and the leaves rustled as if a strong wind was blowing. There was a heavy stillness in the air. We were not far from a massive volcano, and it was clear that an eruption was about to happen. I had two or three local servants with me, plus an acquaintance who was half French and had settled on the island. The servants were frightened and superstitious, devoted to the worship of Pele, the goddess of the volcano."
"With difficulty we made our way to the mouth of the crater through the pathless forests surrounding it. Never can I forget the beauty of the immense tree-ferns that abounded. It was no doubt a rash proceeding, but at last we stood at the edge of the crater. We looked upon a vast lake of liquid fire. The sight was terrific, and made me think of Dante's most graphic passages.
"With great effort, we navigated to the edge of the crater through the dense, unmarked forests surrounding it. I will never forget the beauty of the massive tree ferns that were everywhere. It was undoubtedly a reckless move, but we finally stood at the rim of the crater. We gazed upon a vast lake of molten lava. The sight was terrifying and reminded me of Dante's most vivid descriptions."
"All this soon changed. Presently the surface of the lake of fire had turned black, sure sign of an approaching eruption. Not a breath of air stirred. All nature was steeped in a profound hush. The very birds ceased to fly and flutter. Our horses trembled and manifested every symptom of fear. There was no time to be lost if we wished to save our lives. After a sharp ride we gained the slopes of a snow mountain. Here we waited for what soon came; shock after shock of earthquake. Rocks and stones detached themselves around us and rolled into the valley. Trees were uprooted. Then came a mighty, rushing, hissing sound, as a sea of molten lava rolled down in many directions and spread over the plain. Never shall I forget the grandeur, the awful majesty of the sight. We knew not how far it would reach or to what extent our lives were in danger. Dense volumes of smoke rose in the air, obscuring the sky. Torrents of ashes fell far and wide. I thought of the fate of Herculaneum and Pompeii, scenes I had visited with my parents only a few years before. Was such a fate to be ours? We were almost choked with the smell of sulphur. Vegetation was scorched and burnt up under the terrible influence. It was a monster devouring all that came within its path. The poor monkeys in the cocoa-nut trees no longer thought of pelting us with fruit. They crouched and hid themselves in the branches, and understood the peril of their lives. I will not weary you with further description. Suffice it that we escaped, and when I again found myself in Honolulu, it was to bid the islands a long farewell.
"All this quickly changed. Soon the surface of the lake of fire had turned black, a clear sign of an impending eruption. Not a breath of air moved. Everything was wrapped in a deep silence. Even the birds stopped flying and flapping around. Our horses trembled and showed every sign of fear. We had no time to waste if we wanted to save ourselves. After a hard ride, we reached the slopes of a snow-covered mountain. Here we waited for what was about to happen; a series of shock waves from the earthquake. Rocks and stones broke loose around us and rolled into the valley. Trees were uprooted. Then a huge, rushing, hissing sound came as a sea of molten lava flowed down in multiple directions and spread across the plain. I will never forget the grandeur and terrifying majesty of that sight. We had no idea how far it would go or how much danger we were in. Thick clouds of smoke rose into the air, blocking out the sky. Torrents of ash fell everywhere. I thought about the fates of Herculaneum and Pompeii, places I had visited with my parents just a few years before. Was that going to be our fate? We were nearly overwhelmed by the smell of sulfur. Vegetation was scorched and burned away under the awful force. It was a monster consuming everything in its path. The poor monkeys in the coconut trees no longer thought about throwing fruit at us. They crouched down and hid in the branches, realizing the danger to their lives. I won't bore you with more details. Just know that we escaped, and when I found myself back in Honolulu, it was to say a long farewell to the islands."
"For a time there was no end to my wanderings. From Honolulu I went off in an American whaler to the coast of Labrador and shot bears as they drifted southward on icebergs coming from that mysterious and hitherto inaccessible North Pole. Once I spent a week with that curious little people, the Esquimaux, who inhabit the creeks of Labrador and live chiefly on the excellent fish abounding in those waters: waters so wonderfully tempered by the Florida stream. In my travels I have experienced the extremes of refinement on the one hand, of hardship on the other. But the latter has been my own choice, and this makes all things bearable. I once had a friend who went out to break stones on the road; work we give to our convicts; but he did it for pleasure and thought it delightful."
"For a while, my travels seemed endless. From Honolulu, I joined an American whaler to the coast of Labrador and hunted bears as they floated southward on icebergs from that mysterious, previously unreachable North Pole. I once spent a week with the intriguing little people, the Eskimos, who live along the creeks of Labrador and mainly rely on the abundant fish in those waters, which are beautifully warmed by the Florida stream. Throughout my journeys, I've encountered the heights of luxury and the depths of hardship. But the latter was my own choice, and that makes everything manageable. I once had a friend who went out to break stones on the road—a job we assign to our convicts—but he found it enjoyable and thought it was delightful."
Once more Delormais paused as though in deep reflection. The silence in the room was only broken by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Outside not a sound disturbed the sleeping world. Not a breath stirred in all the corridors of the old palace that had seen better days. We waited until the spirit should move him again.
Once again, Delormais stopped as if lost in thought. The silence in the room was only interrupted by the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel. Outside, not a sound disrupted the peaceful world. Not a single breath could be heard in the halls of the old palace that had seen better times. We waited until inspiration struck him again.
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—Abbé's objections—Resolve strengthened—Death of the Abbé—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.
Great conflict—Returning to Paris—Count Albert is married—Fewer marriages—Love buried with Arouya—Frivolities—Napoleon at the Tuileries—Illness—Doctors’ mistakes—Days of horror—Vow recorded—Between life and death—Victory—Home again—Abbé's objections—Resolve strengthened—Death of the Abbé—Taking vows—Life full of energy and action—Quick overview—Sympathies—All ordained—"Monseigneur"—"My friend"—Cry of the watchmen—Candles flicker and glow dimly—Wandering in dreams—False prophet—H. C. rises with the dawn—Beauty of Gerona—Touching scene—Colonel offers comfort—Widow's heart sings for joy—In the cloisters again—Goodbye—In the cathedral—Anselmo—Sunshine covers all—Miguel—On the ruined citadel—Anselmo’s signal—A glory departs.
"I HAVE told you of the great romance of my life," he presently continued. "Now let me tell you of its great conflict.
"I HAVE shared with you the amazing romance of my life," he continued. "Now let me tell you about its major conflict.
"After many wanderings I returned to Paris. Here the great world opened wide its doors to me. In a short time I was l'enfant de la maison amongst all people worth knowing. Count Albert had married one of the most charming women in the great world. You can picture my welcome. Few days passed but I spent some portion of my time with them. I was naturally sought after, my wealth and position rendering that inevitable. Fathers proposed marriage for their daughters after the French fashion, offering the bribe of large dowries. But they knew not my secret. All my love was buried in a quiet Algerian grave, within sight of the ever-sounding sea. I had never loved before; I should never love again. I shuddered at the idea of a mere mariage de convenance. Love and love only could make the chains of matrimony bearable. Who could love again after such a love, such a marriage as mine?
"After many travels, I returned to Paris. Here, the great world swung wide open for me. In a short time, I was l'enfant de la maison among all the people worth knowing. Count Albert had married one of the most charming women in high society. You can imagine my welcome. Few days passed without me spending some time with them. Naturally, I was in demand; my wealth and status made that unavoidable. Fathers proposed marriage for their daughters in the French way, offering the incentive of large dowries. But they didn’t know my secret. All my love was buried in a quiet Algerian grave, within sight of the ever-sounding sea. I had never loved before; I would never love again. I was repulsed by the idea of a mere mariage de convenance. Only love could make the bonds of marriage bearable. Who could love again after such a love, such a marriage as mine?"
"I soon felt the life of Paris feverish, enervating. There was no rest, or repose, or freedom about it. A wild series of frivolities succeeded each other: court ceremonies—Napoleon III. reigned at the Tuileries—balls, receptions, the life of the clubs. I hated wine, yet indulged freely in it to help me through the days. I had not been made for this kind of life; all the better parts of my nature were being stifled. Still I went on from week to week, partly because I could not tear myself away from Albert and his charming wife.
"I quickly found life in Paris to be intense and exhausting. There was no rest, relaxation, or freedom to be found. A constant stream of parties followed one after another: court ceremonies—Napoleon III was ruling from the Tuileries—balls, receptions, and club life. I disliked wine, yet I drank it heavily to get through the days. I wasn’t made for this lifestyle; all the best parts of me were being suffocated. Still, I continued week after week, partly because I couldn't bring myself to leave Albert and his lovely wife."
"At last I fell ill of a nervous malady which prostrated my strength. The doctors ordered brandy in large doses. They should rather have forbidden it. The day came when I saw that brandy was my master. I could not live without it. Nothing could exceed my horror when I made the discovery. Then the moral struggle began, and that my nature was strong only made the conflict more severe. But the evil was more physical than mental or moral and so far beyond my control.
"Finally, I got sick with a nervous condition that drained my strength. The doctors prescribed large doses of brandy. They should have actually banned it. There came a day when I realized that brandy had control over me. I couldn’t live without it. Nothing could match the horror I felt when I made that discovery. Then the moral battle began, and the fact that I was strong only made the struggle more intense. But the problem was more physical than mental or moral, and it was completely out of my control."
"At length, almost in despair, sick of this frivolous, aimless life, I vowed to devote my days to the service of Heaven if I might be permitted to conquer.
"At last, feeling almost hopeless and tired of this pointless, meaningless life, I promised to dedicate my days to serving Heaven if I could be allowed to win."
"Again I fell ill, but this time of a malady for which all stimulant was forbidden. For weeks I kept my bed, part of the time hovering between life and death. Heaven was merciful. My vow had been heard, my prayer answered. When I recovered, the victory had been gained for me. I hated the very sight of all stimulant. From that hour nothing stronger than tea or coffee has passed my lips.
"Once again, I got sick, but this time it was from an illness where all stimulants were off-limits. For weeks, I stayed in bed, spending part of that time teetering between life and death. Fortunately, heaven was kind. My vow was acknowledged, and my prayer was answered. When I got better, I had already won the battle for myself. I couldn't stand the sight of any stimulant. Since that moment, nothing stronger than tea or coffee has touched my lips."
"I left Paris and returned to my home in Provence. What delight, what repose, what charm I found there. Paradise had once more opened its gates. There, with the Abbé, I spent a whole year in calm and quiet retreat. Health and vigour of mind, strength of body, returned to me.
"I left Paris and went back to my home in Provence. What joy, what peace, what charm I discovered there. It felt like paradise had opened its gates once again. There, with the Abbé, I spent an entire year in a serene and quiet retreat. My health, mental clarity, and physical strength all returned to me."
"But I did not forget my vow. The Abbé treated me to many an argument and disquisition upon the subject. He showed me the life of an ecclesiastic in all its lights and shadows; the sacrifice of domestic happiness it entailed; the constant self-denials if I would do my duty in the spirit as well as letter. He pointed out how by nature and position I was eminently fitted to take my part in the world; to marry; become the ruler of a little kingdom, as it were; the father of sons and daughters. He was growing old, he declared, and certainly in the last year had greatly changed. An expression on his face told me he was not far from heaven. He felt his own end approaching.
"But I didn't forget my promise. The Abbé engaged me in many discussions on the topic. He showed me the life of a clergyman in all its complexities; the sacrifices of personal happiness it brought; the constant self-denials I would need to make if I wanted to fulfill my duties in both spirit and action. He pointed out how, by nature and position, I was ideally suited to play my part in the world; to marry; become the leader of a small kingdom, in a way; the father of sons and daughters. He mentioned he was getting old, and indeed, in the past year, he had changed quite a bit. A look on his face told me he wasn’t far from heaven. He sensed his own end was near."
"All this only strengthened my resolve. If anything could have made me more in favour of a religious life, it was the quiet ecstasy with which he contemplated passing to celestial regions. Nothing could be more saintly and beatific than his last days. He was in perfect happiness, and frequently said so. I was permitted to be with him when his eyes looked their last upon the world. I was the last object they rested on; my name was on his lips as his soul winged its flight to heaven. For the fourth time the hand of affliction was laid upon me. My last link with the world was severed. I stood alone.
"All of this only made me more determined. If anything could have made me want a religious life even more, it was the peaceful joy with which he thought about moving on to the afterlife. Nothing could be more holy and blissful than his final days. He was perfectly happy and said so often. I was there with him when his eyes last looked at the world. I was the last thing they focused on; my name was on his lips as his soul left for heaven. For the fourth time, I faced suffering. My last connection to the world was cut off. I was left alone."
"In due time I took upon myself the vows of the Church. Never for a moment had I contemplated the cloister. Mine must be a life of energy and activity. Whether it be a weakness or not, I have ever loved to command; to rule mankind; to have the ordering of things. There I feel in my element. I have a capacity for organisation which will not lie dormant. It has been my lot to have it more or less fully exercised. With all humility, and giving the sole glory to Heaven, I may say that I have succeeded in every work or mission I ever undertook; advanced every cause in which I have been concerned. The great moral, the great secret of my life, is this: I have first of all been convinced of the soundness of my intentions; I have held decided views; I have never entered upon a single act of importance without first placing it under the guidance of Heaven, as Hezekiah went up into the Temple and spread the letter before the Lord. And then I have gone forward, nothing doubting. Paul may plant and Apollos may water in vain, if they trust to their own strength. That has been my rule and conviction through life. I have constantly endeavoured to have no will of my own; no personal ends and aims and prejudices; but to obey the great Master, whose I am and Whom I serve."
"In due time, I took on the vows of the Church. Not once did I think about living in a cloister. I need a life full of energy and activity. Whether it's a flaw or not, I've always loved to take charge; to lead people; to organize things. That’s where I thrive. I have a knack for organization that won’t stay idle. I've had the opportunity to exercise it to varying degrees. With all humility, and giving all the glory to Heaven, I can say that I’ve succeeded in every project or mission I've ever taken on; I’ve advanced every cause I’ve been involved with. The fundamental truth, the big secret of my life, is this: I’ve always believed in the soundness of my intentions; I’ve held strong opinions; I’ve never embarked on a significant action without first seeking guidance from Heaven, much like Hezekiah went into the Temple and laid the letter before the Lord. And then I’ve moved forward, fully confident. Paul may plant and Apollos may water in vain if they rely on their own strength. That has been my principle and belief throughout my life. I constantly strive to have no will of my own; no personal goals, ambitions, or biases; but to obey the great Master, to whom I belong and whom I serve."
Here Delormais rapidly sketched his life in the Church. He described every office he had held in succession; the difficulties he had contended with; the evils he had suppressed; the reforms he had made; the manner in which he had once fought with and at length convinced the Consistory of Rome. Through all he spoke with the utmost humility, recognising himself an agent, not a principal to whom any credit was due.
Here, Delormais quickly outlined his life in the Church. He described each position he had held one after the other; the challenges he had faced; the wrongs he had addressed; the changes he had implemented; the way he had once battled with and ultimately persuaded the Consistory of Rome. Throughout, he spoke with complete humility, seeing himself as a facilitator, not as someone deserving of any credit.
Over this portion of his life we draw a discreet veil. It was disclosed under secrecy. Partly to prevent identification; partly because other names were inevitably introduced, some of which were as household words in the world of the French Church.
Over this part of his life, we put up a subtle barrier. It was revealed in confidence. Partly to avoid identification; partly because other names were inevitably brought up, some of which were well-known in the French Church community.
The time had passed unconsciously. There was a singular charm and attraction about Delormais. His fine presence and high breeding, his animated way of talking and graphic powers of description, all carried you beyond yourself. Everything was forgotten but the man before you. For the moment you were lost in the scenes he portrayed so vividly. Underlying all, running through all like a fine silken warp, his sympathetic nature was evident. Strong, decided, commanding, loving to rule, he was yet singularly lovable. When was this ever otherwise where sympathy was the keynote of the disposition? He was a man to come to for advice and consolation. Broad-minded above all the small views and judgments of human nature, if he chastised with the one hand, he took care to heal with the other. No one need dread his condemnation. We had been so recently under the influence of both men it was impossible to help contrasting this strong, admirable nature with the calm, retiring, almost celestial beauty of Anselmo: each perfect in its way. We mentioned him to Delormais as a type.
Time had passed without anyone noticing. There was something uniquely charming and attractive about Delormais. His impressive presence and refined upbringing, along with his lively way of speaking and vivid storytelling, made you forget everything else. For a moment, you were completely absorbed in the scenes he painted so clearly. Beneath it all, like a fine silk thread, his empathetic nature shone through. He was strong, decisive, commanding, and loved to lead, yet he was incredibly likable. When has it ever been different where empathy was the core of someone's character? He was the kind of person you turned to for advice and comfort. Open-minded and above the petty views and judgments of human nature, if he corrected you with one hand, he would soothe you with the other. No one needed to fear his criticism. Having recently experienced the presence of both men, it was impossible not to compare Delormais's strong, admirable character with Anselmo's calm, gentle, almost otherworldly beauty: each perfect in its own way. We brought him up to Delormais as an example.
"Ay, I know him well," he replied: "have known him always. The Canon who was his protector and left him a portion of his wealth, was one of my few intimate friends. A purer spirit than Anselmo's never breathed. He might be advanced to high places in the Church, but is better and happier where he is. In all my wide experiences I have never met his equal. Of course I know his story, and his love for Rosalie—hers for him: an idyll almost too perfect for earth. I know her well also, and all her saintliness. Such love and faith are rare: a consistency worth all the sermons that ever were preached. How different was my fevered love from theirs; my rash, unreflecting impulse in that Algerian paradise. And yet, Heaven be praised, nothing but good came of it. All is ordained; all is for the best if only our heart's desire is to do well. All comes right in the end. I have never known it otherwise. If ever I feel in the slightest degree discouraged, if ever my faith in human nature is unduly tried, I immediately think of these two saintly people, and courage revives."
"Yeah, I know him well," he replied. "I've known him forever. The Canon who was his protector and left him part of his fortune was one of my few close friends. There has never been a purer spirit than Anselmo. He could have been promoted to high positions in the Church, but he's better and happier where he is. In all my experiences, I've never met anyone like him. Of course, I know his story and his love for Rosalie—hers for him: a romance almost too perfect for this world. I know her well too, along with all her saintliness. Such love and faith are rare: a consistency worth all the sermons that were ever preached. How different my fevered love was from theirs; my rash, impulsive decision in that Algerian paradise. And yet, thank goodness, nothing but good came from it. Everything is meant to be; everything is for the best if our true desire is to do good. In the end, everything works out. I've never seen it otherwise. If I ever feel even slightly discouraged, if my faith in humanity is ever tested, I immediately think of these two saintly people, and my courage returns."
Once more he paused, and seemed lost in thought. Whether it was given to Anselmo and Rosalie, or whether to retrospection, we could not tell. The clock ticked its faint warning of the passing of time. All else was profound silence. But he soon roused himself to the present, and again turned to us with an expression in which humour was mixed with kindliness.
Once again, he stopped and appeared deep in thought. We couldn't tell if it was about Anselmo and Rosalie or if he was lost in memories. The clock ticked softly, reminding us that time was passing. Everything else was deeply quiet. But he quickly brought himself back to the moment and turned to us again with a look that combined humor and warmth.
"And now," said Delormais, with that peculiar smile that had puzzled us at the beginning of our interview, "I am going to surprise you. Life is full of the strangest coincidences and combinations, which would be laughed to scorn in fiction. It is the unexpected which happens. You remarked some time ago that my palace would be known as a shining light, if I ever were made a bishop. I shall never be made a bishop," he laughed, "and for this reason."
"And now," said Delormais, with that strange smile that had confused us at the start of our interview, "I’m about to surprise you. Life is full of the weirdest coincidences and combinations that would be laughed at in fiction. It's the unexpected that actually happens. You mentioned a while ago that my palace would be seen as a shining light if I ever became a bishop. I’m never going to be a bishop," he laughed, "and here's why."
Here he quietly took an official-looking document out of a capacious side pocket, and placed it in our hands. It was an intimation of his elevation to the See of X.—— a place we knew by heart, and loved.
Here he quietly pulled an official-looking document out of a roomy side pocket and handed it to us. It was a notice of his promotion to the See of X.— a place we were very familiar with and loved.
"Can this be true?" we asked in perplexity.
"Could this actually be true?" we asked, confused.
"It is indeed," laughed Delormais. "So you see I cannot be made a bishop, for I am one already; though not duly enthroned. You will have to be present at that ceremony. I am not surprised. I knew it was coming, though I could not tell the exact day and hour. It reached me only this evening. And you are the first to whom I have told it."
"It really is," laughed Delormais. "So you see I can’t be made a bishop because I already am one; just not officially recognized. You’ll need to be there for that ceremony. I’m not surprised. I knew it was coming, although I couldn’t pinpoint the exact day and time. I only heard about it this evening. And you’re the first person I’ve told."
"Then," we replied, rising and making him a profound bow, "let us be the first to greet you by your title, Monseigneur. The first to wish you all honour and success in that high office Heaven has destined you to fill."
"Then," we said, standing and giving him a deep bow, "let us be the first to greet you by your title, Monseigneur. The first to wish you all the best and success in that important position that Heaven has chosen for you."
"Nay," he returned; "Monseigneur to others it may be; but to you it shall be ever mon ami. For with your permission I intend our acquaintance to ripen into friendship. You shall come and visit the old Bishop in his palace. We will make it a shining light together. The oftener you come, the longer you stay, the more welcome you will be. You know that X. is surrounded by antiquities, endless monuments of interest. Amidst these attractions you will feel at home. Your visits will not be a mere sacrifice to friendship."
"No," he replied; "to others he may be Monseigneur, but to you, you will always be my friend. With your permission, I’d like our acquaintance to turn into a friendship. You should come and visit the old Bishop in his palace. Together, we’ll make it a bright and welcoming place. The more often you come, the longer you stay, the more at home you’ll feel. You know that X. is filled with antiques and endless fascinating monuments. Among these attractions, you’ll feel completely comfortable. Your visits won’t just be a chore for our friendship."
"You are sketching a delightful picture. Will it ever be realised?"
"You’re creating a beautiful image. Will it ever come to life?"
"That only depends upon yourself," laughed Delormais. "The Bishop has not to be made, nor the palace to be built; the guest-chamber awaits you with the blue skies and balmy airs of spring. Of all appointments it is the one I would have chosen. A life of activity, of responsibility and usefulness; a wide sphere of action; opportunities for doing much good in public, still more in private. The latter brings the greater blessing."
"That only depends on you," Delormais laughed. "The Bishop doesn’t need to be created, nor does the palace need to be constructed; the guest room is ready for you with the blue skies and gentle breezes of spring. Of all the positions, it’s the one I would have picked. A life filled with activity, responsibility, and purpose; a broad range of influence; chances to make a significant impact both publicly and even more so privately. The latter brings the greatest blessings."
"You are a wonderful man," we could not help exclaiming. "Your life ought to be written. We should love to make it known to the world."
"You’re an amazing guy," we couldn’t help but shout. "Your story should be told. We would love to share it with the world."
"You shall become my biographer," laughed Delormais, "if you will undertake it in French. Do what you will with what I have told you to-night. Only keep to yourself all my ecclesiastical history. That is sacred and private, at any rate as long as I am living. For the rest, change names and dates only sufficiently to prevent recognition. Not that it would matter. My life is my own, as I have said. And not that I have anything to conceal. My faults, follies and indiscretions have been those of impulse; of the head, not of the heart, I would fain believe. I cannot remember the time when I did not at least wish to do well. Of evil men and deliberate sin I have ever had a wholesome horror. But all and everything by God's grace, not of my own strength."
"You should be my biographer," Delormais laughed, "if you're willing to do it in French. Do whatever you want with what I've told you tonight. Just keep my church history to yourself. That's sacred and private, at least while I'm alive. For everything else, change names and dates just enough to avoid recognition. Not that it would matter. My life is mine, as I've said. And it's not like I have anything to hide. My faults, mistakes, and indiscretions have been driven by impulse—intellectual, not emotional, I hope. I can't remember a time when I didn't at least want to do the right thing. I've always had a genuine horror of evil people and deliberate sin. But everything I have is by God's grace, not my own strength."
At that moment we were startled by a cry in the street: the well-known call of El sereno.
At that moment, we were surprised by a shout in the street: the familiar call of El sereno.
"Another watchman," cried Delormais. "What is the hour?"
"Another guard," shouted Delormais. "What time is it?"
We had not thought of time. A few months earlier and the sun would long have been up. Want of space prevents our giving more than a mere outline of Delormais' life. He filled in an infinite number of details impossible to be recorded here. They would swell to a volume, but a volume of singular interest. He spoke rapidly and with few pauses. Our watches marked the hour of five. It was that period of the night when darkness is greatest before dawn. The watchman's voice cried the hour and the starry night for the last time.
We hadn't thought about the time. A few months earlier and the sun would have already been up. Not enough space prevents us from providing more than a brief outline of Delormais' life. He filled in countless details that can't be captured here. They would add up to a significant volume, but one of unique interest. He spoke quickly and with few pauses. Our watches indicated it was five o'clock. It was that time of night when darkness is deepest before dawn. The watchman's voice called out the hour and the starry night for the last time.
"For your own sake I must break up the assembly," laughed Delormais. "Two hours' sleep will refresh us both. Presently we shall meet again. See! our candles wax dim and blue—or is it fancy? This is a ghostly house, you know. My great-grandmother was Spanish, and for all I can tell some of its ancestors and mine may have met here in times long past and played out their comedies and tragedies together. As we are playing ours."
"For your own good, I have to end the gathering," Delormais laughed. "A couple of hours of sleep will refresh us both. We'll meet again soon. Look! Our candles are getting dim and blue—or is it just my imagination? This place feels haunted, you know. My great-grandmother was Spanish, and for all I know, some of her ancestors and mine might have crossed paths here long ago and shared their comedies and tragedies together. Just like we're doing now."
We parted. Sleep came to us, but scarcely unconsciousness. In our dreams we lived over again all the scenes Delormais had so graphically described, but more highly-coloured, full of impossible adventures. We wandered through endless groves of paradise peopled with myriads of Arouyas. Our only difficulty was to choose the fairest. Life was one long poem; time had passed into eternity. From such celestial regions we were awakened at eight o'clock by the entrance of our host with morning coffee and steaming rolls, accompanied by José bearing hot water. The latter had constituted himself our criado or valet de chambre.
We said our goodbyes. Sleep came, but it was barely deeper than a light doze. In our dreams, we relived all the scenes Delormais had vividly described, but with more excitement and impossible adventures. We roamed through endless paradise groves filled with countless Arouyas. Our only challenge was choosing the most beautiful. Life felt like one long poem; time seemed to stretch into eternity. From those heavenly realms, we were awoken at eight o'clock by our host bringing us morning coffee and warm rolls, along with José bringing hot water. He had taken on the role of our criado or valet de chambre.
"Señor," he said, "it is a cloudless morning. Our astronomer has proved a false prophet. My heart bleeds for him. I fear his glory has departed. Heaven send he does not commit suicide. Is it you, señor, who have influenced the stars against him?"
"Sir," he said, "it's a clear morning. Our astronomer has turned out to be a false prophet. My heart aches for him. I'm afraid his glory is gone. I hope he doesn't take his own life. Is it you, sir, who has affected the stars against him?"
"Monsieur," said our host, putting down the tray, "your friend the poet rose with the lark—figuratively speaking, for who knows what time the lark rises in November? Taking his coffee, he went out with his umbrella shouldered à la militaire. For a poet, monsieur, your friend can put on a very defiant air, as if, like Don Quixote, he had a mind to fight with windmills. He told me he was inflated with inspiration. He was going to contemplate the Pyrenees from the Citadel, and to write a sonnet to the eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. I confess I should have thought the eyes a finer theme. Joseph tells me it was the Señorita Costello. She is considered the great beauty of Gerona; and even in Madrid, I am told, created a profound sensation. No wonder the susceptible monsieur's heart beat fast when he beheld her. Now, señor, we leave you to enjoy your coffee and perform your toilet. His reverence, Père Delormais, sends you his greeting and hopes you have slept. I have just taken his coffee also. Contrary to his usual custom, though wide awake he was still reposing. Ah! what a great character we have there!"
"Sir," said our host, setting down the tray, "your friend the poet got up with the dawn—figuratively speaking, since who knows what time the dawn is in November? After grabbing his coffee, he walked out with his umbrella slung over his shoulder like a soldier. For a poet, sir, your friend can look quite bold, as if, like Don Quixote, he intends to challenge windmills. He mentioned he was bursting with inspiration. He was going to contemplate the Pyrenees from the Citadel and write a sonnet about the eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. I must admit, I would have thought the eyes were a better subject. Joseph tells me it was Señorita Costello. She is regarded as the great beauty of Gerona; and even in Madrid, I hear, she made a significant impression. No wonder our sensitive friend’s heart raced when he saw her. Now, sir, we’ll leave you to enjoy your coffee and get ready. Father Delormais sends you his greetings and hopes you had a good sleep. I just had his coffee as well. Contrary to his usual habit, even though he was wide awake, he was still resting. Ah! what a remarkable character we have there!"
Upon which the attentive deputation retired and we were left in peace.
Upon which the attentive group left, and we were left in peace.
It was indeed glorious to see the blue unclouded sky, to find the cold winds departed, summer reigning once more. How changed the aspect of Gerona. How all the wonderful colouring came out, the effects of light and shadow, under the sunshine. H. C. arrived just as we left the hotel, and together we went to the bridge where we had stood not many hours ago under the stars.
It was truly amazing to see the clear blue sky, to feel the cold winds gone, with summer back in charge. Gerona looked so different. All the incredible colors stood out, the play of light and shadow, in the sunshine. H. C. arrived just as we were leaving the hotel, and together we went to the bridge where we had stood just a few hours earlier under the stars.
It almost seemed as though we had gone through years of experience since then. This morning everything was bright and animated. The river now flashed and sparkled and reflected brilliant, broken outlines. The old houses looked older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, but seemed warmed into life. They now appeared quite habitable, almost cheerful. The towers standing above and beyond them were pencilled against the blue sky. The very air seemed full of sun-flashes. In the boulevard the trees in the sunshine made wonderful play of light and shade upon the white houses. The arcades lost their gloom. Every one seemed to rejoice and expand. No people are so responsive to atmosphere as the Spanish. Warmth and sunshine are more necessary to them than food and sleep. They are hot-house plants.
It almost felt like we had lived through years of experience since then. This morning everything was bright and lively. The river sparkled and reflected vibrant, broken outlines. The old houses appeared older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, yet seemed to come alive. They now looked quite livable, almost cheerful. The towers above them were outlined against the blue sky. The air felt full of sunlight. In the boulevard, the trees in the sunshine created a beautiful play of light and shadow on the white houses. The arcades lost their gloom. Everyone seemed to feel happy and energized. No one is as responsive to their environment as the Spanish. Warmth and sunshine are more essential to them than food and sleep. They are like tropical plants.
"I knew you would come," he cried, with quite an English handshake. "Your interests are not of the butterfly nature, passing with the moment. And see; here is our disconsolate widow. Now you have come, we will talk to her."
"I knew you would show up," he said, giving a firm handshake. "Your interests aren't fleeting like a butterfly, just going with the moment. And look; here’s our grieving widow. Now that you're here, we can talk to her."
We easily recognised the forlorn mother of yesterday's little drama. She was quietly seated in a chair, her mantilla drawn closely about her, a pathetic image of grief.
We easily recognized the sad mother from yesterday's little drama. She was quietly sitting in a chair, her mantilla pulled tightly around her, a heartbreaking picture of sorrow.
"Oh, señor Colonel, it is useless," she said. "Hope is dead and my heart broken. Heaven has seen fitting to afflict me at all points. I have lost my husband, my position; I am poor and in misery; my eldest son turns out a disgrace; my remaining consolation is torn from me by the cruel conscription. Nothing is left for me but to die."
"Oh, Colonel, it's pointless," she said. "Hope is gone, and my heart is shattered. Heaven seems to have decided to torment me at every turn. I've lost my husband and my job; I’m broke and suffering; my oldest son has become a disgrace; my last bit of comfort has been taken from me by the harsh draft. I have nothing left but to die."
"This is quite wrong," returned the colonel, pretending a severity he did not feel. "Heaven is merciful. Brighter days will dawn for you if you are patient. You will see that conscription is a blessing, not a curse. It will make a man of your boy. Discipline is good for all. It is just what he needed. He will return to you strong and vigorous; able and willing to make a home for you. I promise to make him my special charge. He shall be always about me. I will give him all the favour possible, and will keep a constant eye upon him. Heaven permitting, he shall return to you, not spoilt or lowered, but mentally and physically improved. In the meantime—I have been making enquiries—I have found you a position where you can honourably earn your living; where you will be comfortable and respected; and if you will only look at the best side of things, happy also. What do you say to it?"
"This is totally wrong," the colonel replied, putting on a seriousness he didn't really feel. "Heaven is kind. Better days will come for you if you’re patient. You’ll see that conscription is a blessing, not a curse. It will help your boy become a man. Discipline is good for everyone. It's exactly what he needs. He will come back to you strong and healthy, ready and willing to build a life for you. I promise to take special care of him. He will always be by my side. I'll give him every advantage possible and keep a close eye on him. If all goes well, he’ll return to you not spoiled or diminished, but mentally and physically stronger. In the meantime—I’ve been checking things out—I’ve found you a job where you can earn a living with honor; somewhere you'll be comfortable and respected; and if you choose to look on the bright side, happy too. What do you think?"
Here he described the nature of the proposed occupation. The poor lady burst into tears.
Here he described what the proposed job would be like. The poor woman started crying.
"Heaven reproves me for my ingratitude by showering mercies upon me," she cried. "Hope once more kindles within me. This is the one thing for which I am fitted. Ah, colonel! it is you who have brought back life and hope to my despairing heart."
"Heaven is reminding me of my ingratitude by blessing me with mercies," she exclaimed. "Hope reignites within me. This is the one thing I'm meant for. Ah, colonel! It’s you who have restored life and hope to my despairing heart."
The change was already apparent. A drooping, grief-stricken woman had entered the office; one with hope and energy and patient waiting revived left it.
The change was already clear. A drooping, grief-stricken woman had entered the office; one filled with hope and energy and patient waiting left it.
SAN FILIU, OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA.
Reposing under the blue skies, in the strong light and shade thrown by the sunshine, they were even more beautiful and effective than yesterday. In presence of their colonel, the men kept at a respectful distance. They were all occupied in the same way; drawing water from the well, mending clothes, running to and fro; some diligently doing nothing. All seemed happy and contented.
Reclining under the blue skies, in the bright light and shade cast by the sunshine, they looked even more beautiful and impactful than yesterday. In front of their colonel, the men maintained a respectful distance. They were all busy in similar ways—drawing water from the well, mending their clothes, rushing around; some were busily doing nothing. Everyone seemed happy and content.
"And they are so," said the colonel. "To a large number the change is infinitely better in every way. They all find their own level. Those of the better class discover each other, soon fraternise, and form themselves into cliques. Youth is the age of friendship and enthusiasm. Even these have their popes and go in for hero-worship. Life has its charms for them. Yes," looking around, "no doubt these cloisters have a beauty of their own. They influence me more to-day than ever before. I think you would convert me in time," he laughed; "widen my interests and enlarge my sympathies. You see, to me they are mere military barracks. The men come first, and you will admit that they are not romantic. Plant these cloisters in the midst of a desert, and no doubt I should be duly impressed with their refined atmosphere."
"And they really are," the colonel said. "For many, the change is way better in every possible way. They all find their own place. Those from the upper class find each other, quickly bond, and form cliques. Youth is the time for friendship and excitement. Even these groups have their leaders and engage in hero-worship. Life has its appeal for them. Yes," he said, looking around, "these cloisters definitely have a beauty of their own. They affect me more today than ever. I think you could change my perspective over time," he laughed, "broaden my interests and deepen my understanding. You see, to me, they are just military barracks. The men come first, and you have to admit that they’re not exactly romantic. Place these cloisters in the middle of a desert, and I’m sure I’d be quite impressed with their refined vibe."
We left them and stood at the head of the long flight of steps, admiring the picturesque scene. To-day everything was radiant with light and sunshine. The very crowd outside the Conscription-house looked more hopeful. Even misfortune was less depressing under such blue skies. The wonderful houses to our right, in their deep lights and shadows, looked more rare and more artistic than ever. The ancient red roofs of the town sloping downwards were deep and glowing. Many a gable stood out vividly, many a dormer window and lattice pane seemed on fire as it reflected in crimson flashes the rays of the ascending sun.
We left them and stood at the top of the long flight of steps, taking in the beautiful scene. Today everything was bright with light and sunshine. Even the crowd outside the Conscription-house seemed more optimistic. Misfortune felt less heavy under such blue skies. The stunning houses to our right, with their rich contrasts of light and shadow, appeared more unique and artistic than ever. The old red roofs of the town sloped downwards, deep and vibrant. Many gables stood out sharply, and quite a few dormer windows and lattice panes seemed to catch fire, reflecting crimson flashes from the rising sun.
We reluctantly said good-bye to our colonel. These passing episodes, possessing all the charm of the unexpected, are one of the delights of travel. But they leave behind them a regret, for too often there can be no renewal of the intimacy. Yet we realise that the world holds many pleasant people, and that life is too short for all its possibilities.
We reluctantly said goodbye to our colonel. These fleeting moments, filled with the charm of the unexpected, are one of the joys of travel. But they also leave a sense of regret, as we often can't rekindle that closeness. Still, we recognize that the world has many wonderful people, and life is too short to explore all its possibilities.
"If you ever visit Gerona again," he said, with a final hand-shake, "you will come and see me. If I am no longer quartered here, find out where I am, send me a telegram, and follow quickly. May we meet again!"
"If you ever come back to Gerona," he said, with one last handshake, "you'll come and see me. If I'm not stationed here anymore, find out where I am, send me a text, and come right away. I hope we meet again!"
Then we took our winding way up to the cathedral.
Then we made our way up to the cathedral along the winding path.
The fine square was in full sunshine. Deep lights and shadows lay upon cathedral and palace. The house in which Alvarez once lived looked as though human tragedy had never touched it. A golden glow lay on the grey stone, restoring its lost youth. The ancient windows with their wonderful ironwork, seemed kindled into life, ready to reveal a thousand secrets of the dead-and-gone centuries. There was no gloom and mystery to-day. The long, magnificent flight of steps were in full sunshine also. Sunshine lay upon the town with its clustering roofs; flashed here and there upon the surface of the winding river; gilded the snow-tops of the far-off Pyrenees. The skies were blue and laughing; all nature was radiant.
The beautiful square was bathed in bright sunlight. Bold lights and shadows danced on the cathedral and palace. The house where Alvarez once lived looked untouched by human sorrow. A warm glow enveloped the gray stone, reviving its lost youth. The old windows with their intricate ironwork seemed alive, ready to share a thousand secrets from the past. There was no darkness or mystery today. The long, magnificent staircase was also in full sunlight. Sunshine illuminated the town with its clustered rooftops, sparkled on the surface of the winding river, and highlighted the snow-capped peaks of the distant Pyrenees. The skies were blue and lively; all of nature was radiant.
We passed through the west doorway into the cathedral.
We walked through the west doorway into the cathedral.
Even here there was a change. The dim religious light might still be felt; nothing could take that away. A sense of vastness and grandeur still lay upon the splendid nave; a feeling of mystery still haunted pillars and aisles and arches, and the deep recesses of the east end. But to-day shafts of wonderful light flowed in, redeeming all from the faintest suspicion of gloom. Rainbow-coloured beams from the upper windows fell athwart the nave in rich prismatic streams. Beautiful as the interior had been yesterday, it was yet more so this morning. These shafts of light piercing the semi-darkness created a marvellous effect of contrast, adding infinitely to the charm of the lovely building.
Even here there was a change. The soft religious light could still be felt; nothing could take that away. A sense of vastness and grandeur still hung over the magnificent nave; a feeling of mystery still lingered around the pillars, aisles, and arches, as well as in the deep recesses of the east end. But today, beams of amazing light poured in, lifting everything from the slightest hint of gloom. Rainbow-colored rays from the upper windows crossed the nave in vibrant, prismatic streams. As beautiful as the interior had been yesterday, it was even more stunning this morning. These beams of light cutting through the shadows created a marvelous contrast, adding so much to the charm of the lovely building.
There was no mistaking the tall slender figure that approached us with its quiet grace. It was Anselmo, his face lighted up with its rare smile.
There was no doubt about the tall, slender figure that walked toward us with quiet grace. It was Anselmo, his face brightened by its rare smile.
"We meet again," he said, in tones subdued to the sacred spot on which we stood. "And yesterday I know that you met and conversed with Rosalie. As we went together this morning to the bedside of a dear maiden whose days are numbered, she told me of your encounter. I am glad. Now you know us both and will keep us together in your memory. You must have seen that she is more angel than woman walking the earth. I often wonder how all her deep affection, purified and exalted, can be given to one so unworthy. You smile! You think ours a strange history, we a singular pair. I suppose it is so. Ours must be almost a unique experience; and I believe that to few in this world is given the peace and happiness we enjoy."
"We meet again," he said, his voice low in the sacred place where we stood. "And yesterday, I heard that you met and talked with Rosalie. As we walked this morning to the bedside of a dear young woman whose time is short, she told me about your meeting. I'm glad. Now you know both of us and will remember us together. You must have noticed that she is more angelic than woman walking the earth. I often wonder how all her deep affection, so pure and elevated, can be given to someone so unworthy. You smile! You think our story is unusual, that we are a unique couple. I guess that’s true. Our experience must be quite rare; I believe few people in this world have the peace and happiness we do."
Talking, we passed on to the cloisters, lovelier than ever in their brilliant light and shade. Once more we went through the north doorway and gazed down upon San Pedro, the desecrated church, the ancient town walls, and ruined citadel crowning the slopes. Sunshine everywhere; hope upon all; the gloomy skies of yesterday forgotten; earth seemed many degrees nearer heaven. We climbed down into the narrow streets and found Miguel at his door waiting to give us a morning salutation.
Talking, we moved on to the cloisters, more beautiful than ever in the bright light and shadows. We passed through the north doorway again and looked down at San Pedro, the ruined church, the old town walls, and the decayed citadel on the hills. Sunshine was everywhere; hope was all around; the dark skies of yesterday were forgotten; the earth felt much closer to heaven. We descended into the narrow streets and found Miguel at his door, ready to greet us with a morning hello.
"The photograph, señor. Is it a success?"
"The photograph, sir. Is it a success?"
We told him that still lay in the uncertain future.
We told him that it was still in the uncertain future.
Again we found ourselves seated upon the ruined citadel. It was difficult to realise all the horrors of that long past invasion under the influence of these glorious skies, the gladness of this laughing sunshine. The air was scented with wild thyme. The outlines of the towers stood out wonderfully; the blue of heaven shone through the open work of San Filiu's lovely steeple. All the sunshine glinted upon the leaves of the trees in the hollow and traced patterns in the hanging gardens.
Again we found ourselves sitting on the ruins of the old fortress. It was hard to grasp all the horrors of that long-ago invasion with these beautiful skies and the joy of this bright sunshine. The air was filled with the scent of wild thyme. The shapes of the towers stood out beautifully; the blue of the sky shone through the intricate work of San Filiu's lovely steeple. Sunlight glinted on the leaves of the trees below and created patterns in the hanging gardens.
"How beautiful it all is," said Anselmo. "On such days how thin the veil separating the seen from the unseen. Our vision seems only just withholden. What an awakening it will be to the higher life!"
"How beautiful everything is," Anselmo said. "On days like this, the line between the visible and the invisible feels so thin. Our sight seems just barely restricted. What an awakening it will be to a higher existence!"
With him, also, we had to part; a yet more reluctant farewell than that lately gone through at the barracks. But we hoped to meet again. This must not be our only visit to Gerona; and here Anselmo wished to live and die. He had no ambition for a higher destiny, though even this, it has lately been whispered to us, may one day come to him without change of scene.
We also had to say goodbye to him; it was an even more hesitant farewell than the one we just had at the barracks. But we were hopeful to see him again. This couldn't be our only trip to Gerona; Anselmo wanted to live and die here. He didn't aspire for anything greater, though we've recently heard that he might one day achieve a different destiny without leaving this place.
We parted as friends part, not mere acquaintances of a day. There is, we have said, a magnetic power that bridges over time and conventionality. As in dreams we sometimes live a lifetime in a moment, so in friendship an hour may do the work of years. Again the clock struck twelve; Anselmo's signal. History repeats itself. To-day he went alone, leaving us standing amidst the ruins. We watched him as he climbed the rugged heights of the cathedral, a tall, dark, graceful figure upon the landscape. At the north doorway he turned, gazed steadily at us for a few moments, raised his hands as though in benediction, and the next moment was lost to sight.
We said goodbye like real friends, not just people who met for a day. As we've mentioned, there's a powerful connection that overcomes time and social norms. Just like in dreams, where we can experience a lifetime in a single moment, an hour in a friendship can feel like years. The clock struck twelve again; it was Anselmo's signal. History repeats itself. Today, he left alone, leaving us standing among the ruins. We watched him as he climbed the steep steps of the cathedral, a tall, dark, graceful figure against the landscape. At the north doorway, he paused, looked at us for a few moments, raised his hands as if giving a blessing, and then vanished from view.
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 Señorita 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.
Sweet illusions—Everything seen and done—True devotion—In the vortex—Sunshine and blue skies—Less demonic pit—Lights and shadows—Arcades lose their gloom—Rosalie—Charm of Anselmo—Romance isn't dead—H. C. in ecstasy—Escorting an angel—Cathedral steps—San Filiu—A lovely spot—Ancient house—Mullioned and latticed windows—Passing away—Rosalie's care—Acceptance—Rosalie's goodbye—"Consuelo"—Taken from the evil to come—The door closed—Ernesto's world upside down—Ernesto gets businesslike—The catapult again—Up the wide staircase—Not the ghostly hour—Madame at her bureau—Posting ledger—Balance on the right side—Madame philosophizes—Shrieks to the rescue—"My dear daughter"—Our host and the nightingales—Waiting for next year's leaves—The Señorita Costello—Delormais on the move—Another vigil—Promise made—Departure—Inspector quakes—H. C. collapses—The impressionable age—Lady Maria changes her will—Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
IT was not an unmixed sorrow. At sunrise the next morning preparations for the cattle fair must commence. By mid-day bipeds and quadrupeds would rule the town, our beautiful palace find itself desecrated. In its present half-deserted condition an air of refinement and antiquity hung over it. One felt, almost saw and heard, the great crowd of cavaliers and dames, besacked and besworded, that had passed up and down the broad marble staircase in the picturesque and romantic Middle Ages. All the ghosts and ghostly sighs and shadows lurking in secret corners, halls and corridors, would vanish before the vulgar herd. Under this influence Gerona the beautiful would become intolerable; better leave with impressions and sweet illusions undisturbed.
IT wasn't just sadness. At sunrise the next morning, we had to start getting ready for the cattle fair. By midday, people and animals would take over the town, and our beautiful palace would be spoiled. In its currently half-abandoned state, it had an aura of elegance and history. You could almost feel, see, and hear the crowds of knights and ladies, dressed in their finery and armed, who used to walk up and down the grand marble staircase in the picturesque and romantic Middle Ages. All the ghosts and whispers hiding in the corners, halls, and corridors would disappear in front of the noisy crowd. With that happening, Gerona the beautiful would become unbearable; it was better to leave with our memories and sweet illusions intact.
And little remained. Everything had been seen, everything done. We had said farewell to Anselmo, then plunged into the vortex of the fair, where noise, crowd and confusion fought with each other. Sunshine and blue skies were having their usual effect upon the Spanish people. Every one was in high spirits, inclined to patronise booths, monkeys, and fortune-tellers.
And there was little left. Everything had been experienced, everything done. We had said goodbye to Anselmo, then dove into the chaos of the fair, where noise, crowds, and confusion battled with each other. The sunshine and blue skies were doing their usual thing to the Spanish people. Everyone was in good spirits, eager to check out the booths, monkeys, and fortune-tellers.
A Girona patio.
Every hour spent in the ancient town strengthened our devotion. This old-world atmosphere, these marvellous outlines lost nothing by familiarity. Standing once more on the bridge we confessed how difficult it would be to look upon such a scene again. To-day, under the sunshine the chestnut-roasters appeared less demon-like, the bed of the river less a bottomless pit. A little of the weird element had departed. The sense of mystery so strongly felt last night could not live in this brilliant atmosphere.
Every hour spent in the old town deepened our appreciation. This vintage vibe, these amazing sights, didn't lose any charm with familiarity. Standing once again on the bridge, we admitted how hard it would be to see such a scene again. Today, under the bright sun, the chestnut sellers seemed less sinister, and the riverbed felt less like an endless pit. A bit of the eerie quality had faded away. The feeling of mystery we experienced last night couldn't survive in this vibrant atmosphere.
By way of compensation the deep lights and shadows appealed to the imagination quite as strongly as any sense of mystery. They filled the air with life and motion. The trees rustled and gleamed and glinted and drew moving pictures upon the white houses. Arcades lost their gloom, but not their charm, and these apart from all else raise Gerona far above the rank of any ordinary town. As we left the fair and turned into the quieter streets, it seemed almost a natural consequence that from one of the deep round arches there glided the quiet, graceful form of Rosalie. She had foretold that we should meet again.
By way of compensation, the deep lights and shadows sparked the imagination just as much as any sense of mystery. They filled the air with life and movement. The trees rustled, shone, and sparkled, casting shifting images onto the white houses. The arcades shed their gloom but kept their charm, and these, apart from everything else, elevate Gerona far above the level of any ordinary town. As we left the fair and turned into the quieter streets, it felt almost natural that from one of the deep round arches, the quiet, graceful figure of Rosalie glided by. She had predicted that we would meet again.
"But for the last time, Rosalie," as she greeted us with her rare sweet smile. "We leave this evening. Time presses, and we would avoid to-morrow's ceremony."
"But for the last time, Rosalie," she said as she greeted us with her rare sweet smile. "We leave this evening. Time is running out, and we want to avoid tomorrow's ceremony."
"They are terrible days," returned Rosalie. "No wonder you escape them. Until they are over we keep as far as possible out of sight. You have seen Anselmo to-day, señor?"
"They're awful days," Rosalie replied. "No wonder you want to get away from them. Until they're over, we try to stay out of sight as much as we can. Have you seen Anselmo today, sir?"
"Yes, and wished him farewell. It was a sad moment. He alone has repaid us for our visit to Gerona. We should like to spend many days here and know him more intimately."
"Yeah, and we said goodbye to him. It was a sad moment. He’s the only one who has returned our visit to Gerona. We’d love to spend more days here and get to know him better."
"Days of profit, if I may venture to say so, señor. The more you saw Anselmo, the more you would love him. It is every one's experience. Apart from his saintliness, you cannot tell on a slight acquaintance how much there is in him. His is not the goodness of a weak but of a strong nature; intellectually strong; but so refined and unambitious that to an ordinary observer it may seem passive. He is of a different order from Père Delormais, who is full of action and energy, and does so much and does all well. But Delormais was born to great things; they are his of inheritance. Anselmo had not these privileges."
"Days of profit, if I can be honest, sir. The more you get to know Anselmo, the more you'll love him. That's everyone's experience. Aside from his saintliness, you can't really grasp how much he has to offer on a surface level. His goodness comes from a strong nature, not a weak one; he's intellectually strong, but so refined and unambitious that to an average observer, he may seem passive. He’s a different type from Père Delormais, who is full of action and energy, accomplishing many things and doing them well. But Delormais was born for greatness; it's in his blood. Anselmo didn’t have those advantages."
"The greater merit, Rosalie; but we think you count for very much in his life. He has kept you before him, and your image has inspired him to deeper holiness."
"The greater merit, Rosalie; but we believe you mean a lot in his life. He has held onto your presence, and your memory has motivated him towards greater holiness."
"Ah, no, señor. Rather is it the other way. He has been my guide and king, as I told you yesterday. Anselmo is above all earthly mortals, all human aid. But you will meet him again and know him better. This your first visit to Gerona will not be your last. Few people come here, but those who do always return. I think of it as a place apart, possessing ideal beauties, a separate atmosphere. And for me," she smiled, "everything seems imbued with the charm of Anselmo. The bells ring out his name; I hear it in the song of the birds, the whispering of the trees. Romance is not dead within me because I am Sister Anastasia."
"Ah, no, sir. It's the other way around. He has been my guide and king, as I mentioned yesterday. Anselmo is above all earthly beings, all human support. But you will meet him again and get to know him better. This your first visit to Gerona won't be your last. Few people come here, but those who do always come back. I see it as a special place, full of ideal beauty, with a unique atmosphere. And for me," she smiled, "everything seems colored by the charm of Anselmo. The bells ring his name; I hear it in the birds' songs and the rustling of the trees. Romance isn't dead in me just because I am Sister Anastasia."
Here H. C. struck in, unable to contain himself any longer.
Here H. C. jumped in, unable to hold back any longer.
"If I were here very long," he cried excitedly, "I should fall madly in love with you myself, and write reams of poetry to your lovely eyes. I have never seen such eyes. They have all the light of heaven in them, and—and—all the beauty of earth."
"If I stayed here much longer," he exclaimed excitedly, "I would definitely fall head over heels for you and write tons of poetry about your beautiful eyes. I've never seen eyes like yours. They have all the light of heaven in them, and—and—all the beauty of the earth."
Rosalie laughed.
Rosalie chuckled.
"You are very outspoken, señor. I could have told you were a poet from your look. But you must exercise your genius on a worthier theme. On me it would be wasted; my life, all I have, all I am, is dedicated to Heaven. Time is passing. Will you not go with me on my way that I may show you one of the loveliest spots in Gerona?"
"You’re really straightforward, sir. I could tell you’re a poet just by looking at you. But you should focus your talent on something more deserving. It would be wasted on me; my life, everything I have, everything I am, is devoted to Heaven. Time is moving on. Won't you come with me so I can show you one of the most beautiful places in Gerona?"
So Rosalie walked through the quiet old-world streets with an escort on either side. We felt we were attending an angel. H. C. did not attempt to conceal his rapture. It is a weakness of which he seems unconscious. Rosalie pointed out many a house in which she had ministered; here soothing the pillow of the dying, there rescuing one from the grasp of death. Under her guidance the streets seemed more beautiful than ever; a holier atmosphere surrounded them.
So Rosalie walked through the quiet, old-fashioned streets with an escort on either side. We felt like we were accompanying an angel. H. C. didn’t try to hide his excitement. It’s a weakness he doesn’t seem aware of. Rosalie pointed out many houses where she had helped; soothing the pillows of the dying in some, and saving others from the brink of death in others. With her leading the way, the streets seemed more beautiful than ever; a sacred atmosphere enveloped them.
At length we reached the wonderful steps leading to the cathedral. They were flooded with sunlight and gave dignity to the ugly west front, so unworthy of the splendid interior. Passing under the fine old gateway and turning to the left, we found ourselves close to the old church of San Filiu. In days gone by, when the Moors captured Gerona and changed its cathedral into a mosque, the Christians had worshipped here. Whatever its interior at that time, it is now dark, gloomy and depressing.
At last, we arrived at the amazing steps that led to the cathedral. They were bathed in sunlight and added an air of dignity to the unattractive west front, which was unworthy of the magnificent interior. After passing through the beautiful old gateway and turning left, we found ourselves near the old church of San Filiu. In the past, when the Moors took over Gerona and converted its cathedral into a mosque, the Christians used to worship here. No matter what the interior was like back then, it's now dark, gloomy, and depressing.
Rosalie entered a quiet street beyond, a short narrow turning of only a few yards, then halted.
Rosalie walked into a quiet street ahead, a short narrow turn just a few yards long, and then stopped.
It was, as she had said, one of the loveliest spots in Gerona; so hidden that few would find it by chance. A small house of great antiquity but perfectly preserved. An exquisite Gothic archway over which the house was built led into a small quadrangle. Beside this archway was a mullioned window with latticed panes. We imagined the quaint old room within and longed to enter. Above this was another latticed window with Gothic mullions and ornaments. It was open, and sweet-scented flowers threw their perfume upon the air. This was crowned by a sloping roof with red tiles bearing all the tone and beauty of age. At least three centuries must have rolled over them unmolested. Even H. C. forgot the charms of Rosalie and became enthusiastic in favour of still life.
It was, as she had said, one of the loveliest spots in Gerona; so hidden that few would stumble upon it by chance. A small house of great age but perfectly preserved. An exquisite Gothic archway over which the house was built led into a small courtyard. Next to this archway was a mullioned window with latticed panes. We imagined the charming old room inside and longed to go in. Above this was another latticed window with Gothic mullions and decorations. It was open, and sweet-smelling flowers filled the air with their fragrance. This was topped by a sloping roof with red tiles that had the tone and beauty of age. At least three centuries must have passed over them undisturbed. Even H. C. forgot the allure of Rosalie and became enthusiastic about still life.
"It is my destination," said Rosalie. "I was hastening here yesterday when you saw me crossing the square of San Pedro. Where those lovely flowers are scenting the air, a lovelier earthly flower is passing away. Consumption is doing its work. The only child of a mother who will soon have no tie left on earth. So Heaven sometimes sees well to draw our souls upwards. There are those who need this discipline. Trouble, like everything else, enters into the wise economy of God's purposes. I doubt if a single unnecessary care or pain is dealt out to us. But here the hand of affliction is charged with a heavy burden. The invalid is a fair maiden of seventeen, pure and beautiful. Her resignation is a gift from heaven, a lesson to us all. But for that I don't know what would become of the mother."
"It’s my destination," Rosalie said. "I was rushing here yesterday when you saw me crossing the San Pedro square. Where those lovely flowers are filling the air with their scent, a more beautiful earthly flower is fading away. Consumption is taking its toll. She’s the only child of a mother who will soon have no ties left on this earth. So sometimes Heaven sees fit to lift our souls upward. There are those who need this lesson. Struggles, like everything else, are part of the wise design of God's plan. I doubt that we experience even a single unnecessary worry or pain. But here, the weight of affliction is heavy. The patient is a fair maiden of seventeen, pure and beautiful. Her acceptance is a gift from above, a lesson for all of us. Without that, I don’t know what would happen to the mother."
As she spoke a face appeared at the window above the flowers; the sweet gentle face of a middle-aged woman, pale and pathetic, to which the mantilla added grace and charm. There was a look of patient sorrow in the dark eyes, lightened by a momentary gleam as they caught sight of Rosalie.
As she spoke, a face showed up at the window above the flowers; the kind, gentle face of a middle-aged woman, pale and sad, to which the mantilla added elegance and charm. There was an expression of quiet sorrow in her dark eyes, brightened by a brief sparkle when they spotted Rosalie.
"Sister Anastasia," said the subdued woman, "the sun is not more true to its course than you to your hour. My child hungers for you. Next to her mother you are her only consolation."
"Sister Anastasia," said the quiet woman, "the sun is no more reliable in its path than you are in your timing. My child needs you. You're her only comfort next to her mother."
"I come, I come," replied Sister Anastasia. "Tell Rosita that in my bag I bring her refreshment for the mind and food for the soul. Ah, señor, this is indeed farewell, since you tell me your moments in Gerona are numbered. The sun shines, the skies are blue, let these be an omen of your life until we meet again. For by the love you bear Anselmo—you must love him; we all love him—you must return. He will be here and so shall I. We shall probably see no change until Heaven calls us to the great change of all. This fair child above will have passed away, and the mother's heart will be desolate. But Heaven that brings the sorrow will heal the wound. Adieu señor. Adieu."
"I’m coming, I’m coming," Sister Anastasia replied. "Tell Rosita that I have brought her some nourishment for the mind and food for the soul in my bag. Ah, sir, this is truly goodbye, since you say your time in Gerona is short. The sun is shining, the skies are blue; let these be signs of your life until we meet again. With the love you have for Anselmo—you must love him; we all love him—you have to come back. He will be here, and so will I. We probably won’t see any changes until Heaven calls us to the ultimate change of all. This dear child above will have passed away, and the mother will be heartbroken. But Heaven, which brings the sorrow, will also heal the wound. Farewell, sir. Farewell."
OLD HOUSES BY THE RIVER: GERONA.
She glided through the archway and on the other side gained admittance to the house. The door opened to receive her, a quiet voice was heard in greeting. "You are an angel of light," it said. "Your new name should have been Consuelo. But, oh, Anastasia, my child is worse. I fear me a few days will see the ending, and I shall be lonely and desolate upon earth. Why did Heaven take the child and spare the mother?"
She glided through the archway and on the other side entered the house. The door opened to welcome her, a soft voice greeted her. "You are an angel of light," it said. "Your new name should have been Consuelo. But, oh, Anastasia, my child is worse. I’m afraid in a few days it will all be over, and I will be lonely and heartbroken on earth. Why did Heaven take the child and leave the mother?"
"God knows best," returned Anastasia. "Let His will be done. Be sure He who deals the blow will not forsake you. Your child is spared the sorrows of earth. You will think of her as in safe keeping; taken from the evil to come."
"God knows best," Anastasia replied. "Let His will be done. Just know that He who delivers the blow will not abandon you. Your child is spared from the troubles of this world. You'll think of her as being well cared for; taken away from the evil that is to come."
We heard no more. The door was closed. Let us leave Rosalie in her true element, a ministering spirit shedding abroad more happiness and consolation, more holy influence, than she at all realised; doing all with that unconscious modesty which was one of her greatest gifts. The picture of that last interview remains vividly in our memory. A little mediæval old house that has scarce its equal in Gerona; the flowers behind the latticed panes and the sad, subdued face appearing above them; Rosalie's eyes looking up in all their loveliness with an expression of almost divine sympathy.
We heard no more. The door was closed. Let’s leave Rosalie in her true element, a caring spirit spreading more happiness and comfort, more positive influence, than she even realized; doing everything with that humble grace which was one of her greatest gifts. The memory of that last meeting stays clear in our minds. A little medieval house that has hardly any equal in Gerona; the flowers behind the grid-like windows and the sad, subdued face showing above them; Rosalie's eyes looking up in all their beauty with an expression of almost divine sympathy.
We went our way, richer for having known her. It was our last look upon these cathedral precincts. The afternoon shadows were lengthening as we went back through the quiet streets to the hotel. All the brilliant glory of the day had departed. These repeated farewells were depressing, yet not quite over, for as we approached the Fonda who should be standing at their own door but Ernesto and his mother. We had not met them since the previous day when they had disappeared within the lion's den, and we had gone round to the reeds and the river.
We left feeling richer for having known her. It was our last glimpse of these cathedral grounds. The afternoon shadows grew longer as we made our way back through the quiet streets to the hotel. The day's bright glory had faded. These repeated goodbyes felt heavy, yet they weren't quite finished, because as we neared the Fonda, who should be standing at their door but Ernesto and his mother. We hadn't seen them since the day before when they had ventured into the lion's den, and we had gone off to the reeds and the river.
"Ernesto! how is this? Why are you not at school?"
"Ernesto! What's going on? Why aren’t you at school?"
"School, señor!" opening very wide eyes. "Fair week is holiday. We should have a revolution if they attempted school upon us. For this one week in the year we change places with our fathers and mothers, pastors and teachers. They obey and we command."
"School, sir!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide open. "Fair week is a holiday. We’d start a revolution if they tried to make us go to school. For this one week each year, we switch roles with our parents, pastors, and teachers. They follow our orders, and we give the commands."
"We congratulate you on this topsy-turvy state of things. But as you are strong be merciful. Remember that Black Monday comes. Cinderella went back to her rags at midnight; you must go back to school and good work. And the monkeys? You are still at large; we feared the opposite, as you had not brought us your report."
"We congratulate you on this crazy situation. But since you're strong, be kind. Remember that Black Monday is coming. Cinderella returned to her rags at midnight; you have to return to school and your responsibilities. And the monkeys? You're still free; we were worried about the opposite since you haven't given us your report."
"Oh! I brought it, señor; but it was rather late, and Señor Lasoli said you were at the opera. You should have seen the monkeys!" And here he went off into convulsions at the recollection of the performance. "They couldn't understand what was inside the lozenges to bite their tongues so! First they would take a nibble, then rub the lozenge on the arm; then another nibble; then a whole torrent of monkey-swearing and lozenge-rubbing because it kept on biting and burning. I quite thought I should die with laughing."
"Oh! I brought it, sir; but it was pretty late, and Mr. Lasoli said you were at the opera. You should have seen the monkeys!" And here he burst into laughter recalling the performance. "They couldn't figure out what was in the lozenges that made them bite their tongues like that! First, they would take a little bite, then rub the lozenge on their arm; then another nibble; and then a whole outburst of monkey swearing and rubbing the lozenge because it kept biting and burning. I honestly thought I would die from laughing."
From the way he laughed now, it seemed doubtful whether all danger was over.
From the way he laughed now, it seemed uncertain whether all danger was gone.
"But that is not the worst, señor," said the mother, at length making herself heard. "Will you believe that the boy has a wretched catapult in his pocket, and there will be any number of broken windows and assassinated cats in the town. I don't know what will become of us. If there is one thing I dread more than another, it is a catapult. They are the implements of the devil."
"But that’s not the worst part, señor," the mother finally spoke up. "Can you believe that the boy has a terrible catapult in his pocket? There’s going to be a ton of broken windows and dead cats around town. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. If there's one thing I fear more than anything else, it’s a catapult. They’re tools of the devil."
"There is absolutely no fear," laughed Ernesto. "I never broke a window in my life—at least, hardly ever. As for cats, they are quite outside the law of murder. A dead cat is as rare as a dead donkey. Are you really going to-day, señor? Then I shall have no more pleasure in the fair, though this year it is better than usual. The lions roared like thunder, and the monkeys accepted all the lozenges. They were punished for their greediness. But will you come back to spend a whole month at Gerona? And if you allowed me, I would take you to some of the excursions in the neighbourhood. There are any number within twenty miles; ruined churches and deserted monasteries. I don't care much about them myself, but I know many who do. It seems to me that a good show and a handful of chestnuts are worth all the wretched old ruins in the world."
"There’s absolutely no fear," laughed Ernesto. "I’ve never broken a window in my life—well, hardly ever. And as for cats, they’re pretty much outside the realm of crime. A dead cat is as rare as a dead donkey. Are you really leaving today, sir? Then I won’t enjoy the fair anymore, even though this year it’s better than usual. The lions roared like thunder, and the monkeys ate up all the candies. They got punished for their greed. But will you come back for a whole month in Gerona? If you let me, I’d take you on some of the local trips. There are plenty within twenty miles; ruined churches and abandoned monasteries. I don’t care much for them myself, but I know many who do. To me, a good show and a handful of chestnuts are worth all the miserable old ruins in the world."
In spite of this vandalism, we assured Ernesto that when we spent a month in Gerona he should have the honour of escorting us, provided it was not school-time. He wished to bind us to a given date, thereby showing a decided talent for business, but we refused to be committed to the inevitable. We left mother and son together, a picture of domestic happiness. As we disappeared under the archway of the hotel, Ernesto held up his catapult in triumph, successfully parrying his mother's attempt to obtain possession of the forbidden weapon. She evidently looked upon it as only one degree below an infernal machine.
Despite this vandalism, we assured Ernesto that when we spent a month in Gerona, he would have the honor of escorting us, as long as it wasn't during school time. He tried to pin us down to a specific date, showing off his knack for business, but we refused to get tied down to what was bound to happen. We left mother and son together, a picture of family happiness. As we disappeared under the hotel archway, Ernesto held up his slingshot in triumph, successfully blocking his mother's attempts to take away the forbidden weapon. She clearly viewed it as just a step below a deadly device.
Marketplace: Girona.
"As it need be, for they worked hard enough for their living," she assured us. "She couldn't tell how it was; no one would think from her size that she never relaxed in her exertions. Do what she would, she could not get thin. As for her husband, she made him eat all the richest bits at dinner; never allowed him to fast; supplied him with eggs and butter and beer ad libitum. No; he was obstinate. He would keep thin. The consequence was they were a ridiculous couple. She was the Duomo at Florence, he was the Campanile. However, they made the best of it. Life was too short to grieve over inevitable troubles. Clearly she was an inevitable. When she was a girl, there were five ladies who might be seen walking out morning, noon, and night, and always together. Go which way you would you were sure to meet them. They knew every one, and five perpetual bows were everlastingly see-sawing like a wound-up machine going through its performance. They were called the Inevitables. No one ever thought of them by any other name. They were quite aware of it and rather liked it. It was something to be in constant evidence. What other five sisters would live together in such harmony? Well, these five ladies were for ever running in her head. For a long time past she had felt like all five ladies rolled into one. She was one great Inevitable. Fate was a little cruel. Her movements might be compared to those of the elephant. As for her husband, he could still run up and down stairs like a lamplighter—almost pass through a keyhole—but it took her five minutes to get up a dozen steps. Soon it would take her ten. And then she wanted pulling up in front and pushing up behind. It was quite a ceremony. She had serious thoughts of having a crane and pulley adjusted to her windows, and of being hoisted up and down, but the question was whether a hempen rope would bear her weight, or anything under a cast-iron chain. Was it true that Queen Victoria was carried wherever she went, because she suffered from rheumatism? Ah! it was a great thing to be a queen. No ledgers to post up; no anxiety as to whether the balance would be on the right side at the end of every month. What a blessing to have a good, solid, comfortable margin at one's bankers to draw upon for contingencies, which was only another word for the unexpected. This year it was painting inside, next year painting outside. If there was no painting, it was chairs, tables or linen. The extras went on for ever and swallowed up all the profits."
"As it should be, since they worked hard enough for their living," she assured us. "She couldn’t explain it; no one would guess from her size that she never took a break from her efforts. No matter what she did, she couldn’t lose weight. As for her husband, she made him eat all the richest parts of dinner; never let him skip a meal; always provided him with eggs, butter, and beer ad libitum. No; he was stubborn. He would stay thin. The result was they were a funny couple. She was the Duomo in Florence, he was the Campanile. Still, they made the best of it. Life was too short to dwell on unavoidable troubles. Clearly, she was an inevitable. When she was young, there were five ladies who could be seen walking out morning, noon, and night, always together. No matter which way you went, you were bound to meet them. They knew everyone, and five constant bows were always going up and down like a wound-up machine doing its routine. They were called the Inevitables. No one ever thought of them by any other name. They were fully aware of it and kind of liked it. It was something to always stand out. What other five sisters would live together in such unity? Well, these five ladies were always on her mind. For a long time, she had felt like all five ladies rolled into one. She was one big Inevitable. Fate was a little harsh. Her movements could be compared to those of an elephant. As for her husband, he could still run up and down stairs like a lamplighter—almost fit through a keyhole—but it took her five minutes to climb a dozen steps. Soon it would take her ten. And then she needed someone to pull her up in front and push her up from behind. It became quite a routine. She had serious thoughts about having a crane and pulley set up at her windows, to lift her up and down, but the question was whether a hemp rope could hold her weight, or if anything less than a cast-iron chain would work. Was it true that Queen Victoria was carried everywhere because she had rheumatism? Ah! it was a great thing to be a queen. No ledgers to keep; no worrying about whether the balance would be in the black at the end of every month. What a blessing to have a good, solid, comfortable cushion at the bank to draw on for emergencies, which was just another term for the unexpected. This year it was inside painting, next year outside painting. If there wasn’t any painting, it was chairs, tables, or linens. The extras went on forever and ate up all the profits."
We thought the old lady, like the extras, would also have gone on for ever, but to our infinite relief a piercing shriek was heard from an upper region. Madame turned pale and mildly echoed the scream.
We thought the old lady, like the extras, would go on forever, but to our great relief, a piercing scream came from upstairs. Madame turned pale and quietly repeated the scream.
"My dear daughter!" she cried. "Something has frightened her, or she is suddenly taken worse. She is always being taken worse, though worse from what I cannot possibly imagine. Sometimes I think it is fancy or hysteria. She is really perfectly well all the time."
"My dear daughter!" she exclaimed. "Something has scared her, or she's suddenly feeling worse. She's always feeling worse, but worse from what I can't possibly figure out. Sometimes I think it's just her imagination or hysteria. She's actually perfectly fine all the time."
At this moment the mysterious daughter appeared upon the scene, running downstairs at a speed that testified to the soundness of her limbs, whatever her state of nerves.
At that moment, the mysterious daughter showed up, dashing down the stairs with a speed that proved she was physically fit, regardless of how stressed she might be.
"A dreadful mouse," she moaned, throwing herself into her mother's capacious protection. "It ran right over my feet, across the room, and went into my little cupboard."
"A terrible mouse," she complained, throwing herself into her mother's large embrace. "It ran right over my feet, across the room, and went into my little cupboard."
"Perhaps you have some cake there?" said this sensible mamma.
"Maybe you have some cake there?" said this sensible mom.
"A mere fragment," acknowledged the daughter.
"A small piece," the daughter admitted.
"Poor little mouse," said the mother soothingly. "It is hungry, perhaps, and fond of cake. My dear, it will eat cake; it will not eat you."
"Poor little mouse," the mother said gently. "It must be hungry and probably likes cake. Don’t worry, it will eat cake; it won’t eat you."
We caught sight of our industrious host in his garden surveying his possessions, and escaped. The cook stood in his doorway in white cap and apron, a satisfactory object in all hotels. Over the slanting tiled roof grew the fruitful vine, a picture of beauty. Our host, surrounded by his birds and pigeons, was vainly imploring the nightingales to sing. They only looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their beaks, shook their heads, and said as plainly as possible that the song had left them. It would return with next year's leaves and garlands, more glorious for the rest.
We spotted our hardworking host in his garden inspecting his belongings and managed to slip away. The cook stood at his doorway in his white cap and apron, a reassuring sight in all hotels. Over the slanted tiled roof, a fruitful vine grew, a beautiful image. Our host, surrounded by his birds and pigeons, was hopelessly begging the nightingales to sing. They just looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their beaks, shook their heads, and clearly indicated that the song had left them. It would come back with next year's leaves and garlands, even more glorious for the wait.
"I should have liked you to hear them," said their proud owner in quite a melancholy voice. "You would have thought yourselves in Italy, as I often do."
"I really wished you could have heard them," said their proud owner with a rather sad tone. "You would have felt like you were in Italy, just like I often do."
"Or on the Rhine, or the Blue Moselle, or the Dauphiné Alps, Señor Lasoli, where the nightingales assemble in myriads, and sing and rave night and day through the weeks of spring. We have heard them."
"Or on the Rhine, or the Blue Moselle, or the Dauphiné Alps, Señor Lasoli, where countless nightingales gather and sing endlessly day and night throughout the spring weeks. We have heard them."
"They are more beautiful near water," said our host. "The song gains volume and vibration by being carried across. But I have chiefly heard them in our woods on the Mediterranean shores. France to me is a sealed book. So, señor, you leave us, and I cannot even wish you to remain. To-morrow you would not be in your element. Gerona will be out of joint until we settle down again to our normal condition. I trust you will one day return, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honour of our town. It would certainly be translated and might be dedicated to the Señorita Costello. He would be fêted on his arrival; fireworks, illuminations, and municipal addresses. The hubbub of conscription would be nothing to it. At five o'clock, señor, the omnibus will be at your service."
"They're more beautiful near water," our host said. "The song carries more volume and resonance across it. But I've mostly heard them in our woods along the Mediterranean coast. France feels like a closed book to me. So, sir, you're leaving us, and I can't even ask you to stay. Tomorrow, you wouldn't feel at home here. Gerona will be off-kilter until we settle back into our usual rhythm. I hope you’ll return someday, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honor of our town. It would definitely get translated and could be dedicated to Señorita Costello. He would be celebrated on his arrival with fireworks, decorations, and official speeches. The chaos of conscription would be nothing compared to that. At five o'clock, sir, the bus will be at your service."
As we went through the haunted corridors to our rooms, Delormais came up the marble staircase, apparently somewhat hurried.
As we walked through the haunted hallways to our rooms, Delormais rushed up the marble staircase, looking a bit flustered.
"We are both on the wing," he cried, "and so I the less regret your going. I thought to have stayed until to-morrow, but sudden news compels me to leave to-night. Summoned to Rome, I must obey. I know that I have a battle before me, and also know that I shall win. Conquering as a humble Vicar of Rheims, I shall not do less as Bishop of X. You will see me dismissed with a Cardinal's hat, an honour I would not cross the road to obtain, so little do I care for the pomps of the world. With such models before me as my father and mother and the good old Abbé, one feels that the only thing worth living for is to do good and cultivate the graces of the spirit."
"We're both on the move," he shouted, "so I regret your departure less. I had planned to stay until tomorrow, but unexpected news forces me to leave tonight. I've been called to Rome, and I must go. I know there's a challenge ahead of me, but I'm confident I will succeed. Even as a humble Vicar of Rheims, I won't do any less as Bishop of X. You'll see me leave with a Cardinal's hat, an honor I wouldn't cross the street for, since I care so little for the trappings of this world. With examples like my parents and the good old Abbé, it’s clear that the only thing worth living for is to do good and nurture the qualities of the spirit."
We were in his room, scene of last night's vigil, where he had sketched an outline of his life and the hours had passed unconsciously.
We were in his room, the spot of last night's vigil, where he had outlined his life and time had slipped away without us even realizing it.
"Another night of vigil, but without companionship," said Delormais. "On the contrary, time will only place distance between us. You go southward, I northward into France, reaching my destination about two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Would that I might accompany you to Barcelona and gaze with you upon the wonders of that loveliest of cathedrals. Again I say that the Catalonian cathedrals are the glories of Spain. But my own has its charms, and those at least we shall often see together. I have your promise?"
"Another night of keeping watch, but without company," Delormais said. "In fact, time will only create distance between us. You’re heading south, and I’m going north into France, reaching my destination around two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I wish I could go with you to Barcelona and admire the beauty of that most stunning cathedral alongside you. I’ll say it again: the Catalan cathedrals are the pride of Spain. But mine has its own charms, and at least those we’ll often see together. I have your promise?"
We gave it unconditionally, in this instance not fearing to commit ourselves to a given date. Delormais was a man whose friendship was a privilege and whose sympathy and conversation made all days a delight. We parted, hoping to meet again.
We gave it freely, not worrying about committing to a specific date. Delormais was someone whose friendship was a gift, and his support and conversations made every day enjoyable. We said goodbye, hoping to see each other again.
Not long after this the omnibus rattled out of the courtyard, and our host intimated that time was up.
Not long after this, the bus rolled out of the courtyard, and our host hinted that it was time to go.
The sun had set, darkness had fallen when we clattered through the quiet streets. Passing the deep, round arcades we looked out for Rosalie, but no light, graceful figure speeding on its errand of mercy appeared. The arcades were again mysterious and impenetrable. We turned on to the bridge and for the last time looked upon the scene as the omnibus rattled on. All down the boulevard booths were on active service. Torches flared and still the crowd sauntered to and fro. The river flowed on its way, and all the outlines of those wonderful old-world houses were faintly visible. We knew them by heart now, and they were almost as real to us by night as by day.
The sun had set, and darkness had fallen as we moved through the quiet streets. Passing the deep, round arcades, we looked for Rosalie, but no light, graceful figure darting on her mission of mercy appeared. The arcades felt mysterious and impenetrable once again. We turned onto the bridge and took one last look at the scene as the bus rattled on. All down the boulevard, booths were in full swing. Torches lit up the area, and the crowd continued to wander back and forth. The river flowed along its path, and the outlines of those amazing old-world houses were faintly visible. We knew them by heart now, and they felt almost as real to us at night as they did during the day.
The station once more. Only forty-eight hours had passed since we had struggled across that crowded platform, but we had gone through so many experiences, heard and seen so much, that many days seem to have flown. When we thought of Delormais it was impossible to realise we had not known him for years, visited his early home, joined in his travels. The father and mother, still the objects of his undying affection, the old Abbé in whom he delighted, had become personal friends by his vivid descriptions.
The station again. Just forty-eight hours had gone by since we had pushed our way across that busy platform, but we had gone through so many experiences, seen and heard so much, that it felt like many days had passed. When we thought about Delormais, it was hard to believe we hadn’t known him for years, visited his childhood home, or joined him on his travels. His mother and father, still the focus of his endless love, and the old Abbé he admired, had become personal friends through his vivid stories.
Reflections were suddenly put to flight as the omnibus brought up with a jerk that almost landed H. C. once more on his knees. The station crowd was small compared with that previous crowd. Again we had a slight adventure with our luggage, and began to fear in earnest that we and it should never reach Barcelona together. They refused to register or have anything to do with it; luggage was never booked to Gerona by the express. One other miserably slow train left in the early morning, and the officials calmly intimated that we might wait for it.
Reflections were suddenly interrupted as the bus stopped with a jolt that almost sent H. C. to his knees again. The crowd at the station was small compared to the previous one. Once more, we had a little adventure with our luggage and genuinely started to worry that we wouldn’t make it to Barcelona with it. They wouldn’t check it in or deal with it at all; luggage was never booked to Gerona on the express. There was one other painfully slow train leaving in the early morning, and the staff casually suggested that we might just have to wait for it.
But a worm will turn, and we felt the law must be taken into our own hands. We bade the omnibus conductor leave at his peril, made him carry our baggage through the buffet to the platform, and when the train arrived, the whole, great and small, was put into a carriage. Then we followed and mounted guard. The inspector came up and demanded an explanation, upon which H. C. put on his Napoleon air and shouldered his umbrella. He looked so much in earnest that the inspector quailed, bowed, withdrew, and gave a hasty signal for departure. Away we steamed, masters of the situation.
But a worm will turn, and we felt we had to take the law into our own hands. We warned the bus driver to leave at his own risk, made him carry our bags through the buffet to the platform, and when the train arrived, everyone, big and small, was put into a carriage. Then we followed and kept watch. The inspector came up and asked for an explanation, at which point H. C. struck a Napoleon pose and brandished his umbrella. He looked so serious that the inspector backed down, bowed, stepped away, and gave a quick signal for departure. Off we went, in control of the situation.
Then H. C.'s military aspect collapsed. He turned paler than usual. "What is it?" we asked; for his susceptible heart is subject to spasmodic attacks. The doctors declare they are functional and not organic, and will pass away with the emotional age. Lady Maria was once terribly frightened and sent post-haste for Sir William Broadbent—though he was not Sir William at that time. The report was encouraging, but Lady Maria had received a shock. "I am sure my dear nephew will never be fit for hard work in this world," she said; "he must be made independent of it." And forthwith she sent for her man of business, and altered the paltry £200 a year she had left him into four th——. Well, well; Lady Maria is still living, and nothing on earth, they say, is certain excepting death and quarter-day. "What is it, H. C.?" we asked. "Will you take a little of the century-old——"
Then H. C.'s military demeanor fell apart. He turned paler than usual. "What’s wrong?" we asked, since his sensitive heart is prone to sudden attacks. The doctors say they’re functional and not organic, and they’ll fade away with emotional maturity. Lady Maria was once incredibly frightened and urgently called for Sir William Broadbent—though he wasn’t Sir William back then. The news was promising, but Lady Maria had been shaken. "I’m sure my dear nephew will never be fit for hard work in this world," she said; "he must be made independent of it." And right away, she called her business manager and changed the meager £200 a year she had left him into four th——. Well, well; Lady Maria is still alive, and nothing on earth, they say, is certain except death and the end of the month. "What’s wrong, H. C.?" we asked. "Will you have a little of the century-old——"
A gloomy prospect indeed—too terrible for reality.
A really bleak outlook—too awful to be real.
"Calm yourself," we replied. "You played your part too well just now. The inspector was really alarmed and glad to get rid of you at any price. If he pursued us with vengeance, we might turn up against him, like the eastern slippers. Depend upon it we have seen the last of him."
"Calm down," we said. "You really acted your part just now. The inspector was genuinely worried and just wanted to get rid of you at any cost. If he came after us out of spite, we could easily go against him, like those eastern slippers. Trust me, we've seen the last of him."
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.
Barcelona—H. C.'s anxiety—Mutual greetings—Old impressions—Disappointment—Familiar sounds and sights—Flower vendors—Endless summer—Business aspect—Manchester of Spain—Surrounding countryside—Where worry doesn't exist—Barcelonita—The waterfront—A land of grain and wine—Relaxing atmosphere—Beautiful women—Ancient elements noticeably missing—Historical background—Great in the Middle Ages—Wise and powerful—Commerce of the world—Wealth and knowledge—Becomes indulgent—Ferdinand and Isabella—Diplomatic but ungrateful—Brave and valiant—Fell before Peterborough—Napoleon's betrayal—Republican people—Prosperous again—Religious treasures—Unmatched cathedral—Inspiration—Influence of the Moors—Work of Majorcan architect—Dreamlike world—Impressive scene.
WE made way without further let or hindrance, and about ten o'clock the train steamed into Barcelona. H. C. gazed out anxiously for a regiment of soldiers with drawn swords, and was relieved at seeing only the usual couple of policemen with guns and cocked hats, looking harmless and amiable. He smiled benignly, saluted, and they returned the compliment.
WE continued on without any delay, and around ten o'clock, the train arrived in Barcelona. H. C. looked out nervously, expecting to see a group of soldiers with drawn swords, but he felt relieved to see only the usual couple of friendly policemen with guns and hats, looking harmless and friendly. He smiled warmly, waved, and they returned the gesture.
Our hearts beat quicker as we found ourselves in presence of familiar haunts. The very name conjured up a thousand scenes and pictures, every one of them a delightful recollection. From its fair port we had more than once sailed in days gone by for our beloved Majorca, loveliest of islands. Here we had spent days of pleasant expectation, waiting for the island steamer; more than once had returned with a cargo of Majorcan pigs, and after a tug-of-war seen some of the obstinate animals landed at last without their tails. Arriving from the sea was a far pleasanter way of gaining a first impression. The coast views are very fine. Approaching the harbour, church turrets and towers are outlined against the transparent sky. Passing between low reaches, the immense fortress of Montjuich, nearly a thousand feet high, rises like an impregnable rock defying the world.
Our hearts raced as we found ourselves back in familiar places. Just hearing the name brought back countless scenes and images, all of them joyful memories. From its beautiful port, we had often set sail in the past for our beloved Mallorca, the most beautiful of islands. We spent days eagerly waiting for the island steamer; we had returned more than once with a load of Majorcan pigs, and after a struggle, some of the stubborn animals were finally unloaded without their tails. Arriving by sea is a much more enjoyable way to get a first impression. The coastline views are stunning. As we approach the harbor, church spires and towers stand out against the clear sky. Passing between low stretches, the massive fortress of Montjuïc, nearly a thousand feet high, looms like an indestructible rock defying the world.
Approaching to-night by train was less exciting and romantic. Still it was Barcelona, and the porters calling out the syllables in their soft Spanish set our heart beating.
Getting here by train tonight was less thrilling and romantic. Still, it was Barcelona, and the porters calling out the syllables in their gentle Spanish made our hearts race.
It was a certain disappointment to find our favourite Four Nations—at that time one of the best hotels in Spain—closed. We had to put up with the Falcon, not by any means the same thing. It is pleasant to return to familiar quarters and people who welcome you as old habitués. The atmosphere of the Falcon was also more commercial and had no repose about it. Yet it was on the Rambla, and the next morning we awoke to the well-known cries of Barcelona, the old familiar scene.
It was quite disappointing to find our favorite Four Nations—at that time one of the best hotels in Spain—closed. We had to settle for the Falcon, which was definitely not the same experience. It’s nice to return to familiar places and people who greet you like old regulars. The vibe at the Falcon was also more business-like and lacked any sense of calm. Still, it was located on the Rambla, and the next morning we woke up to the familiar sounds of Barcelona, the same old scene.
A very Spanish scene, with its broad imposing thoroughfare and double row of well-grown trees rustling in the wind, glinting in the sunshine, filling the air with music and flashes of light. As the morning went on, the broad road became more crowded. Stretching far down, under the trees, were flower-stalls full of lovely blossoms. Roses, violets and hyacinths scented the air. It was delightful to see such profusion in November; to find blue skies and balmy airs rivalling the flowers. This land of perpetual summer is highly favoured. If a cold wind arises, turning the skies to winter, it is only for a short interval. Though it be December, summer soon returns, and the sunny clime is all the lovelier by contrast.
A very Spanish scene, with its wide, impressive street and double rows of well-grown trees rustling in the wind, sparkling in the sunshine, filling the air with music and flashes of light. As the morning went on, the broad road became more crowded. Stretching far down under the trees were flower stalls overflowing with beautiful blossoms. Roses, violets, and hyacinths filled the air with their fragrance. It was wonderful to see such abundance in November; to find blue skies and warm breezes competing with the flowers. This land of eternal summer is truly blessed. If a cold wind comes, bringing winter skies, it only lasts for a short while. Even in December, summer quickly returns, and the sunny climate is even more beautiful by contrast.
Like the Hôtel Falcon, the element of Barcelona is, we have said, commercial. It is perhaps the most flourishing and enterprising of all the towns of Spain. There are immense ship-building yards, and all sorts of ironwork is made, but the town itself has no sign or sound of manufacturing. It has been called the Manchester of Spain, yet its skies are for ever blue, the air is clear and untainted: a peculiar brilliancy and splendour of atmosphere not often met with even in the sunny South.
Like the Hôtel Falcon, Barcelona is, as we've mentioned, a commercial hub. It's probably the busiest and most enterprising town in all of Spain. There are huge shipbuilding yards, and all kinds of ironwork is produced, but the town itself doesn’t show any signs or sounds of manufacturing. It's been dubbed the Manchester of Spain, yet its skies are always blue, and the air is clear and fresh: a unique brightness and vibrancy in the atmosphere that's not often found even in the sunny South.
The country for many miles around is beautiful and undulating; beyond the immediate hills it has often a wild and savage grandeur that sometimes reaches the sublime. Year by year the town grows in extent. Well-organised tramways carry you to and fro through endless thoroughfares. The richer merchants have built themselves streets of palatial residences that stretch away into suburbs. Few cities are so brilliantly lighted. If Spain is a poor country, Barcelona seems to have escaped the evil. There is animation about it, perpetual movement, a quiet activity. For it is quiet with all its business and energy, and so far has the advantage over Madrid, where the commercial element was less evident but the noise infinitely greater. There people seemed to like sound for its own sake. In Barcelona they were intent upon making money, and as far as one can see, gained their object. Everything prospered. It was delightful to go down to the fine harbour and watch the vessels loading and unloading, the flags of all nations vividly contrasting with the brilliant blue sky as they flashed and fluttered in the wind. The port is magnificent. Its waters are blue as the heaven above them, and a myriad sun-gleams light up its surface. Nothing can be more exhilarating and picturesque. The faintest outline of a ship possesses a nameless charm; suggests freedom, wide seas, infinite space: speaks of enterprise, danger, and courage, yet is an emblem of absolute repose; hours and days and weeks where the world cannot reach you, and its cares and worries are non-existent.
The landscape for miles around is beautiful and rolling; beyond the nearby hills, it often has a wild and savage grandeur that sometimes approaches the sublime. Year after year, the town expands. Well-organized trams take you back and forth through endless streets. Wealthy merchants have built themselves blocks of grand homes that stretch out into the suburbs. Few cities are as brightly lit. If Spain is a poor country, Barcelona seems to have escaped that fate. There’s a vibrancy to it, constant movement, a calm energy. It’s quiet despite all its business and hustle, giving it an edge over Madrid, where the commercial aspect was less visible but the noise was infinitely greater. In Madrid, people seemed to enjoy sound for its own sake. In Barcelona, they focused on making money, and as far as one can tell, they achieved that goal. Everything thrived. It was a pleasure to head down to the lovely harbor and watch the ships loading and unloading, the flags of all nations vividly contrasting against the bright blue sky as they flashed and fluttered in the wind. The port is magnificent. Its waters are as blue as the sky above, and countless sunbeams dance on its surface. Nothing is more exhilarating and picturesque. The faintest silhouette of a ship carries an indescribable charm; it suggests freedom, vast oceans, endless space: it embodies adventure, risk, and bravery, yet represents complete tranquility; hours, days, and weeks where the world cannot reach you, and its cares and concerns are nonexistent.
Nowhere is the element found under more favourable conditions than in Barcelona. Few harbours are so well placed. Climb the heights for a bird's-eye view of the port, and the scene is enchanting. Low-lying shores undulate towards the mouth of the harbour; green pastures, glittering sandhills, the blue flashing sea stretch beyond. If your vision could carry so far, you might gaze upon the lovely Island of Majorca, rising like a faultless gem out of its deep blue setting of the Levant. Nothing meets the eye but the broad line of the horizon, broken here and there by a passing vessel.
Nowhere is the element found under better conditions than in Barcelona. Few harbors are as ideally located. Climb to the high points for a bird's-eye view of the port, and the scene is stunning. Low-lying shores curve towards the entrance of the harbor; green fields, shimmering sand dunes, and the sparkling blue sea stretch out beyond. If your sight could reach that far, you might see the beautiful Island of Majorca, rising like a flawless gem from the deep blue waters of the Levant. All that meets the eye is the wide line of the horizon, occasionally interrupted by a passing ship.
La Rambla: Barcelona.
On the other side the water, beyond the shipping, lies a small new settlement of houses called Barcelonita. It is not aristocratic and is the laundry of the mother town, where dwell the ladies who undertake to rapidly bleach and destroy one's linen with unrighteous chemicals, and have earned for Barcelona an unenviable reputation. Ship-builders and fishermen alone dispute the right of way with these women of the wash-tub. Turning back to the town, the broad thoroughfare running down a portion of the quays is lined with magnificent palms, giving it an almost Oriental aspect. At one end rises a monument to Columbus; at the other an enormous triumphal arch, combining the Oriental with the classical; the former quite the pleasanter. Everything bears witness to the well-being of Barcelona. Its quays are lined with bales of goods. Men keep tally with the monotonous sing-song one knows so well. Boxes of oranges betray themselves by their exquisite perfume, and the whole year round brings a succession of fruits. In this lovely climate the earth is abundantly productive. It is a land of corn and wine; the warm days of winter more beautiful than those of summer.
On the other side of the water, beyond the shipping lanes, there’s a small, new neighborhood of houses called Barcelonita. It’s not fancy; it’s the home of the people who handle the laundry for the main city, where women quickly bleach and ruin your linen with harsh chemicals, which has given Barcelona a bad reputation. Only shipbuilders and fishermen compete for space with these laundry workers. Turning back to the city, the wide street along the quays is lined with stunning palm trees, giving it a nearly exotic vibe. At one end stands a monument to Columbus, and at the other is a huge triumphal arch that blends Eastern and classical styles, with the former being quite the more pleasant. Everything shows how prosperous Barcelona is. Its docks are filled with bales of goods. Men keep track in a familiar, rhythmic chant. Boxes of oranges let out their delightful fragrance, and all year round, there's a variety of fruits. In this beautiful climate, the land produces abundantly. It’s a region rich in corn and wine; the warm winter days are even more beautiful than those in summer.
Of Barcelona this is especially true. Its climate seemed more relaxing than that of any other Spanish town. Even Valencia, so much farther south, appeared less enervating. Long walks were out of the question. All one could do was to hire one of the open carriages and drive lazily about: a luxury obtained at a trifling cost. But vehicles and drivers hardly seemed to share in the general prosperity; both appeared equally shabby, worn-out and antediluvian. Their horses looked no less forlorn.
Of Barcelona, this is especially true. Its climate felt more relaxing than that of any other Spanish city. Even Valencia, much farther south, seemed less exhausting. Long walks were off the table. All you could do was rent one of the open carriages and drive around leisurely: a luxury you could afford for very little. But the vehicles and drivers didn’t seem to be part of the overall prosperity; both looked equally shabby, worn-out, and ancient. Their horses looked just as miserable.
In the afternoons the Rambla was crowded with people, strolling to and fro under the shadow of the trees. All the town seemed to close ledgers, lock up counting-houses, and turn to the very innocent pleasure of taking the air.
In the afternoons, the Rambla was packed with people walking back and forth under the shade of the trees. Everyone in town seemed to wrap up their work, lock up their offices, and enjoy the simple pleasure of being outside.
Ladies appeared with mantillas and fans; the younger women here as in Madrid using a distinct language of fan and eye. Large, softly flashing eyes, full of expression for the most part. H. C.'s susceptible heart had no chance of repose. His dreams were feverish and disturbed by night; his leisure moments by day devoted to love-sonnets. These lovely ladies in their first youth are certainly very captivating and poetical; and a slight touch of the voluptuous, dolce far niente element is a distinct characteristic of their subtle grace and charm.
Ladies showed up with veils and fans; the younger women here, just like in Madrid, communicated through the language of fan and gaze. Their large, sparkling eyes were mostly full of expression. H. C.'s sensitive heart found no rest. His dreams were restless and troubled at night; his free time during the day was spent writing love poems. These beautiful young ladies are definitely captivating and poetic; and a hint of the indulgent, dolce far niente vibe is a notable part of their delicate grace and charm.
In the afternoons, if the Rambla gained a charm it also lost one. The flower-stalls disappeared with their picturesque and pretty flower-sellers. Empty spaces remained, looking forlorn and neglected. Great masses of blossom that delighted the eye and scented the early morning were no more. Here the red and white camellias flourish in the open air, but are by no means given away, as they were almost given away in Valencia. Barcelona has its price for flowers as for everything else.
In the afternoons, while the Rambla gained some charm, it also lost some. The flower stalls vanished along with their colorful displays and lovely flower sellers. Empty spaces were left behind, looking sad and neglected. The beautiful blooms that once pleased the eye and filled the morning air with their fragrance were gone. Here, the red and white camellias thrive in the open air, but they're definitely not free, unlike when they were almost given away in Valencia. Barcelona expects payment for flowers, just like everything else.
All this, the reader will say, belongs to the modern element. The splendid outlines of Gerona; the old-world houses, with their ancient ironwork and Gothic windows; the Anselmos, Rosalies, Delormais' of Barcelona—where were they?
All of this, the reader might say, belongs to the modern vibe. The stunning skyline of Gerona; the historic houses with their old ironwork and Gothic windows; the Anselmos, Rosalies, and Delormais of Barcelona—where did they go?
Conspicuous by their absence. With the exception of a few narrow tortuous streets, Barcelona is essentially modern. Even these picturesque thoroughfares are distinguished by discomfort, a shabby air, and little beauty of outline. In the Rambla you might almost fancy yourself on a Paris boulevard. Barcelona has increased so rapidly that all the new part, including the rich suburb of Gracia—its West-End—is twice as large as the old. All its great buildings are modern; and modern, though specially bright and engaging, is the scene of its port and harbour.
Conspicuous by their absence. Aside from a few narrow, winding streets, Barcelona is mostly modern. Even these charming streets are marked by discomfort, a worn-out vibe, and not much beauty in their shape. In the Rambla, you could almost think you’re on a boulevard in Paris. Barcelona has grown so quickly that the new part, including the upscale neighborhood of Gracia—its West End—is twice the size of the old. All its major buildings are modern, and the port and harbor scene is especially bright and appealing.
Yet with few vestiges of age, Barcelona has an historical past. In both a religious and military sense, she has played her part in the annals of Spain. More than one document in the archives of Samancas holds records to her honour and glory.
Yet with few signs of age, Barcelona has a rich history. In both a religious and military sense, it has contributed to the history of Spain. More than one document in the archives of Samancas holds records of its honor and glory.
Her days are said to go back to four centuries before Rome, and tradition credits Hercules with her foundation. Two hundred years later, under the Romans, it became a city, and about the year 400 A.D. began to prosper. Tarragona was the capital when the Moors destroyed it, and Barcelona, wise in its generation, yielded to the conquerors and succeeded as chief town. In the ninth century it was ruled by a Christian chief of its own under the title of Count of Barcelona, merged later on into that of King of Aragon.
Her history is believed to date back four centuries before Rome, and legend attributes its founding to Hercules. Two hundred years later, under Roman control, it evolved into a city and began to thrive around 400 A.D. Tarragona was the capital when the Moors destroyed it, and Barcelona, being strategic, surrendered to the conquerors and became the leading city. In the ninth century, it was governed by a Christian leader known as the Count of Barcelona, which later united with the title of King of Aragon.
Coro, Gerona Cathedral interior.
At that time, she divided with Italy the commerce of the East, practically the commerce of the world. She was the terror of the Mediterranean. Trade was her sheet-anchor. The Castilians held trade in contempt, and suffered in consequence; Barcelona, proud of her commerce, flourished. Her name was great in Europe. The city became famous for wealth and learning, a rendezvous of kings, the resort of fashion, voluptuous in its tastes. Ferdinand and Isabella especially loved it, though self-indulgence played little part in their lives. Here in 1493 they received Columbus after his famous voyage of discovery.
At that time, she shared Eastern trade with Italy, essentially controlling global commerce. She was a powerful force in the Mediterranean. Trade was her mainstay. The Castilians looked down on trade and paid the price for it, while Barcelona thrived, proud of its commerce. Her reputation was significant throughout Europe. The city became renowned for its wealth and knowledge, a gathering place for kings, a hub of style, and indulgent in its tastes. Ferdinand and Isabella were especially fond of it, even though they lived relatively modestly. It was here in 1493 that they welcomed Columbus after his famous journey of discovery.
Yet this very connection with Castile led to the decline of Barcelona. In her policy she has never been consistent, otherwise than consistently selfish. Now and then, to keep up her prestige, she has claimed the aid of a foreign power, only to throw it off when her turn was served. Diplomacy, but not gratitude, has been her strong point—and sometimes she has overreached herself.
Yet this very connection with Castile caused Barcelona to decline. Her policies have never been consistent, except in being consistently selfish. Occasionally, to maintain her prestige, she has sought the support of a foreign power, only to discard it once it benefited her. Diplomacy, but not gratitude, has been her strong suit—and sometimes she has gone too far.
Nevertheless, as we have said, there are passages in her history of which she may be proud. She behaved bravely, but suffered, at the time Marlborough was gaining his victories elsewhere, when she had to fight Spain and France single-handed—for Barcelona, it will be remembered, formed part of an independent kingdom. Louis XIV. sent Berwick with 40,000 men to the rescue of Philip V., and an English fleet under Wishart blockaded them. Against this formidable array, Barcelona acted with courage, but the foe was strong. She fell; was sacked, burnt, and lost her privileges. In the War of Succession, in 1795, her almost impregnable fort was taken by Lord Peterborough—one of the great captures of modern times. But she arose again and kept her prosperity until Napoleon obtained possession of her by treachery in 1808, when Duhesme, entering with 11,000 men as a pretended ally, took the Citadel. Napoleon looked upon Barcelona as the key of Spain, and considered it practically impregnable.
Nevertheless, as we've mentioned, there are parts of her history that she can be proud of. She showed bravery but faced hardships during the time when Marlborough was winning victories elsewhere, forcing her to fight Spain and France on her own—remember, Barcelona was part of an independent kingdom. Louis XIV sent Berwick with 40,000 men to support Philip V., while an English fleet under Wishart blockaded them. Despite this overwhelming enemy force, Barcelona fought valiantly, but the opponent was too strong. She was ultimately defeated, looted, burned, and lost her privileges. In the War of Succession in 1795, her nearly impregnable fortress was captured by Lord Peterborough—one of the significant captures of modern times. However, she rebuilt and maintained her prosperity until Napoleon took control through treachery in 1808, when Duhesme entered with 11,000 men as a so-called ally and seized the Citadel. Napoleon viewed Barcelona as the key to Spain and thought it was practically invulnerable.
Of the beauty of her site there can be only one opinion, but she is, and always has been, very Republican. That her people are noisy, turbulent, riotous, they have clearly shown of late years. In any revolt she would be ready to take the lead. Should the kingly power ever fall in Spain, Barcelona will be amongst the first to hoist the red flag. Though no longer the terror of the Mediterranean, she seems to have regained more than her former prosperity, and on a safer basis than of old. In 1868 one of the last vestiges of antiquity—the town walls—disappeared to make way for the modern element.
There's only one opinion about how beautiful her location is, but she has always been very Republican. Her people have clearly displayed their noisy, turbulent, and riotous nature in recent years. In any uprising, she would be ready to lead. If the monarchy ever falls in Spain, Barcelona will be among the first to raise the red flag. Even though it’s no longer the fearsome power of the Mediterranean, it seems to have regained more prosperity than before, and on a more stable foundation. In 1868, one of the last remnants of history—the town walls—was torn down to make way for modern developments.
But if the streets of Barcelona are modern, and to some extent uninteresting, the same cannot be said of her churches. She is rich in ecclesiastical treasures. Catalonia has a style of architecture as marked as it is pre-eminently her own. If her churches are less magnificent and extensive than those of other countries, in some points they are more beautiful.
But if the streets of Barcelona are modern and, to some extent, unremarkable, the same can’t be said for her churches. The city is full of religious treasures. Catalonia has an architectural style that is distinctive and uniquely hers. While her churches may not be as grand or sprawling as those in other countries, in some ways, they are more beautiful.
We have referred to one of these points—the extreme width of the interiors. This, however, is not a feature in Barcelona, though in both height and breadth it is splendidly proportioned. In effect, tone and feeling, we place this cathedral before all others whether in Spain or elsewhere. Beauty and refinement, the repose of a dim religious light, softness and perfection of colouring, these merits cannot be surpassed. Crowded with detail, it is so admirably designed that perfect harmony exists. Every succeeding hour spent within its walls seems to bring to light some new and unexpected feature. Day after day admiration increases, and wonder and surprise; and many visits are needed before its infinite beauties can be appreciated.
We’ve talked about one of these points—the huge interiors. However, this isn’t a characteristic of Barcelona, although in both height and width, it’s beautifully balanced. In terms of tone and feeling, we place this cathedral above all others, whether in Spain or elsewhere. Its beauty and elegance, the calming dim light of religion, the softness and perfection of its colors—these qualities are unmatched. Packed with details, it's so well-designed that there’s perfect harmony. Each hour spent inside reveals some new and surprising feature. Day after day, admiration grows, along with wonder and amazement, and it takes many visits to fully appreciate its endless beauties.
From the moment of entering you are charmed beyond all words. Here is a building no human mind could plan or human hands have raised. Never other building suggested this. However great the admiration—from St. Peter's at Rome, largest in the world, to Westminster Abbey, one of the most exquisite—nothing seems beyond man's power to accomplish. Barcelona alone strikes one as a dream-vision enchanted into shape and substance, possessing something of the supernatural, and is full of a sense of mystery. A faint light softens all outlines; half-concealed recesses meet the eye on every hand; mysterious depths lurk in the galleries over the side chapels. Sight gradually penetrates the darkness only to discover some new and beautiful work. Not very large, it is so perfectly proportioned that the effect is of infinitely greater space. Not a detail would one alter or single outline modify.
From the moment you enter, you’re captivated beyond words. This is a building that no human mind could design or human hands could construct. No other building has ever come close to this. No matter how much you admire places like St. Peter's in Rome, the largest in the world, or Westminster Abbey, one of the most beautiful—nothing seems impossible for humans to achieve. Barcelona alone feels like a dream brought to life, with a touch of the supernatural, and it’s filled with a sense of mystery. A soft light blurs all the edges; hidden nooks catch your eye everywhere; mysterious depths hide in the galleries above the side chapels. Your sight gradually pierces the darkness only to reveal some new and stunning feature. Though it’s not very large, it’s so perfectly proportioned that it feels infinitely more spacious. You wouldn’t change a single detail or alter any outline.
Pulpit and Stalls, Barcelona Cathedral.
Some of its coloured windows are amongst the loveliest and richest in the world. Rainbow shafts fall across pillars and arches. We are in Eden and this is its sacred fane. The whole building is an inspiration.
Some of its stained glass windows are among the most beautiful and vibrant in the world. Rays of color spill across the pillars and arches. We are in paradise, and this is its holy sanctuary. The entire structure is truly inspiring.
It is cruciform, and stands on the site of an ancient Pagan temple. This, in 1058, gave place to the first Christian church, very little of which now remains. Converted into a mosque, it ceased to be Christian during the reign of that wonderful people, the Moors—wonderful throughout their long career, and falling at last, like Rome, by a fatal luxury. The more one sees their traces and remains, the more their strength is confirmed. Their influence upon Spain was inestimable. In all they did a certain religious element is apparent, not an element of barbaric worship, but of cultivation and reverence. Strange they should have hated the Christians, failing to realise an influence that was gradually changing the face of the earth.
It is cross-shaped and stands on the site of an ancient Pagan temple. In 1058, this site became home to the first Christian church, very little of which now remains. It was turned into a mosque and ceased to be Christian during the reign of the remarkable Moors—remarkable throughout their long history, ultimately falling, like Rome, due to excess. The more one observes their remnants and influences, the more their strength is affirmed. Their impact on Spain was immeasurable. In everything they did, a certain religious aspect is evident, not one of barbaric worship, but of culture and respect. It’s strange that they hated the Christians, not realizing an influence that was gradually transforming the world.
In Spain their history runs side by side with that of the Christians, yet they were so divided that nothing done by the one was right in the sight of the other. So each kept its school jealously separate, to our endless gain. The very name of Moorish architecture quickens the pulse, conjuring visions that appeal to all one's imagination and sense of beauty. Intellectually they were more advanced. The rough and warlike Christians had not the nervous development of the Moors, who were learned in the arts and sciences; possessed the traditions of centuries; had ruled the fortunes of the world. Christianity had to triumph in the end; but for long the Moors were powerful and supreme.
In Spain, their history runs parallel to that of the Christians, but they were so divided that nothing done by one was seen as right by the other. So each group kept its own traditions tightly maintained, to our endless benefit. The very term Moorish architecture gets the heart racing, evoking images that spark the imagination and a sense of beauty. Intellectually, they were more advanced. The rough and warlike Christians didn't have the refined development of the Moors, who were well-versed in the arts and sciences; they carried the traditions of centuries and had shaped the world's fortunes. Christianity eventually had to prevail, but for a long time, the Moors were powerful and dominant.
Barcelona Cathedral was commenced at the end of the thirteenth century, in the year 1298, and carried on through a great part of the fourteenth. It seems to have been the work of Jayme Fabre, who was summoned over from Palma de Mallorca by the King of Aragon and the reigning bishop, and designed and for many years superintended the work. To him is due the chief credit of this world's wonder, to Mallorca the honour of producing him.
Barcelona Cathedral began at the end of the 13th century, in 1298, and continued throughout much of the 14th century. It appears to be the work of Jayme Fabre, who was brought over from Palma de Mallorca by the King of Aragon and the bishop in charge, and he designed and oversaw the construction for many years. He deserves the main credit for this marvel of the world, while Mallorca can take pride in having produced him.
Nearly the whole merit lies in the interior, and the exterior is of little value. Its poor and modern west front opens to a square, but the remainder is so surrounded by buildings and houses that it is difficult to see any part of it. The octagonal steeples are plain below the belfry; but the upper stages, pierced and beautiful, are finished off by pierced parapets. Some of the windows are richly moulded. The small flying buttresses are not effective. The east end is the best part, with its Gothic windows and fine tracery, though otherwise severely simple. Here the upper part of the buttresses have been destroyed, and the walls ending without roof or parapet give it a half-ruinous appearance.
Most of the value is in the interior, while the exterior is of little worth. Its plain and modern west front opens to a square, but the rest is so surrounded by buildings and houses that it’s hard to see any part of it. The octagonal steeples are simple below the belfry; however, the upper sections, with their intricate designs, are topped off by decorative parapets. Some of the windows have elaborate moldings. The small flying buttresses don’t really stand out. The east end is the nicest part, with its Gothic windows and fine tracery, although it’s otherwise quite plain. Here, the upper parts of the buttresses have been damaged, and the walls end without a roof or parapet, giving it a somewhat ruined look.
The interior has an aisle and chapels around the apse, following the French rather than the Spanish school. The details, however, are entirely Catalonian. The arches are narrow, but extremely beautiful. The capitals of the fluted pillars are small, delicate, and refined, and the groining of the roof is carried up in exquisite lines. Beyond the main arches is a small arcaded triforium, and above this a circular window to each bay.
The interior features an aisle with chapels surrounding the apse, following the French style instead of the Spanish. However, the details are distinctly Catalonian. The arches are narrow but incredibly beautiful. The capitals of the fluted pillars are small, delicate, and refined, and the groining of the roof rises in exquisite lines. Beyond the main arches, there's a small arcaded triforium, and above it is a circular window in each bay.
The dark stone is rich, solemn and magnificent in effect. Owing to the clever placing of the windows and the prevalence of stained glass, a semi-obscurity for ever reigns: not so great as that of Gerona, but so far dim and religious that only when the sun is full on the south windows can many of the details be seen.
The dark stone is rich, serious, and impressive. Thanks to the smart placement of the windows and the abundance of stained glass, there's a constant semi-darkness: not as deep as that of Gerona, but dim and spiritual enough that only when the sun fully lights up the south windows can many of the details be seen.
The Coro, forming part of the plan of the building, is less aggressive than in many of the Spanish cathedrals. The stalls are of great delicacy and refinement; the Bishop's throne, which has been compared to that of Winchester, is large and magnificent, taking its proper position at the east end of the choir. The pulpit at the north corner, and the staircase leading to it, are marvels of exquisite wood-carving and rare old ironwork. The canopies are delicately wrought, and the misereres ornamented with fine foliage. Upwards, the eye is arrested by the beauty of the surrounding fluted pillars, on which rest the main arches of the nave. These cut and intersect the pointed arches of the deep galleries beyond, placed above the side chapels, of which there are an immense number. Turn which way you will, it is nothing but a long view of receding aisles, arches, and columns free or partly hidden by some lovely pillar; windows of the deepest, richest colours ever seen; mysterious recesses where daylight never penetrates; a subdued tone of infinite refinement; a solemn repose and sense of unbroken harmony.
The coro, as part of the building's design, is less imposing than in many Spanish cathedrals. The stalls are incredibly delicate and refined; the Bishop's throne, often compared to the one in Winchester, is large and impressive, situated at the east end of the choir. The pulpit in the north corner and the staircase leading to it showcase stunning wood-carving and rare old ironwork. The canopies are intricately designed, and the misereres are adorned with beautiful foliage. Above, the eye is drawn to the lovely surrounding fluted pillars that support the main arches of the nave. These intersect with the pointed arches of the deep galleries above the side chapels, of which there are countless. No matter where you look, it's just a long view of receding aisles, arches, and columns, some fully visible and others partly hidden by lovely pillars; windows display the deepest, richest colors ever seen; mysterious alcoves where daylight never reaches; a soft tone of endless refinement; a solemn tranquility and sense of seamless harmony.
Twilight at Barcelona Cathedral
A little to the right the eye rests on the great organ, filling up one of the deep dark galleries. Its immense swinging shutters are open, exposing silvery pipes. The organist is at his post, but only for recreation, for it is not the hour of service. Soft, sweet music breathes and vibrates through the aisles, dies away in dim recesses, floats out of existence in the high vaulting of the roof; but the sense of repose is never disturbed. Sitting in a quiet corner of the stalls, amidst all this beauty of tone and outline, one feels in Paradise.
A little to the right, your gaze lands on the grand organ, taking up space in one of the deep, dark galleries. Its massive swinging shutters are open, revealing shining pipes. The organist is at his post, but just for fun, since it's not time for the service. Soft, sweet music flows and resonates through the aisles, fades away into shadowy corners, and disappears into the high ceiling; yet the feeling of calm is never interrupted. Sitting in a quiet corner of the seats, surrounded by all this beauty of sound and shape, you feel like you're in Paradise.
But the charm of charms lies in the octagonal lantern at the west end, and here Barcelona stands unrivalled.
But the beauty of beauties is in the octagonal lantern at the west end, and here Barcelona is unmatched.
This crowning glory is of extreme richness yet delicacy of detail. Looking upwards and catching all the infinite combinations of arches and angles—the bold piers resting on square outlines—the marvellous cuttings and intersectings—the purity yet simplicity of design—the dim religious light in which all is so mysteriously veiled—the few beams of light cunningly admitted at the extreme summit—observing this, one is lost in silent wonder. It seems almost as difficult to penetrate into the beauty and mystery of this lantern as into heaven itself. And we ask ourselves again and again if the world contains a more exquisite dream-building than this.
This incredible masterpiece is rich yet finely detailed. Looking up and taking in the endless combinations of arches and angles—the sturdy pillars resting on square bases—the amazing cuts and intersections—the pure yet simple design—the soft religious light that mysteriously shrouds everything—the few beams of light cleverly allowed in at the very top—seeing all of this leaves one in silent awe. It feels almost as hard to grasp the beauty and mystery of this lantern as it is to reach heaven itself. We can't help but wonder if there's anything in the world that's a more exquisite dream structure than this.
Well do we remember the first time we saw this lantern and its imposing accompaniment.
Well, we remember the first time we saw this lantern and its impressive companion.
A state council was being held in the church. Immediately beneath it sat the clergy; Bishop, Dean, and Canons in gorgeous vestments. One carried a Cardinal's hat, whose thin inscrutable face reminded us a little of Antonelli, that man of influence and mystery, whom none understood, and whose greatest schemes and ambitions were not destined to succeed. Many were dressed in purple and fine linen; not a few looked as though they fared sumptuously. Their actions were grave and solemn. Something weighty and momentous as the election of a new pope or the founding of a new religion, might have been under discussion. In reality, it was the choice of a new canon. One or two possessed refined, intellectual faces, but the greater number were not born to be leaders of men. The gravity of the occasion, perfect outlines of the building, splendour of the vestments, all the pomp and ceremony with which, at last, they broke up the assembly; the veneration paid to the old Bishop and he of the crimson hat; the solemn procession filing down the aisle and through the cloisters to the Bishop's palace—this remains in the memory as an impressively splendid picture. Fifteen years have gone by since that day, but we see it as vividly before us as though it had been but yesterday.
A state council was taking place in the church. Right beneath it sat the clergy: the Bishop, Dean, and Canons in beautiful robes. One person carried a Cardinal's hat, and his thin, unreadable face reminded us a bit of Antonelli, that influential and mysterious figure whom no one understood, and whose biggest plans and ambitions were not meant to succeed. Many were dressed in purple and fine linen; several looked like they lived lavishly. Their demeanor was serious and solemn. It felt as if they were discussing something significant, like the election of a new pope or the founding of a new religion. In reality, they were choosing a new canon. One or two had refined, intellectual features, but most were not destined to be leaders. The seriousness of the event, the perfect outlines of the building, the grandeur of the robes, and all the pomp and circumstance with which they finally concluded the meeting; the respect shown to the old Bishop and the one with the crimson hat; the solemn procession winding down the aisle and through the cloisters to the Bishop's palace—this image remains in our memory as impressively grand. Fifteen years have passed since that day, but we see it as clearly as if it were just yesterday.
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.
In the cloisters—Sacred geese—Bishop's palace—House of the Inquisition—Impressive courtyards—Ajimez windows—A rare cloister—Desecration—Library—Rare manuscripts—Polite librarian—Romantic atmosphere—Santa Maria del Mar—Cloisters of Santa Anna—Sister of Mercy—San Pablo del Campo—More dreamlike cloisters—Communing with ghosts and shadows—Spring and winter—Constant visitor—Centenarian—Chief architect—Cathedrals of Catalonia—Barbaric town council—Hard fight and victory—Fading vision—Emblems of death—Laid aside—Wholesome lessons—Placing the keystone—Finis—Resurgam—Charmed hour—Possessing the soul in patience—City of Refuge.
EVERY succeeding visit to Barcelona has confirmed our love and reverence for its cathedral. Toledo, Burgos and all the greater cathedrals pale before the charm of its rare beauty and refined splendour.
EVERY visit to Barcelona has confirmed our love and respect for its cathedral. Toledo, Burgos, and all the other grand cathedrals fade in comparison to its unique beauty and elegant splendor.
It could only be that such a cathedral had corresponding cloisters, and passing through the south doorway, we accordingly found ourselves in another old-world dream; but with the blue sky for canopy, and with no mysterious recesses or hidden depths.
It had to be that such a cathedral had matching cloisters, and stepping through the south doorway, we found ourselves in another charming old-world scene; but this time with the blue sky above and no mysterious corners or hidden secrets.
Exception has been taken to the detail of the cloisters, but as a whole they are amongst the most effective in existence. Gothic arches, large and beautiful, rested upon fluted pillars whose capitals very much resemble those of the interior; an enchanted land and an architectural revelation. The garden was full of orange trees and flowers not too carefully tended, so that a certain wild beauty, all the contrast of the green with the ancient stone and wonderful outlines, charmed the vision. Plashing fountains caught the sunbeams and threw rainbow drops into the air.
Exception has been taken to the detail of the cloisters, but overall they are among the most impressive in existence. Gothic arches, large and beautiful, stood on fluted pillars whose capitals closely resemble those inside; an enchanted land and an architectural revelation. The garden was filled with orange trees and flowers that were not overly cultivated, giving it a certain wild beauty, with the green contrasting against the ancient stone and stunning outlines, captivating the eye. Bubbling fountains caught the sunlight and sent rainbow drops into the air.
In a corner of the enclosure behind the iron railings some sacred geese intruded upon the sanctity of the precincts. The piety of these ungainly birds had to be taken for granted. They were aggressive, and hissed if only one ventured to look at them. Nothing could be more strangely out of place in a scene so beautiful and full of repose, and for which with all their sacredness they evidently had no veneration. Life passed lazily; they grew monstrously fat, and we wondered if at a certain age they disappeared for the benefit of the Bishop's table: other geese taking their place in the cloistered garden. No one could tell us anything about them, but the people seemed to think them indispensable to the welfare of the town.
In a corner of the enclosure behind the iron railings, some sacred geese disrupted the tranquility of the area. The devotion of these clumsy birds had to be accepted without question. They were aggressive and hissed if anyone dared to look at them. Nothing felt more oddly out of place in a scene so beautiful and peaceful, one they clearly had no respect for, despite their sacred status. Life moved slowly; they became incredibly fat, and we wondered if, at a certain age, they vanished for the benefit of the Bishop's dinner table, with other geese taking their place in the secluded garden. No one could tell us anything about them, but the locals seemed to believe they were essential to the town's well-being.
Here we found the best view of the exterior. Through lovely and graceful arches which framed in the picture, one caught the pointed windows of the nave with their rich tracery, above which rose the decorated belfries with pierced parapets.
Here we found the best view of the outside. Through beautiful and elegant arches that framed the scene, you could see the pointed windows of the nave with their intricate designs, above which rose the ornate bell towers with open parapets.
But the immediate surroundings were also exceptionally interesting. South of the cloister is the Bishop's palace, with a quadrangle ornamented with some fine Romanesque arcading and moulding. North, is an immense fifteenth-century barrack built for a palace, and given over to the Secret Inquisition by the Catholic monarchs. The Casa Consistorial and Casa de la Disputacion, though much altered, retain splendid traces of fourteenth-century work. The quadrangles are striking, though one has been much spoilt; and the ajimez windows with their slender columns, capitals and arches are full of grace.
But the immediate surroundings were also incredibly fascinating. South of the cloister is the Bishop's palace, featuring a courtyard decorated with some beautiful Romanesque arches and moldings. To the north is a massive fifteenth-century barrack that was originally built as a palace and was later used by the Secret Inquisition under the Catholic monarchs. The Town Hall and the House of Disputation, though significantly changed, still showcase impressive remnants of fourteenth-century work. The courtyards are striking, even though one has been quite damaged; and the ajimez windows with their slender columns, capitals, and arches are full of elegance.
Seeing an open doorway close to the cathedral, we had the curiosity to enter, and found ourselves in a wonderful little cloister, half sacred, half secular, its ancient walls grey and lichen-stained. In the centre grew a tall palm-tree whose graceful fronds seemed to caress and curve and blend with the Gothic outlines that charmed one back to the days of the Middle Ages. A crumbling staircase, old and beautiful, led to the upper gallery, where open windows with rare Gothic mouldings and ornamentation invited one to enter into silent, empty, but strangely quaint rooms. As we looked, two women approached the wonderful old fountain in the centre with its splendid carvings, and filled their picturesque pitchers. The cloisters were in the hands of workmen. We asked a reason, and found that a new tenant, objecting to the refined atmosphere of time's lovely ravages, was scouring, cleaning, and polishing up the general effect. One shed tears at the desecration.
Seeing an open doorway near the cathedral, we were curious enough to enter and found ourselves in a beautiful little cloister, half sacred and half secular, with its ancient walls grey and covered in lichen. In the center stood a tall palm tree whose graceful fronds seemed to embrace and blend with the Gothic shapes that took one back to the days of the Middle Ages. A crumbling staircase, old yet beautiful, led to the upper gallery, where open windows with rare Gothic moldings and decorations beckoned one to step into silent, empty, but oddly charming rooms. As we watched, two women approached the stunning old fountain in the center, with its exquisite carvings, and filled their picturesque pitchers. The cloisters were occupied by workers. We asked why, and learned that a new tenant, unhappy with the refined atmosphere of time's lovely decay, was scrubbing, cleaning, and polishing the entire place. One felt a deep sorrow at the desecration.
Small courtyard or patio: Barcelona.
Still nearer the cathedral is the Library, with its ancient picturesque patio, and the most striking roof and staircase in Barcelona. The library is rich in volumes and MSS., containing amongst much that is interesting all the archives of the kingdom of Aragon. Amidst other records will be found those of Catherine, who was bold enough to place her hand—and head—at the disposal of Henry of England. The chief librarian conducted us over the whole building, and most kindly and patiently showed everything worthy of note, dwelling humorously upon passages in records that in any way referred to Great Britain.
Still closer to the cathedral is the Library, featuring its charming old patio and the most impressive roof and staircase in Barcelona. The library is filled with volumes and manuscripts, including many fascinating items, such as all the archives of the Kingdom of Aragon. Among other records, you’ll find those of Catherine, who dared to offer her hand—and her head—to Henry of England. The chief librarian took us on a tour of the entire building and kindly and patiently pointed out everything noteworthy, joking about entries in the records that mentioned Great Britain.
Santa Anna Cloisters: Barcelona.
In such an atmosphere we lost sight of the Barcelona of to-day. It became ancient, ecclesiastical, historical, learned and romantic. Here we returned to scenes and influences of the Middle Ages. And here, within a narrow circle, this "Manchester of Spain" is one of the most absorbing towns in the world.
In this environment, we lost track of the Barcelona of today. It turned into something ancient, religious, historical, scholarly, and romantic. Here, we revisited the scenes and influences of the Middle Ages. And here, within a small area, this "Manchester of Spain" stands as one of the most captivating towns in the world.
But the ecclesiastical merit of Barcelona is not confined to the cathedral. Though some of her best and most ancient churches have disappeared, others remain. Amongst the foremost is Santa Maria del Mar, taking rank after the mother church. A vast building, simple to a fault; cold, formal and severe, though architecturally correct; the interior hard and repelling, without sense of mystery or feeling of devotion. Yet it has been much praised; even to comparison with the Cathedral of Palma, and is said to be the work of the same architect; but Palma with all its simplicity is full of dignity and grandeur. The west front of Santa Maria is its best feature. The central doorway is fine, but the rose window above is hard and German in tracery, therefore has little beauty, and is of later date than the church.
But the church heritage of Barcelona isn't just about the cathedral. Although some of its oldest and finest churches have been lost, others still stand. One of the most notable is Santa Maria del Mar, which ranks just below the main cathedral. It's a large building, almost painfully simple; cold, formal, and strict, though architecturally sound; the interior feels hard and unwelcoming, lacking any sense of mystery or inspiration. Still, it's received a lot of praise, even being compared to the Cathedral of Palma, and it's said that both were designed by the same architect; but Palma, despite its simplicity, is filled with dignity and grandeur. The west facade of Santa Maria is its most impressive feature. The central entrance is nice, but the rose window above is stark and German in design, making it not very beautiful, and it was added later than the church itself.
Not far from here, in the narrowest of narrow streets, beyond an obscure archway we found the small church of Santa Anna, interesting by reason of its cloisters with their pointed arches springing from delicately carved capitals that rested upon slender, graceful shafts; a vision of refined beauty. In the centre grew a wild and lovely garden. Spain is undoubtedly the land of cloisters, loveliest in existence; and Barcelona is especially rich in them. As we looked, a Sister of Mercy passed through on some errand of charity. We thought of Rosalie, only to be more certain than ever that there was but one Rosalie in the world.
Not far from here, in one of the narrowest streets, beyond a hidden archway, we found the small church of Santa Anna, which was interesting because of its cloisters with pointed arches coming from delicately carved capitals that rested on slender, graceful columns; a vision of refined beauty. In the center, there was a wild and lovely garden. Spain is undoubtedly the land of cloisters, the most beautiful of all, and Barcelona is especially rich in them. As we looked, a Sister of Mercy passed by on some charitable mission. We thought of Rosalie and became even more certain that there was only one Rosalie in the world.
Yet more marvellous was a still smaller church of extreme interest and antiquity; San Pablo del Campo, formerly a Benedictine convent of some renown, said to have been founded in the tenth century by Wilfred II., Count of Barcelona. In the twelfth century it was incorporated with the convent of San Cucufate del Vallés, a few miles from Barcelona, of which the interesting church and cloister still exist.
Yet more remarkable was an even smaller church of great interest and age: San Pablo del Campo, once a famous Benedictine convent, believed to have been established in the tenth century by Wilfred II, Count of Barcelona. In the twelfth century, it was joined with the convent of San Cucufate del Vallés, a few miles from Barcelona, of which the fascinating church and cloister still remain.
This remarkable San Pablo is extremely small, and cruciform, with three apses, a short nave and an octagonal vault over the crossing. It is solidly and roughly built, and until recently possessed every aspect of antiquity. All this will probably now disappear, for it has been given over to the workmen to be restored and ruined, and the work will be done to perfection.
This remarkable San Pablo is very small and cross-shaped, with three apses, a short nave, and an octagonal vault over the crossing. It is solidly and roughly constructed, and until recently, it had every characteristic of antiquity. Unfortunately, all of this will likely disappear now, as it has been handed over to the workers to be restored and damaged, and the work will be done flawlessly.
Cloisters of San Pablo: Barcelona.
So with the west front. With the exception of the circular window over the striking Romanesque doorway, one feels in presence of the remote ages; but the window rather spoils an otherwise admirable effect. By this time it has no doubt shared the fate of the interior; when we were there it was still a glorious dream of the past.
So with the west front. Aside from the circular window above the impressive Romanesque doorway, you feel like you're in a different era; however, the window somewhat detracts from an otherwise stunning look. By now, it has probably experienced the same decline as the interior; when we visited, it was still a beautiful memory from the past.
Yet more dreamlike were the small cloisters. In point of tone and atmosphere we might have almost been in the early ages of the world. No one had thought it worth while to interfere with this little old-world building, buried in solitude by surrounding houses. The obscurity reigning even at mid-day was never designed by its architect. No one would dream that in this little corner, unknown, unvisited, exists a gem of the first water and great antiquity; dating probably from the eleventh century.
Yet more dreamlike were the small cloisters. In terms of tone and atmosphere, we could have almost been in the early ages of the world. No one had bothered to interfere with this little old-world building, hidden in solitude by surrounding houses. The darkness that lingered even at midday was never intended by its architect. No one would guess that in this little corner, unknown and unvisited, lies a gem of the highest quality and great age; probably dating back to the eleventh century.
It was a very small cloister, having only four arches on each side divided by a buttress in the centre. The arches were trefoil-headed, separated by double shafts and the capitals were richly carved. In the north wall a fine fourteenth-century doorway admitted into the church, and in the east wall of the cloister an equally fine doorway led to the fourteenth-century chapter-house. Everything was complete on a small scale.
It was a tiny cloister, featuring four arches on each side separated by a buttress in the middle. The arches had trefoil shapes, divided by double shafts, and the capitals were intricately designed. On the north wall, a beautiful fourteenth-century doorway opened into the church, and on the east wall of the cloister, another impressive doorway led to the fourteenth-century chapter house. Everything was beautifully proportional and compact.
It was solemn and imposing to the last degree; an effect of age and decay so perfect that we seemed to meet face to face with the dead past. To enter these little cloisters was to commune with ghosts and shadows. If ever they lurked anywhere on earth, here they must be found. We were infinitely charmed with their tone. In spite of surrounding houses—where dead walls were seen—a tomb-like silence reigned. We looked at the small neglected enclosure, where the hand and foot of man might not have intruded for ages, and almost expected to see rising from their graves the dead who had possibly lain there for eight centuries. The stones were stained with damp and the lapse of time; wild unsightly weeds grew amongst them; but nothing stirred.
It was solemn and incredibly impressive; the perfect effect of age and decay made it feel like we were face to face with the distant past. Entering these little cloisters felt like connecting with ghosts and shadows. If they existed anywhere on Earth, they would be here. We were completely captivated by the atmosphere. Despite the surrounding buildings—where blank walls were visible—a tomb-like silence filled the air. We gazed at the small, neglected area, where no human presence had intruded for ages, and almost expected to see the dead who might have rested there for eight centuries rising from their graves. The stones were damp and stained by time; wild, unattractive weeds grew among them; but nothing moved.
As we looked, lost in the past, we became aware that we were not alone.
As we gazed into the past, we realized that we weren't alone.
Entering the small cloister was an aged man with long white hair and a long grey beard, half-led by a small child of some eight or nine summers. He might have been one of the patriarchs come back to earth, and seemed venerable as the cloister themselves. More fitting subject for such surroundings could not exist. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though for him time's hour-glass had ceased to run. The child seemed to have learned to restrain its youthful ardour; gazed up into the old man's face with fearless affection, and appeared to watch his will and pleasure. A lovely child, with blue eyes and fair hair, who might belong to Andalusia, or possibly a northern province of Europe.
Entering the small cloister was an old man with long white hair and a long gray beard, partially guided by a small child of about eight or nine years old. He looked like one of the patriarchs come back to earth and seemed as venerable as the cloister itself. No one could be more suited to such surroundings. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if time's hourglass had stopped for him. The child seemed to have learned to control its youthful eagerness; it looked up into the old man's face with fearless affection and seemed to anticipate his will and pleasure. A beautiful child, with blue eyes and fair hair, who might be from Andalusia or possibly a northern province of Europe.
"Spring and winter," said H. C., looking at this strange advancing pair.
"Spring and winter," H. C. said, looking at this unusual approaching pair.
"Or life and death; for surely they are fitting emblems? Who can they be, and what do they want in this forsaken spot?"
"Or life and death; because they are definitely fitting symbols? Who could they be, and what are they looking for in this abandoned place?"
The child said something to the aged man and motioned towards us. He paused a moment as though in doubt, then approached yet nearer.
The child said something to the old man and pointed towards us. He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure, then stepped closer.
"I am your humble servant, gentlemen," he said, with something of courtliness in his manner. "It is seldom any one shares with me the solitude of these cloisters."
"I am your humble servant, gentlemen," he said, with a bit of elegance in his manner. "It's rare that anyone joins me in the solitude of these cloisters."
"You are then in the habit of coming here?" returning his salutation.
"You come here often?" he replied, returning his greeting.
"For many years I have paid them an almost daily visit," was the reply. "I live not very far off, and they speak to me of the past. A long past, sirs, for I am old. I have no need to tell you that. You see it in my face, hear it in my voice. In three years I shall be a centenarian, if Heaven spares me as long. I do not desire it. A man of ninety-seven has almost ceased to live. He is a burden to himself, a trouble to others. I was once chief architect of this city, and many of the more modern buildings that your eyes have rested upon are due to me. In my younger days I had a boundless love for the work of the ancients. Gothic and Norman delighted me. Half my leisure moments were spent in our wonderful cathedral, absorbing its influence. Ah, sirs, the cathedrals of Catalonia are the glories of Spain. I dreamt of reproducing such buildings; but we are in the hands of town committees who are vandals in these matters. Fifty years ago—half a century this very month—the destruction of this church and these cloisters was taken into consideration. They wanted to pull down one of the glories of Barcelona and build up a modern church and school. I was to be the architect of this barbarous proceeding. It happened that this was one of my most loved haunts. Here I would frequently pace the solitary cloisters, thinking over my plans and designs, trying to draw wholesome inspiration from these matchless outlines. I was horrified at the sacrilege, though it was to be to my profit. I fought valiantly and long; would not yield an inch; pleaded earnestly; and at last persuaded. The idea was abandoned. That you are able to stand and gaze to-day upon this marvel is due to me. Ever since then I have looked upon it as my own peculiar possession. Day after day I pay them a visit. My failing sight now only discerns vague and shadowy outlines. It is enough. Shadowy as they are, their beauty is ever present. What I fail to see, memory, those eyes of the brain, supplies. Rarely in my daily visits do I find any one here. Few people seem to understand or appreciate the beauty of these cloisters. They are like a hermit in the desert, living apart from the world. But here it is a desert of houses that surrounds them. Like myself, they are an emblem of death in life."
"I've been visiting them almost daily for many years," was the reply. "I don't live very far away, and they remind me of the past. A long past, gentlemen, because I am old. I don't need to tell you that. You can see it in my face and hear it in my voice. In three years, I’ll be a hundred if Heaven lets me live that long. I don’t really want it. A ninety-seven-year-old has mostly stopped living. He’s a burden to himself and a hassle to others. I used to be the chief architect of this city, and many of the modern buildings you see were my work. In my younger days, I had an endless passion for the creations of the ancients. Gothic and Norman styles thrilled me. I spent half my free time in our amazing cathedral, soaking up its influence. Ah, gentlemen, the cathedrals of Catalonia are Spain's treasures. I dreamed of creating buildings like those, but we are at the mercy of town committees, who are vandals in these matters. Fifty years ago—half a century this very month—they considered demolishing this church and these cloisters. They wanted to tear down one of Barcelona's glories to build a modern church and school. I was meant to be the architect of that disgraceful plan. This was one of my favorite places. I often walked the empty cloisters, contemplating my designs, trying to draw genuine inspiration from those stunning outlines. I was horrified at the sacrilege, even though it would have benefited me. I fought hard and long; I wouldn’t give an inch; I pleaded earnestly; and eventually, I persuaded them. The idea was dropped. That you can stand and admire this marvel today is thanks to me. Ever since then, I’ve considered it my own special possession. Day after day, I visit them. My failing eyesight now sees only vague, shadowy shapes. It’s enough. Even in their foggy outlines, their beauty is always there. What I can’t see, my memories supply. Rarely do I find anyone here during my visits. Few people seem to understand or appreciate the beauty of these cloisters. They’re like a hermit in the desert, isolated from the world. But here, the desert is filled with houses. Like me, they are a symbol of death in life."
We started at this echo of our own words. Could his sense of hearing be unduly awakened? Or was the emblem so fitting as to be self-evident?
We began with this reflection of our own words. Could his sense of hearing be overly heightened? Or was the symbol so appropriate that it was obvious?
"You have long ceased to labour?" we observed, for want of a better reply to his too obvious comparison.
"You haven't worked in a long time?" we remarked, struggling to find a better response to his painfully clear comparison.
"For five-and-twenty years my life has been one of leisure and repose," he answered. "It has gone against the grain. I was not made for idleness. But when I was seventy-two years old, cataract overtook me. A successful operation restored my sight, but the doctors warned me that if I would keep it, all work must be abandoned. Since then I have more or less cumbered the ground. But for many friends who are good to me, life would be intolerable. Heaven blessed my labours, and gave me a frugal wife; I have all the comforts I need and more blessings than I deserve. This child is my favourite little great-granddaughter, and is often my charming companion to these cloisters. A dreary scene, gentlemen, for a child of tender years, but they read a solemn and wholesome lesson. Unconsciously she imbibes their influence. They tell her, as I do, that life is not all pleasure; that as these ancient architects left beautiful traces and outlines behind them, so we must build up our lives stage by stage, taking care that the outlines shall be true and straight, the imperishable record pure and beautiful. For every one of us comes the placing of the keystone, with its momentous Finis. But, blessed be Heaven, as surely beneath it appears the promised Resurgam."
"For twenty-five years, my life has been about leisure and relaxation," he replied. "It hasn’t suited me. I wasn’t made for idleness. But when I turned seventy-two, I developed cataracts. A successful surgery restored my vision, but the doctors warned me that if I wanted to keep it, I had to give up all work. Since then, I’ve mostly just been taking up space. Without the many friends who have been kind to me, life would be unbearable. Heaven blessed my efforts and gave me a modest wife; I have all the comforts I need and more blessings than I deserve. This child is my favorite little great-granddaughter, and she often accompanies me to these cloisters. A dreary place, gentlemen, for a child so young, but they offer a serious and valuable lesson. Unknowingly, she absorbs their influence. They tell her, just like I do, that life isn’t all about pleasure; that just as these ancient builders left behind beautiful traces and outlines, we must construct our lives step by step, being careful that the outlines are true and straight, and that the lasting record is pure and beautiful. For each of us comes the moment to place the keystone, with its significant Finis. But, blessed be Heaven, surely beneath it appears the promised Resurgam."
We walked round the cloisters together, and for a full hour this patriarch, with the support of our arm, charmed us with reminiscences of Barcelona, descriptions of the lovely monuments of Spain he had visited in the course of his long life. In spite of his years, his memory still seemed keen and vivid, his mind clear. He had not passed into that saddest of conditions a mental wreck.
We strolled around the cloisters together, and for a whole hour this elder, leaning on our arm, captivated us with stories of Barcelona and descriptions of the beautiful landmarks in Spain he had seen throughout his long life. Despite his age, his memory felt sharp and clear, and his mind was still bright. He had not fallen into the saddest state of being a mental wreck.
"And I pray Heaven to call me hence ere such a fate overtake me," he said, in answer to our remark upon his admirable recollection. "Whilst memory lasts and friends are kind, life may be endured. I possess my soul in patience."
"And I pray Heaven to take me away before such a fate befalls me," he said, in response to our comment about his remarkable memory. "As long as memory endures and friends are supportive, life can be managed. I keep my soul in patience."
We parted and went our several ways, leaving the little cloisters to solitude and the ghosts that haunted them. The streets of Barcelona grated upon us after our late encounter. It was returning to very ordinary life after the refined and delightful atmosphere of the past ages. We crossed the Rambla, and entering a side street quickly reached the cathedral, which became more and more a world's wonder and glory as we grew familiar with it, an unspeakable delight. In this little City of Refuge we again for a time lost ourselves in celestial visions. In this inspired atmosphere all earthly influences and considerations fell away; sorrow and sighing were non-existent: a millennium of happiness reigned, where all was piety and all was peace.
We split up and went our separate ways, leaving the small cloisters in solitude and the ghosts that lingered there. The streets of Barcelona felt harsh after our recent experience. It was like returning to ordinary life after the elegant and enjoyable vibe of past eras. We crossed the Rambla, and by turning down a side street, we quickly reached the cathedral, which became more and more a marvel of the world as we got to know it, an indescribable joy. In this little City of Refuge, we again lost ourselves for a while in heavenly visions. In this inspired atmosphere, all earthly concerns and distractions vanished; sadness and sighs were non-existent: a millennium of happiness thrived, where everything was piety and everything was peace.
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 à 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.
Early rising—Imp of darkness—Death warrant—The men who fail—Ranges of Montserrat—Sabadell—Labor 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 writer—Solitude à deux—Fellow travelers—Substantial lady-merchant—Resignation—Military policeman—"Nameless here forevermore"—Round man in square hole—Romantic history—Cherchez la femme—Woman as a divinity—A good name is the best inheritance—No fighting against fate—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—Gypsy encampment.
WE rose early one morning for the purpose of visiting Montserrat the sublime, the magnificent, and the romantic.
WE got up early one morning to go visit Montserrat, the breathtaking, the amazing, and the romantic.
Early as it was, Barcelona was by no means in a state of repose. Many of its people never seemed to go to bed at all, and some of its shops never closed. If we looked out upon the world at midnight, at three in the morning, or at five, Bodegas selling wine and bread were open to customers. The Rambla was never quite deserted. Before daylight trams began to run to and fro; the street cries soon swelled to a chorus.
Early as it was, Barcelona was far from quiet. Many of its residents seemed like they never went to bed, and some of its shops never closed. If we looked out at the world at midnight, at three in the morning, or at five, bodegas selling wine and bread were welcoming customers. The Rambla was never completely empty. Before dawn, trams started to run back and forth; the street vendors soon filled the air with their calls.
Early rising is not always agreeable when wandering about the world in search of the picturesque. Perhaps you have gone to bed late overnight, tired out with running to and fro. Energy is only half-restored when an imp of darkness enters, lights your candles, and pronounces a death-warrant. "It is five o'clock, señor. Those who wish to catch the train must get up."
Early rising isn't always pleasant when you're out exploring the world for beautiful sights. Maybe you went to bed late the night before, exhausted from running around. Your energy is only partially replenished when a mischievous spirit shows up, lights your candles, and delivers the bad news. "It’s five o'clock, sir. Those who want to catch the train need to get up."
"As you please, señor. Not for me to contradict you."
"As you wish, sir. I won't argue with you."
The imp retires. If, like Mrs. Major O'Dowd, you carry a repater, you strike it. Five o'clock, sure enough, and ten minutes towards six. Nothing for it but to yield. Not as a certain friend who once bribed another imp of darkness with half-a-crown to wake him at five o'clock. The half-crown was duly earned. "Another half-crown if you let me sleep on until eight," cried the sluggard. The imp disappeared like a flash, and a gold mine was lost through an appointment. Of such are the men who fail.
The imp calls it a day. If you’re like Mrs. Major O'Dowd and have a repater, you set it off. It’s five o'clock, and almost six. There’s nothing left to do but give in. Not like a certain friend who once paid another imp of darkness half-a-crown to wake him at five. The half-crown was well earned. “Another half-crown if you let me sleep until eight,” complained the lazy one. The imp vanished in an instant, and a gold mine was wasted because of an appointment. These are the kinds of people who fail.
We came down and found the hotel in the usual state of early-morning discomfort—doors and windows all open, a general sweeping and uprooting, sleepy servants, a feeling that you are in every one's way and every one is in yours. Breakfast was out of the question, but tea was forthcoming. The omnibus rattled up.
We came down and found the hotel in the typical early-morning mess—doors and windows wide open, a general cleaning and organizing, half-asleep staff, and an overwhelming sense that you’re in everyone’s way while they’re in yours. Breakfast was out of the question, but tea was available. The bus rattled up.
"Take your great-coats," said the landlord, who set others the example of rising early. "You will find it cold in the mountains of Montserrat, especially if you remain all night to see the sun rise."
"Grab your coats," the landlord said, setting an example by getting up early. "It’s going to be chilly in the Montserrat mountains, especially if you stay the whole night to watch the sunrise."
He forgot that we were not chilly Spaniards. Our imp of darkness, however, who stood by, disappeared in a twinkling and returned with the coats. The landlord—a very different and less interesting man than our host of Gerona—wished us a pleasant journey, closed the door, and away we went under the influence of a glorious morning. The sun shone brilliantly, everything favoured us.
He forgot that we weren't cold Spaniards. Our mischievous friend who was standing by vanished quickly and came back with the coats. The landlord—a much more ordinary and less interesting person than our host in Gerona—wished us a good trip, closed the door, and off we went into a beautiful morning. The sun was shining brightly, and everything was in our favor.
After some ten miles of rail the wonderful ranges of Montserrat began to show up faint and indistinct, with their sharp outlines and mighty peaks. In the wide plains below cultivated fields and flowing undulations abounded. Sabadell, the midway station, proved a true Catalonian manufacturing town, but very different from an English town of the same nature. No smoke, no blackness of darkness, no pallid sorrowful faces. Under these blue skies and brilliant sunshine the abundant signs of work and animation almost added a charm to the scene. To those who delight in labour, life here is a combination of romance and reality—a state of things wholesome and to be desired.
After about ten miles of train ride, the stunning peaks of Montserrat started to appear, faint and hazy, with their jagged outlines and towering heights. In the vast plains below, there were cultivation-filled fields and rolling hills everywhere. Sabadell, the halfway point, turned out to be a genuine Catalonian manufacturing town, but it was very different from an English town of the same kind. No smoke, no grimy darkness, no pale, unhappy faces. Under these blue skies and bright sunshine, the plentiful signs of productivity and liveliness almost added a charm to the scene. For those who take pleasure in hard work, life here is a blend of romance and reality—a situation that's healthy and worth striving for.
We looked down upon many a valley well-wooded with small oaks, pines and olive trees, many a hill-slope covered with vines. Approaching the mountains of Montserrat, their savage and appalling grandeur became more evident. The monastery was seen high up, reposing on a gigantic plateau with its small settlement of dependencies. Villages were scattered over the plain, through which the river Llobregat took its winding way.
We looked down at many valleys filled with small oaks, pines, and olive trees, and many hillsides covered in vines. As we approached the mountains of Montserrat, their wild and stunning beauty became more apparent. The monastery was perched high up on a massive plateau, along with its small surrounding community. Villages were spread out across the plain, through which the river Llobregat flowed in a winding path.
The train drew up at Monistrol. Here we left the main line for the small railway which winds up into the mountains. Not being a crowded time of year, the train consisted of two carriages only, with an engine pushing up behind. The outer carriage was open, and here we took seats, the better to survey nature.
The train arrived at Monistrol. Here, we switched from the main line to the small railway that climbs into the mountains. Since it wasn't a busy time of year, the train had only two carriages, with an engine pushing from behind. The outer carriage was open, and we took seats there to get a better view of nature.
We were high above the plains; the train had to descend into the valley, then re-ascend into the mountains. Far down was the little town of Monistrol, with its white houses. The river rushed and frothed over its weir, spanned by a picturesque stone bridge of many arches. As the train twisted and turned like a serpent, it seemed that we must every moment topple over into the seething foam, but nothing happened. Down, down we went, until we rolled over the bridge, felt the cool wind of the water upon our faces, and drew up at the little station amongst the white houses of the settlement.
We were high above the plains; the train had to drop into the valley, then climb back up into the mountains. Far below was the small town of Monistrol, with its white houses. The river rushed and churned over its dam, crossed by a charming stone bridge with multiple arches. As the train twisted and turned like a snake, it felt like we were about to topple into the bubbling foam at any moment, but nothing happened. Down, down we went, until we rolled over the bridge, felt the cool breeze from the water on our faces, and pulled up at the little station among the white houses of the town.
Here people from the hot towns spend the months of summer, exchanging in this hill-enclosed valley one species of confinement for another. It was the perfection of quiet life, no sound disturbing the air but the falling water. Not a soul was visible; the lifeless village, like Rip Van Winkle, seemed enjoying a long sleep. We might have been a phantom train in a phantom world. Though the train stopped at the little station, no one got in or out—no one but the postman, who silently exchanged attenuated letter-bags. Evidently the correspondence of this enchanted place was not extensive. Not here were wars planned or treaties signed.
Here, people from the hot towns spend the summer months, trading one form of confinement for another in this valley surrounded by hills. It was the ultimate in peaceful living, with no sound in the air except for the sound of falling water. No one was in sight; the deserted village, like Rip Van Winkle, seemed to be enjoying a long slumber. We could have been a ghost train in a ghost world. Even though the train stopped at the small station, no one got on or off—except for the postman, who quietly swapped thin letter-bags. Clearly, the correspondence in this enchanted place was minimal. This is not where wars were planned or treaties were signed.
MONISTROL.
Away we went again and now began to ascend. Every moment widened our view and added to its splendour. Until recently all this had to be done by coach, a journey of many hours of courageous struggling. Now the whole thing is over in three-quarters of an hour, and it is good to feel that all the hard work is done mechanically. We had once gone through something similar in the Hex River Valley of South Africa, but in the Montserrat journey there was a more romantic element; the charm and glamour surrounding antiquity, the keen human interest attached to a religious institution dating from past ages. We easily traced the old zigzag carriage road up which horses had once toiled and struggled. Almost as zigzag was our present road, winding about like forked flashes of lightning.
Off we went again, and now we started to climb. With every moment, our view expanded and became more beautiful. Until recently, this journey had to be completed by coach, taking many hours of brave effort. Now, it all happens in just fifteen minutes, and it feels great to know that all the hard work is done by machines. We had experienced something similar in the Hex River Valley of South Africa, but the Montserrat journey had a more romantic touch; the allure and charm of ancient history, along with the deep human interest linked to a religious institution from bygone eras. We could easily follow the old zigzag carriage road where horses had once labored. Our current road was just as winding, twisting like flashes of forked lightning.
The scene was almost appalling. Before us the ponderous Mons Serratus, with all its cracks and fissures, ready to fall and reduce the earth to powder. Its sharp, fantastic peaks against the clear sky looked like the ruins of some mighty castle. The mountain rises four thousand feet high and is twenty-four miles in circumference—a grey, barren mass of tertiary conglomerate, an overwhelming amount of rock upon rock seemingly thrown and piled against each other. In all directions are enormous cañons and gorges with precipitous ravines; one rent dividing the range having occurred, it is said, at the hour of the Crucifixion. No eye has ever penetrated the depths below.
The scene was almost shocking. In front of us loomed the heavy Mons Serratus, with all its cracks and crevices, ready to collapse and turn the earth to dust. Its sharp, bizarre peaks against the clear sky resembled the remains of some grand castle. The mountain rises four thousand feet high and is twenty-four miles around—a grey, barren mass of ancient rock, an overwhelming collection of stone piled against each other. All around are huge canyons and gorges with steep ravines; one split in the range is said to have happened at the moment of the Crucifixion. No one has ever explored the depths below.
Far up the mountain reposes the monastery, with its dependencies and cultivated gardens. Every new zigzag took us a little nearer than the last. Very high up we stopped at another small station. No doubt some sequestered nook held an unseen village, for again the old postman silently exchanged letter-bags.
Far up the mountain lies the monastery, along with its buildings and gardens. Each new zigzag got us a little closer than the last. High up, we paused at another small station. Surely, some hidden spot housed an unseen village, as once again the old postman quietly exchanged letter bags.
He was a fine specimen of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey hairs and rugged features witnessed to a long and possibly active life. The head was cast in a splendid mould, to which the face corresponded. Such a man ought to have made his mark in the world. That he should end his days in playing postman to the monks of Montserrat seemed a sorry conclusion. The times must have got out of joint with him. As a leader in parliament or head of some great financial house, his appearance would have assured success. There must be a story behind this exterior, a mystery to unravel. But physiognomy seldom errs, and the expression of the face spoke in favour of honest purpose.
He was an impressive example of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey hair and rugged features suggested a long and possibly active life. The shape of his head was remarkable, matching well with his face. A man like him should have made a significant impact in the world. The fact that he ended up delivering mail to the monks of Montserrat seemed like a disappointing conclusion. Times must have been tough for him. As a leader in parliament or the head of a major financial institution, his presence would have guaranteed success. There had to be a story behind this exterior, a mystery waiting to be uncovered. But facial features often reveal the truth, and the expression on his face indicated genuine intentions.
He was a notable man, a man to be observed passing him on life's highway. For a time we watched him closely. There was a certain unconscious dignity about him. His remarks to the conductor were above the chatter of ordinary people. Our carriage was a third class, though we had lavishly taken first; but in those small, closed compartments nothing could be seen. This carriage was large, open, airy; we breathed, and were in touch with our surroundings; our fellow-travellers were also more interesting than the turtle-doves who occupied the luxurious compartment in a blissful solitude à deux.
He was a remarkable man, someone worth noticing as he moved along life's path. For a while, we observed him closely. There was an effortless dignity about him. His comments to the conductor were more insightful than the usual small talk. Our carriage was technically third class, even though we had generously chosen first class; but in those small, closed compartments, not much could be seen. This carriage was spacious, open, and airy; we could breathe and connect with our surroundings. Our fellow travelers were also far more interesting than the lovebirds who occupied the luxurious compartment in their blissful solitude à deux.
They were few and characteristic. First the conductor, who varied the monotony of his going by paying visits to the engine-driver and leaving the train to look after itself. Next, our postman, the study of whom would have been lost in any other compartment. Then a stout lady, who wore a hat that was quite a flower-garden, and substantial seven-leagued boots; a large basket laden with small nick-nacks was very much in evidence, to which she clung affectionately, and one felt it was all her living.
They were few and distinct. First was the conductor, who broke the routine by chatting with the engineer and leaving the train to manage itself. Then there was our postman, who would have been out of place in any other car. Next was a plump lady wearing a hat that looked like a blooming garden and sturdy boots; she had a big basket full of small trinkets that she clung to lovingly, making it clear that it meant everything to her.
This modest pedlar was on her way to Montserrat to dispose of her stock-in-trade—not to the monks, who could have no interest in housewifes and pocket-mirrors, but amongst the visitors. A humble peasant, with an honest, upright look in her dark eyes; a certain patient resignation in their expression which often comes to those who live from day to day, uncertain whether the morrow will bring fast or feasting. She sat at the end of the large square carriage, under the short bit of roofing. Here the magnificent surroundings were less seen, but what mattered? She was of those to whom the realities of life mean much more than the beauties of nature.
This modest peddler was on her way to Montserrat to sell her products—not to the monks, who wouldn’t be interested in household items and pocket mirrors, but to the visitors. A humble peasant, with an honest, straightforward look in her dark eyes; a certain patient acceptance in their expression that often comes to those who live day by day, unsure if tomorrow will bring a feast or just enough to get by. She sat at the end of the large square carriage, under the small bit of roofing. Here, the stunning scenery was less visible, but what did it matter? She belonged to those for whom the realities of life mean much more than the beauty of nature.
Next came a military policeman duly accompanied by his gun and cocked hat, on his way to a three months' duty at Montserrat.
Next came a military police officer, properly outfitted with his gun and hat, on his way to a three-month assignment at Montserrat.
Thus the carriage contained a poet, who could be on occasion a Napoleon; a man of letters, though apparently of letters limited; an armed Government official of more or less exalted rank; a lady-merchant representing the great world of commerce; and a humble individual who, like Lost Lenore, shall be "nameless here for evermore;" all personally conducted by a paid menial who neglected his duty and jeopardised the lives of his passengers. No merit to him that the journey passed without accident, but a great escape for ourselves.
Thus the carriage held a poet, who could sometimes act like a Napoleon; a writer, though apparently with limited skills; a government official of decent rank; a lady merchant representing the world of commerce; and a humble person who, like Lost Lenore, will be "nameless here forever;" all personally guided by a paid servant who slacked off and put the lives of his passengers at risk. He takes no credit for the journey going smoothly, but it was a big escape for us.
Of this small group of Catalonians, our postman alone was of the higher type and by far the most interesting.
Of this small group of Catalonians, our postman was the only one of a higher caliber and by far the most interesting.
"I see you are not of our country, señor," he remarked after exchanging letter-bags at the last station. "Your interest in the journey proves you unfamiliar with it. You may well marvel at this stupendous miracle of nature."
"I can see you're not from our country, sir," he said after they exchanged letter-bags at the last station. "Your interest in the journey shows that you're not familiar with it. You might be amazed by this incredible natural wonder."
"We marvel at everything. The whole scene is overpowering. And, if we may venture to say so, you are yourself an enigma. In England we have a proverb which speaks of a round man in a square hole; might it not almost be applied to you?"
"We're amazed by everything. The whole scene is overwhelming. And, if we can say so, you yourself are a mystery. In England, we have a saying about a round peg in a square hole; couldn't that almost apply to you?"
"In other words, you pay me the compliment of saying that I magnify my office," quickly returned the postman. "Well, it is true that I was not born to this, but it is not every one who has the wit to find it out. My father was an officer in the Spanish navy, and in the navy my first years of labour were spent. And now I am playing at postman—to such base uses do we come. Yet is my calling honourable.
"In other words, you’re complimenting me by saying that I exaggerate my role," the postman quickly replied. "True, I wasn’t born into this, but not everyone has the insight to realize it. My father was an officer in the Spanish navy, and I spent my early working years there. And now I’m pretending to be a postman—this is how low we can sink. Still, my job is honorable."
"You would ask how I fell from my high estate, and politeness withholds the question. In reply I can only quote the old saying, cherchez la femme. They say that a woman is at the bottom of all mischief, and I believe it. On the other hand, there is no doubt that at her best she is a divinity. No, sir; I perceive what you would say; but I have nothing questionable to disclose; no intrigues or complications, or anything of that sort.
"You might wonder how I lost my high status, but out of courtesy, you hold back the question. In response, I can only refer to the old saying, cherchez la femme. They say that a woman is behind all trouble, and I believe it. Yet, it's also true that at her best, she is divine. No, sir; I see what you're thinking, but I have nothing scandalous to reveal; no affairs or complications, or anything like that."
"My father died when I was twenty. He had been made admiral, and lived to enjoy his rank just four months. Unfortunately, all Admiral Alvarez had to bequeath to his son was his good name. Of fortune he had none. You will say that a good name is the greatest of all inheritance, and so it is; and a young man with health, strength, and a noble profession before him should be independent of fortune. I quite agree with you. But there are exceptions, and the exceptions are those who are born under a conjunction of stars against which there is no fighting. If I had lived in the days of the Egyptians I should have been an astrologer, for I believe there is something in the science. Right or wrong, it possesses a mysterious fascination.
"My father died when I was twenty. He had been promoted to admiral and enjoyed his rank for just four months. Unfortunately, all Admiral Alvarez could leave his son was his good name. He had no wealth. You might say that a good name is the greatest inheritance of all, and that’s true; a young man with health, strength, and a noble career ahead should be self-sufficient. I completely agree with you. But there are exceptions, and those exceptions are for those who are born under unlucky stars that can’t be fought against. If I had lived in ancient Egypt, I would have been an astrologer, because I believe there’s something to that science. Right or wrong, it has a mysterious allure."
"At twenty-one I married, apparently with discretion. The lady I chose was young, handsome, and owned a fortune. Without the latter matrimony for me would have been a dream. My lieutenant's pay, which hardly sufficed for one, would have reduced two to the necessity of living upon love, air, or any other ethereal ingredient that may be had for nothing.
"At twenty-one, I got married, seemingly with good judgment. The woman I picked was young, attractive, and came from wealth. Without that fortune, marriage for me would have been a fantasy. My lieutenant's salary, which barely covered living for one, would have forced two people to survive on love, fresh air, or any other intangible thing that’s free."
"For a time all went merrily. We were both well-favoured by Nature—perhaps I may be allowed to speak thus of myself when life is closing in—and fortune seemed to have been equally considerate. It was, however, too good to last. As I have said, I was not born under a lucky star. All through life I have just missed great opportunities. Even as a child I can remember that the ripe apples never fell to my share. If we drew lots for anything I was always next the winning number and might as well have drawn the lowest. My father, who really ought to have left me something in the way of patrimony, left me only his blessing.
"For a while, everything was going great. Both of us were good-looking—maybe I can say that about myself as life is winding down—and luck seemed to be on our side. However, it was too good to last. As I've mentioned, I wasn't born under a lucky star. Throughout my life, I've just missed out on big opportunities. Even as a kid, I remember the ripe apples never falling into my hands. If we drew lots for anything, I was always just next to the winning number and might as well have picked the lowest. My dad, who really should have left me some sort of inheritance, only left me his blessing."
"Well, señor, my wife, I repeat, was young and handsome. She was fond of gaiety, and having the entrée to a very fine society, her taste for pleasure was easily gratified. She became extravagant, and gradually fell into a state of nervous excitement which required constant dissipation. I was often away from home with my vessel, but not for long absences. They were, however, sufficiently frequent to render me careless and unsuspicious as to the true state of our finances. When I really learned this, it was too late. We were ruined. And not only ruined, but overwhelmed in debt.
"Well, sir, my wife, I repeat, was young and beautiful. She loved to party, and since she had access to a very elite social circle, her cravings for fun were easily satisfied. She became extravagant and gradually fell into a state of nervous excitement that needed constant distraction. I was often away with my ship, but not for long periods. However, my absences were frequent enough for me to be careless and oblivious about our real financial situation. By the time I truly realized this, it was too late. We were ruined. And not just ruined, but drowning in debt."
"In the first moment of horror I bitterly upbraided my wife. She, poor thing, took her misfortunes and my anger so much to heart that she fell into a consumption, and died in less than a year. I was so affected by my troubles—more, I believe, for the loss of my wife, whom I really loved, than for the loss of my income—that I fell for a time into a despondent frame of mind. I had felt compelled to retire from my profession—a man in a state of debt and bankruptcy had no right to be holding a royal commission—and my enforced idleness did not help to mend matters. At length life, health, and youth—I was not yet thirty—asserted themselves. Melancholy flew away; energy, a wish to be up and doing something, returned.
"In that first moment of panic, I angrily blamed my wife. She, poor thing, took her misfortunes and my anger to heart so much that she developed a serious illness and passed away within a year. I was deeply affected by my troubles—more, I think, by the loss of my wife, whom I truly loved, than by the loss of my income—which led me into a dark mood for a while. I had felt pressure to step away from my career—a man in debt and bankruptcy had no business holding a royal commission—and my forced inactivity didn’t help my situation. Eventually, life, health, and youth—I was still under thirty—came back to me. Sadness faded away; I felt energized again, wanting to be active and do something."
"I looked around me. The prospect was a sad one. There was nothing to be done. No one wanted me.
"I looked around me. The view was a depressing one. There was nothing I could do. No one wanted me."
"At length fortune, tired of frowning upon me, smiled awhile. I fell in with an old friend of my father's, a wealthy coffee-planter in Ceylon. He had come over for a holiday to his native country. For the father's sake, for the sake of old times and the days of his youth, he was kind to the son. He sympathised with my sorrows, which were not of my own making. About to return to Ceylon, he offered me a certain partnership in his business, promising greater things if I remained.
"Finally, fortune, tired of being against me, smiled for a moment. I ran into an old friend of my father’s, a wealthy coffee planter from Ceylon. He had come back for a vacation to his home country. Out of respect for my father, and for the memories of their youth, he was supportive of me. He understood my struggles, which weren’t my fault. As he was about to head back to Ceylon, he offered me a partnership in his business, promising even better opportunities if I stayed."
"How thankfully I turned my back upon Spain, the land of all my misfortunes, I could never say. I began a new and prosperous life in a new country. In course of time my old friend died, and I became senior partner in a flourishing concern. For twenty-five years I remained out in Ceylon. I had made a considerable fortune, and you will think that I had probably married again. No, señor. I gave up my life to work, and would not a second time tempt fate.
"How grateful I was to leave Spain, the place of all my misfortunes, I can never express. I started a new and successful life in another country. Eventually, my old friend passed away, and I became the senior partner in a thriving business. I spent twenty-five years in Ceylon. I had made a significant fortune, and you might think I remarried. No, sir. I dedicated my life to work and wouldn’t risk tempting fate again."
"At last, after an absence of a quarter of a century, a feeling crept over me that had every symptom of mal du pays. As this increased, I realised my possessions and returned to my own country, a rich man. But, alas! youth had fled. Wealth did not now mean for me what it had meant at five-and-twenty. The first thing I did was to pay up all my debts with interest, and to stand a free, honourable and honoured man. What surprised me most was the comparative smallness of the sum which in the hour of our misfortunes I had thought so formidable.
"Finally, after being away for twenty-five years, I started to feel a strong sense of homesickness. As this feeling grew, I realized what I owned and returned to my own country as a wealthy man. But, unfortunately, my youth was gone. Wealth didn’t hold the same meaning for me at fifty as it did at twenty-five. The first thing I did was pay off all my debts with interest, so I could be a free, honorable, and respected man. What surprised me the most was how relatively small the amount was that had seemed so daunting during our tough times."
"And now, señor, do you think that I could let well alone: or, rather, that fortune could still turn to me a smiling face? It seemed as though the land of my birth—my mother country—was to bring me nothing but sorrow. In searching to place my capital, and remembering that you should not have all your eggs in one basket, I invested some of it in certain bank shares. It was a flourishing concern, paying a steady nine per cent. That it should be unlimited was a matter of no importance. So prosperous a company could never fail. Yet, señor, in less than a year, fail it did for an amount which swept away every penny of my fortune, and left me stranded high and dry on the shores of adversity.
"And now, sir, do you think I could just leave things as they are, or rather, that luck might still smile on me? It felt like my homeland—my mother country—was set to bring me nothing but pain. While trying to invest my money wisely, and remembering that you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, I put some of it into certain bank shares. It was a thriving business, providing a consistent nine percent return. The fact that it was unlimited didn’t matter at all. A company this successful could never fail. Yet, sir, in less than a year, it did fail, taking every single penny of my fortune with it and leaving me completely stranded on the shores of hardship."
"This time my ruin was more complete than before, for I was getting old and could not begin life afresh. Yet—perhaps for that very reason—I felt it less, and bore it philosophically. I had brought no one down in my reverses. There was no one to upbraid me, and more than ever I felt thankful that I had never married again. I obtained a situation in the Post Office of a light description, which would just enable me to live. Three years ago, a small windfall came to me: a sum of money that, safely invested, assures me comfortable bread and cheese for the remainder of my days. No more flourishing banks with unlimited liabilities. And now here I am, in daily charge of the mail-bags between Monistrol and Montserrat. A humble office you will say, but not ignoble. After the free life of Ceylon, with all its magnificent scenery, I felt it impossible to live shut up in a town, and especially requested this post might be given me. In the midst of this wild grandeur, which really somehow reminds me of parts of Ceylon, I am happy and contented. Bricks and mortar are my abomination; they weigh upon one's soul and crush out one's vital power. I love to breathe the morning air with the lark. At best I can live but a few years more, and I will not spend them in regretting the past. On the whole, I consider that I am rather to be envied than pitied. That I am no longer obliged to work for my bread gives an additional zest to my occupation.—We are approaching Montserrat. Is it not a sublime scene?"
"This time my downfall was more complete than before, since I was getting older and couldn't start over. Yet—maybe because of that—I felt it less and dealt with it calmly. I hadn’t dragged anyone down with my failures. There was no one to blame me, and I felt more grateful than ever that I had never remarried. I found a light job at the Post Office, just enough to get by. Three years ago, I received a small financial boost: a sum of money that, when invested wisely, guarantees me a comfortable living for the rest of my life. No more flashy banks with endless promises. And now, here I am, in charge of the mail bags between Monistrol and Montserrat. You might call it a humble job, but it’s not shameful. After the open life in Ceylon, with all its stunning views, I found it impossible to live cooped up in a city, so I specifically asked for this position. Amidst this wild beauty, which oddly reminds me of parts of Ceylon, I feel happy and content. I can’t stand bricks and mortar; they weigh down your soul and drain your energy. I love to breathe in the morning air with the larks. At best, I only have a few years left, and I won’t waste them regretting the past. Overall, I think I’m more to be envied than pitied. Not having to work for my living adds extra enjoyment to what I do. —We’re nearing Montserrat. Isn’t it a magnificent sight?"
It was indeed nothing less. We rose above the vast magnificent valley, until at last it looked dream-like and intangible. We seemed to overhang bottomless precipices. On a plateau of the great mountain reposed the monastery and its dependencies. Luxuriant gardens flourished, paradise of the monks—a strange contrast of barren rocks and rich verdure. Here dwelt a wonderful little world of its own, never deserted even in winter, and in summer crowded with people who spend hours, days, weeks breathing the mountain air, living a life of absolute freedom from all restraint.
It was truly nothing less. We ascended above the vast, stunning valley, until it finally appeared dreamlike and unreal. We seemed to be hovering over endless cliffs. On a plateau of the great mountain rested the monastery and its surrounding buildings. Lush gardens thrived, a paradise for the monks—a striking contrast between barren rocks and abundant greenery. Here existed a wonderful little world of its own, never empty, even in winter, and in summer bustling with people who spent hours, days, weeks breathing the mountain air, living a life completely free from any limitations.
No monastery can be more romantically placed; perhaps none ever equalled it; yet of late years some of its romance and beauty has disappeared. The lovely old buildings that were a dream of Gothic and Norman refinement, of architectural perfection, have given place to new and hideous outlines. Nothing remains to show the glory of what has been but one side of a cloister through whose pointed arches you gaze upon a perfect Norman doorway—a dream-vision. A railway has brought Montserrat into touch with the world, and to accommodate the crowd of visitors, a new Hospederia has been built containing a thousand rooms, resembling an immense and very hideous prison. The passages are long, dark, narrow and cold. Rooms open on each side—single rooms and sets of rooms. The latter are furnished with a kitchen; so that a family or party of friends may come here with bag and baggage, pots, pans and all kitchen equipage, servants included, and encamp for as long or as short a time as may please them.
No monastery could be more beautifully situated; maybe none has ever matched it; however, in recent years, some of its charm and beauty have faded. The beautiful old buildings, once a vision of Gothic and Norman elegance and architectural perfection, have been replaced by new, ugly structures. The only remnant of its past glory is one side of a cloister, through whose pointed arches you can see a stunning Norman doorway—a dreamlike sight. A railway has connected Montserrat to the outside world, and to accommodate the influx of visitors, a new Hospederia has been built with a thousand rooms, looking like a massive and very unattractive prison. The hallways are long, dark, narrow, and cold. Rooms line both sides—single rooms and suites. The suites come equipped with a kitchen, allowing families or groups of friends to come here with all their belongings, including pots, pans, and even staff, and settle in for as long or as short a time as they wish.
Our train stopped at the little station under the very shadow of the mountain. This was the more crowded part of the settlement, and on the left we noticed what looked like a party of gipsies encamped, enjoying an open air feast with much laughter and merriment. The monastery buildings were at the other end of the plateau.
Our train stopped at the small station right under the shadow of the mountain. This was the busier part of the settlement, and on the left, we noticed what seemed like a group of gypsies camping out, enjoying an outdoor feast filled with laughter and joy. The monastery buildings were at the other end of the plateau.
We left the station under the pilotage of our friend the postman, carrying his mail-bag. Before us, raised on a terrace, was a long row of buildings old and new, of every shape and size. These were the dependencies, and helped to form the little world of Montserrat. Towering behind, up into the skies, were the precipitous sides, peaks and pinnacles of the great mountain.
We left the station guided by our friend the postman, who was carrying his mailbag. In front of us, elevated on a terrace, was a long line of buildings—both old and new—in all sorts of shapes and sizes. These made up the dependencies and contributed to the small world of Montserrat. Rising behind us, stretching up into the sky, were the steep cliffs, peaks, and spires of the great mountain.
"There lies the Post Office," said our man of letters, "and that is my destination. If you have any intention of remaining the night, you should first pay a visit to the little house on the right. The funny little monk who attends to visitors will receive you, conduct you to the Hospederia and give you rooms. In summer every room is often occupied to overflowing, but now you will have the place to yourselves—you and the ghosts—for I maintain that it is haunted. I will not say farewell, señor; we shall frequently meet during the day. There is small choice of ways in this little settlement; but for all that you will find that Montserrat is one of the glories of Spain."
"There’s the Post Office," said our letter writer, "and that’s where I'm headed. If you plan to stick around for the night, you should first check out the little house on the right. The quirky monk who takes care of visitors will welcome you, show you to the Hospederia, and get you settled in. In summer, every room is usually packed, but right now, you’ll have the place all to yourselves—you and the ghosts—because I believe it’s haunted. I won’t say goodbye, señor; we’ll see each other often throughout the day. There aren’t many paths in this little village, but even so, you’ll find that Montserrat is one of the treasures of Spain."
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.
Monk's face—Unnecessary goodness—"Welcome to Montserrat"—Selfish benefit—Demanding but not greedy—Another Miguel—Lost keys—Unique monk—Hospederia—Doubt—Monk's idea of luxury—Rare chance—Haunted by silence—Father Salvador privileged—Monk sees spirits—Under Miguel's guidance—In the church—Gone glory—The black statue—Gothic and Norman shapes—Franciscan monk or spirit?—Vision of the past—Days of oppression—Practical image—Great community—Harmony of the spheres—Solemn cypresses—Hermit's life—Monk's story—Loving the world—Repentance—Saved from disaster—Talent nurtured—A world apart—Fake interest—Salvador—Temptation and a compromise—Salvador improvises—"All the magic of the hour"—Salvador's belief—Waiting for signs.
WE turned to the right, and entering the building indicated, passed into a bare, unfurnished room. Through a square hole in the wall, not unlike a buttery-hatch, a monk's face peered at us with large coal-black eyes, startling in their effect; a small, spare monk, with unshaven face, round head and black hair, habited in the ugly dress of the Jesuit order. It struck us rather unpleasantly that everything about him was black, not the eyes and hair only. He evidently belonged to a sect who thought washing superfluous, if not sinful.
WE turned right and walked into the building, entering a bare, unfurnished room. Through a square hole in the wall, like a serving hatch, a monk's face appeared, featuring large coal-black eyes that were striking; he was a small, lean monk with an unshaven face, a round head, and black hair, dressed in the unattractive uniform of the Jesuit order. It was a bit unsettling that everything about him was black, not just his eyes and hair. He clearly belonged to a group that considered washing unnecessary, if not sinful.
"Ah!" he exclaimed in quite friendly tones. "Welcome to Montserrat! I am very happy to see you."
"Ah!" he said warmly. "Welcome to Montserrat! I'm really glad to see you."
"We might be chums of a lifetime," said H. C., shuddering, as the well-disposed ecclesiastic advanced a dusky hand; for we saw it coming and meanly put him in the foreground. In spite of his Napoleon manner, he had to shake it. The little monk was not to be frowned down.
"We could be lifelong friends," said H. C., shuddering, as the friendly clergyman reached out a dark hand; we saw it coming and selfishly put him front and center. Despite his Napoleon-like attitude, he had to shake it. The little monk wasn't someone you could intimidate.
"I am very happy to see you," he repeated. "You are welcome. Our visitors are few at this time of the year. Every visitor adds his quota to our common fund. However small, it is acceptable. Do not think me mercenary. The fathers and brothers must live, and they do a great deal of good. Even up here, out of the world, you have no idea how much may be done. And we have many branches. But the beauty of Montserrat is supreme, and you know that it is world-wide. Now you want rooms," continued the eloquent little monk. "I will go across with you to the Hospederia. But first you must record your names in this book. Miguel," to a young man in attendance, "where are the keys? They are not here. Why are they not here? How often am I to report you to the Father-Superior for carelessness?"
"I’m really glad to see you," he said again. "You’re welcome. We don’t get many visitors at this time of year. Every visitor contributes to our common fund. No matter how small, it is appreciated. Don’t think I’m all about money. The fathers and brothers need to make a living, and they do a lot of good work. Even up here, away from everything, you’d be surprised how much can be accomplished. And we have many branches. But the beauty of Montserrat is unmatched, and it’s known all over the world. Now, you need rooms," the enthusiastic little monk continued. "I’ll go with you to the Hospederia. But first, you have to write your names in this book. Miguel," he said to a young man nearby, "where are the keys? They’re not here. Why aren’t they here? How many times do I have to report you to the Father-Superior for being careless?"
The keys were guiltily produced by Miguel.
The keys were pulled out by Miguel, feeling a bit guilty.
"I thought so," cried the monk. "Suppose, now, you had gone down to Monistrol with the keys in your pocket! We must have got through a window like thieves and vagabonds. A very undignified proceeding. The Reverend Father would have stopped your butter for a month. As it is, I must overlook it, I suppose; you are so very fond of butter. Now, gentlemen—— Dear me, what beautiful writing you English always have!" scanning the book, in which, with the aid of a very bad pen, we had hieroglyphically scratched our names. "Now, gentlemen, I am at your service. We will take our little pilgrimage. You have a choice of rooms. There is not a soul in the Hospederia—a thousand rooms, every one empty. Miguel, attend us; you will have to make up beds for these gentlemen."
"I thought so," the monk exclaimed. "Just imagine if you had gone down to Monistrol with the keys in your pocket! We would have had to sneak in through a window like thieves and vagabonds. That would be very undignified. The Reverend Father would have stopped your butter for a month. As it is, I suppose I have to overlook it; you do love your butter so much. Now, gentlemen—oh my, what beautiful writing you English always have!" he said, looking over the book where we had scribbled our names with a really bad pen. "Now, gentlemen, I'm at your service. We'll start our little pilgrimage. You can choose your rooms. There isn't a soul in the Hospederia—a thousand rooms, and every one is empty. Miguel, come here; you'll have to make up beds for these gentlemen."
The pilgrimage was certainly a short one. We gave the little monk as wide a berth as politeness and the way permitted. To keep step with him was impossible. He had a curious motion which resembled more the trotting of a young colt than the walk of a human being. As he skipped across the road, a small, animated mass of quicksilver, full of peculiar life and energy, it was difficult to keep becomingly grave. The great Hospederia was in front of us, huge, modern, unsightly, depressing. The monk jingled the great keys as though they made pleasant music in his ear. Then he applied one of them to the huge lock and the heavy door rolled back on its hinges.
The pilgrimage was definitely a brief one. We gave the little monk as much space as courtesy and the path allowed. It was impossible to walk in step with him. He moved in a way that resembled more the trot of a young colt than the walk of a person. As he bounced across the road, a small, lively blur of energy, it was hard to stay serious. The great Hospederia loomed ahead of us, massive, modern, unattractive, and disheartening. The monk jingled the big keys as if they were playing a pleasant tune in his ears. Then, he used one of them on the large lock, and the heavy door rolled back on its hinges.
If the exterior had looked depressing, it was cheerfulness itself to the interior. A chilling, silent, uninhabited, ghostly atmosphere met us at the very threshold. Our postman might well say it was haunted. Voices and footsteps echoed in the long, bare, gloomy corridors. A monk's cell could scarcely have been more guiltless of comfort. We had hardly made up our minds whether to stay the night or not, and our proposed lodging kept us still more undecided. As far as sunrise was concerned, at this time of the year the effects were doubtful. More often than not a thick mist enshrouded the whole visible world like a white sea. We might remain, have our trouble and discomfort for our pains, and nothing more.
If the outside looked depressing, the inside was completely cheerful. A chilling, silent, uninhabited, ghostly vibe greeted us right at the entrance. Our postman might as well say it was haunted. Voices and footsteps echoed in the long, bare, gloomy hallways. A monk's cell could hardly be more devoid of comfort. We were barely able to decide whether to stay the night or not, and our planned lodging made us even more uncertain. As for sunrise, this time of year it was hit or miss. More often than not, a thick mist covered the whole visible world like a white sea. We could stay, endure the trouble and discomfort for nothing in return.
"Here," said the monk, throwing open the door of a small room, and pointing to a bed hard as pavement, "you may sleep in comfort, even luxury. And," opening the window, "what a prospect!"
"Here," said the monk, flinging open the door to a small room and pointing to a bed as hard as concrete, "you can sleep in comfort, even luxury. And," he opened the window, "what a view!"
True enough as regarded the outlook. Such an assemblage of vale, mountain and river could hardly be surpassed. The luxury of the bed, on the other hand, was a distinct effort of the imagination. We would not, however, disturb the sensitiveness of the little monk by arguing the matter, and indeed, it would have been difficult to lower his self-complacency. Two rooms belonging to a suite were duly apportioned to us. The bare kitchen between them looked cold and lifeless. These rooms would be prepared, and any one remaining here for the night might reasonably consider it a penance for his sins. It would be rather a gruesome experience to find ourselves in sole possession of this vast building of a thousand rooms. An army of ghosts—the ghosts of dead-and-gone monks—would certainly come down upon us, and H. C.'s most Napoleon manner would have no effect whatever. Like the little monk, ghosts are not to be frowned down.
It’s true about the view. Such a collection of valleys, mountains, and rivers is hard to beat. However, the comfort of the bed was purely a product of imagination. We wouldn’t want to upset the sensitive little monk by debating this, and honestly, it would be tough to deflate his confidence. We were assigned two rooms in a suite. The empty kitchen in between them felt cold and lifeless. These rooms would be ready, and anyone staying here for the night might as well see it as punishment for their sins. It would be quite eerie to find ourselves alone in this huge building with a thousand rooms. An army of ghosts—the spirits of long-gone monks—would surely come upon us, and H. C.'s most Napoleon-like demeanor wouldn’t make a difference. Like the little monk, ghosts won’t be intimidated.
"A pity to disturb this Hospederia, which may be considered closed for the season," we remarked. "My poet friend is very much afraid of ghosts, and this place might very well be haunted. It is certainly haunted by silence. Why not give us cells in the monastery, where, in presence of the Father-Superior, ghosts would hardly venture to intrude?"
"A shame to interrupt this inn, which seems to be closed for the season," we said. "My poet friend is really scared of ghosts, and this place could definitely be haunted. It's definitely haunted by silence. Why not give us rooms in the monastery, where, with the Father-Superior present, ghosts would think twice about showing up?"
"An excellent idea," said H. C., looking blue and shivery. "This place is more gloomy than the grave."
"Great idea," said H. C., looking cold and jittery. "This place is more depressing than a grave."
"In the darkness one place is very much the same as another," said the monk. "No one is allowed even within the walls of the monastery without an order from the Holy Father at Rome, the Archbishop of Toledo, or some equally great authority. Father Salvador is the only one who can prevail with our Superior. As for ghosts, I have seen them with my own eyes on All Souls' Eve, at midnight, in the monastery graveyard, and oh! how frightened I was! How I shivered in my sandals! They were the ghosts of two monks who had committed suicide within a year of each other in their cells. Of course, they were quite mad, and they left a letter behind them—both of them—to say they could bear their solitude no longer. In the dead of night they heard groans, and saw shapes like immense bats flying about. Each bat had four wings, two tails, fiery eyes and forked tongues. They were quite insane. But there are no ghosts here, sirs. For the matter of that, the building is far too modern. Ghosts have excellent taste and cultivate the antique. There, that is settled. Everything is at your disposal—the whole building. Now, Miguel, show the gentlemen where they can dine. I have heard that the fare in the restaurant is equal to anything in Madrid. I am your most humble servant and delighted to see you. Welcome to Montserrat."
"In the dark, one place feels just like another," said the monk. "No one can even enter the monastery without permission from the Holy Father in Rome, the Archbishop of Toledo, or some other high authority. Father Salvador is the only one who can persuade our Superior. As for ghosts, I've seen them myself on All Souls' Eve, at midnight, in the monastery graveyard, and oh! how frightened I was! I shivered in my sandals! They were the ghosts of two monks who had committed suicide a year apart in their cells. They were clearly mad and left letters behind—both of them—saying they could no longer stand their solitude. In the dead of night, they heard groans and saw shapes like huge bats flying around. Each bat had four wings, two tails, fiery eyes, and forked tongues. They were truly insane. But there are no ghosts here, sirs. In fact, the building is far too modern for that. Ghosts have great taste and prefer the antique. So, that's settled. Everything is at your disposal—the entire building. Now, Miguel, please show the gentlemen where they can dine. I've heard that the food at the restaurant is as good as anything in Madrid. I am your most humble servant and thrilled to see you. Welcome to Montserrat."
Upon which the little monk skipped once more across the road with the same acrobatic motion, and disappeared within his sanctum.
Upon which the little monk hopped across the road again with the same acrobatic move and vanished into his sanctuary.
Under Miguel's escort—who had had so narrow an escape from losing his butter, and doing a month's fasting out of Lent—we found the dining-room. Several dining-rooms indeed, of great size, one above another, apparently quite prepared to entertain the Hospederia with its full complement of guests. The manager informed us that we could have any meal we liked at any appointed hour; he was equal to the largest dinners at the shortest notice; and having settled this part of the programme to H. C.'s satisfaction, we dismissed Miguel and took to exploring.
Under Miguel's guidance—who had just narrowly avoided losing his butter and potentially facing a month-long fast during Lent—we found the dining room. In fact, there were several large dining rooms, one on top of another, seemingly ready to host the Hospederia's full range of guests. The manager told us we could have any meal we wanted at any scheduled time; he was able to handle the biggest dinners at a moment's notice. Once we had this part of the plan sorted out to H. C.'s approval, we let Miguel go and started exploring.
As Don Alvarez had said, we could not go very far wrong. One road led to the summit of Mons Serratus, another down into the world; a third round the mountain into another part of the world. This was still traversed by a coach and four, and presently we had the pleasure of seeing it start with great preparation and ceremony. For the moment we contented ourselves with the immediate precincts.
As Don Alvarez pointed out, we couldn't go too far off track. One road took us to the top of Mons Serratus, another one led down into the world, and a third wrapped around the mountain leading to another part of the world. This path was still used by a coach and four, , and soon we had the pleasure of watching it set off with great fanfare. For now, we were satisfied with exploring the immediate surroundings.
Montserrat Church.
The convent buildings stood on a plateau at the far end of the settlement. Almost buried under the side of the mountain was the immense church or chapel in which the monks attend mass. One may see them at stated hours in the choir behind the great iron grille that separates them from the outer worshippers. There are now only about twenty fathers, for the monastery was suppressed some sixty years ago, only a few being allowed to remain. It is of very ancient origin, and rose from small to great things, and again has fallen from its high estate. The foundation is due to a black image of the Virgin; a small figure in black wood supposed to have been specially carved by St. Luke, and specially brought to Spain by St. Peter. If in St. Luke's best style, he was certainly not a Michel Angelo. The image, however, is highly prized by the religious order, as having worked countless miracles and brought them fame and wealth.
The convent buildings sat on a plateau at the edge of the settlement. Almost hidden by the mountain was the huge church or chapel where the monks hold mass. You can see them at certain times in the choir behind the large iron grille that separates them from the congregants. There are now only about twenty fathers, since the monastery was shut down around sixty years ago, with only a few allowed to stay. It has really ancient roots, rising from humble beginnings to great heights, and then falling from its former glory. Its foundation is linked to a black statue of the Virgin; a small figure carved from black wood, believed to have been created by St. Luke and brought to Spain by St. Peter. If it was done in St. Luke's best style, he was certainly no Michelangelo. Still, the image is highly valued by the religious order for having performed countless miracles, bringing them fame and wealth.
In crossing towards the chapel we met our funny little monk. "Ah, you are going into the church?" he cried. "You will find the fathers at prayer—it is nearly the hour for the refectory. And you will see the black Virgin—the beautiful black image—carved by St. Luke—carried by St. Peter—blessed by twelve popes! No wonder she performs miracles. Withered arms and legs come to life again. I have seen old people turn young. Once when I looked at her she blinked with both eyes. It is true I am short-sighted, but I am certain of the fact: as certain as that I saw ghosts in the graveyard on All Souls' Eve. Señor, that wonderful black image is the one great thing to see at Montserrat. The cleverness of the railway, the beauty of the landscape, the grandeur of the mountain, the splendour of the church—all this is very well in its way; but it is as nothing compared with the black image. Go and study it, and if you look long enough perhaps she will blink her eyes at you too, or bow her head. It is quite possible."
As we headed to the chapel, we ran into our amusing little monk. "Oh, you're going to the church?" he exclaimed. "You'll find the fathers at prayer—it’s almost time for the meal. And you’ll see the black Virgin—the beautiful black statue—carved by St. Luke—carried by St. Peter—blessed by twelve popes! No wonder she works miracles. Withered arms and legs come back to life. I've seen old people turn young. Once when I looked at her, she blinked both eyes. It’s true I’m short-sighted, but I’m certain about it: just as certain as I saw ghosts in the graveyard on All Souls' Eve. Sir, that amazing black statue is the one must-see at Montserrat. The cleverness of the railway, the beauty of the landscape, the grandeur of the mountain, the splendor of the church—all of that is nice in its own way; but it pales in comparison to the black statue. Go study it, and if you look long enough, maybe she’ll blink at you too, or bow her head. It’s definitely possible."
Then he skipped through the quadrangle back to his den.
Then he jogged through the courtyard back to his room.
This quadrangle was very interesting; large, quiet, and solidly built: an outer court to the holy of holies, which was the church itself. Under the mountain-side, its covered passages ever seemed in deep gloom and shadow; a death-in-life atmosphere hung about it. In days gone by it was one of the loveliest nooks in the world, for the ancient buildings were beautiful and refined. Gothic cloisters and Norman doorways mingled their outlines in close companionship without rivalry, and the beholder was charmed at finding himself in an element where nothing jarred.
This quadrangle was really interesting; large, quiet, and solidly built: an outer court to the holy of holies, which was the church itself. Under the mountain side, its covered passages always seemed to be in deep gloom and shadow; a lifeless atmosphere surrounded it. In the past, it was one of the most beautiful spots in the world, as the ancient buildings were lovely and elegant. Gothic cloisters and Norman doorways blended their outlines together without competition, and anyone who saw it was delighted to find themselves in a place where nothing felt out of place.
All has disappeared to make way for the modern traveller, whose name is legion. Nothing remains but the one little Gothic fragment, with its pointed windows and slender shafts. A lady in a mantilla graced them as we stood looking at the Norman archway beyond: the more interesting of the turtle-doves who had travelled with us from Monistrol. Her mate was attending to the vulgar side of life, arranging a select repast with the restaurant manager at the farther end of the settlement. We saw him come out and advance towards her with that degree of fervour which generally marks the lune de miel. She, too, went to meet him half-way—and they disappeared out of our lives.
All has vanished to make room for the modern traveler, whose numbers are countless. Nothing is left except for one small Gothic piece, with its pointed windows and tall columns. A lady in a mantilla added charm as we stood admiring the Norman archway beyond: the more intriguing of the turtle-doves who had journeyed with us from Monistrol. Her partner was busy with the more mundane aspects of life, setting up a special meal with the restaurant manager at the far end of the settlement. We watched him come out and approach her with the kind of enthusiasm typically seen during a honeymoon. She also went to meet him halfway—and they slipped away from our lives.
As we looked at the Norman doorway it was suddenly filled with the figure of a monk. Nothing could have been more appropriately romantic and picturesque. He was clothed not as a Jesuit, but in the far more becoming dress of a Franciscan. His cowl was thrown back, revealing a pale, refined face and well-formed head, on which the hair seemed to be arranged almost like a circlet of leaves—the crown of the poet. He stood still and motionless as though carved in stone. In his hand he held a breviary. A girdle was round his waist confining the long brown robe. As far as we could see, he appeared unmindful of his surroundings, lost in a dreamy gaze which penetrated beyond the skies. It was the attitude and expression of a visionary or mystic.
As we gazed at the Norman doorway, it suddenly filled with the figure of a monk. Nothing could have been more fittingly romantic and picturesque. He wasn't dressed like a Jesuit but wore the much more flattering attire of a Franciscan. His hood was pushed back, revealing a pale, refined face and a well-shaped head, with his hair arranged almost like a crown of leaves—the poet's crown. He stood still and motionless, almost as if carved from stone. In his hand, he held a breviary. A belt cinched his waist, holding his long brown robe in place. As far as we could see, he seemed unaware of his surroundings, lost in a dreamy gaze that looked beyond the skies. His stance and expression reflected that of a visionary or mystic.
What was this monk in the strange garb? Who was he? What brought him apparently at home amidst the Jesuits, he who evidently belonged to another order? Had he thrown in his lot amongst them? Or did he live, a solitary being, in one of the surrounding hermitages?
What was this monk in the weird outfit? Who was he? What made him seem at home among the Jesuits when he obviously belonged to a different order? Had he decided to join them? Or did he live alone in one of the nearby hermitages?
Whilst we looked he slowly turned, and, with bent head and lingering steps, as though in deep contemplation, passed out of sight. Nothing remained but the empty doorway with a vision of arches beyond; a few ruined walls stained with the marks of centuries, to which patches of moss and drooping creepers and hardy ferns added grace and charm. We were alone, surrounded by intense quiet and repose. Sunshine was over all, casting deep shadows. No sound disturbed the stillness, not even the echo of the monk's receding footsteps. So silent and motionless had been his coming and going, we asked ourselves whether he was in truth flesh and blood or a mid-day visitor from the land of shadows. How remote, how out of the world it all was!
As we watched, he slowly turned, and with his head down and slow steps, as if lost in thought, disappeared from view. All that was left was the empty doorway leading to a vision of arches beyond; a few crumbling walls marked by centuries, adorned with patches of moss, hanging vines, and resilient ferns that added beauty and charm. We found ourselves alone, enveloped in profound quiet and tranquility. Sunshine was over everything, creating deep shadows. No sound broke the stillness, not even the echo of the monk's fading footsteps. His arrival and departure had been so silent and still that we wondered if he was truly real or a midday visitor from the realm of shadows. How distant and removed from the world it all felt!
Suddenly, as we looked upwards, an eagle took majestic flight from one of the mountain peaks, and, hovering in the blue ether, seemed seeking for prey. But it was not the time of the lambs, and with a long, sweeping wing, it passed across the valley to an opposite range of hills.
Suddenly, as we looked up, an eagle soared majestically from one of the mountain peaks and, hovering in the blue sky, appeared to be searching for prey. But it wasn't the lambs' season, and with a wide, sweeping wing, it glided across the valley to a distant range of hills.
The great church was before us with its dome, of Roman design and sufficiently common-place. But, after all, what mattered? Its effects and those of the hideous Hospederia were lost in their wonderful surroundings, just as a drop of water is lost in the ocean.
The grand church stood before us with its dome, designed in a Roman style and fairly ordinary. But really, who cares? Its impact and that of the ugly Hospederia faded into their stunning surroundings, just like a drop of water disappears in the ocean.
On entering the church this comparison disappeared. There was an expanse about its aisles, largeness and breadth in the high-domed roof, that produced a certain dignity, yet without grace and refinement. No magic and mystery surrounded them, and the dim religious light was the result, not of rich stained glass admitting prismatic streams, but of an obscurity cast by the shadows of Mons Serratus. For great effects one had to go back in imagination to the days when the monks were many and assembled at night for service. It is easy to picture the impressive scene. Beyond the ever-closed screen, within the great choir, a thousand kneeling, penitential figures chanting the midnight mass, their voices swelling upward in mighty volume; the church just sufficiently lighted to lend the utmost mystery to the occasion; a ghostly hour and a ghostly assemblage of men whose lives have become mere shadows. On great days countless candles lighted up the aisles and faintly outlined the more distant recesses. The fine-toned organ pealed forth its harmony, shaking the building with its diapasons and awakening wonderful echoes in the far-off dome.
Upon entering the church, that comparison faded away. The space in the aisles, the height and width of the domed roof, created a certain dignity, but it lacked grace and refinement. There was no magic or mystery here; the soft religious light came not from beautiful stained glass creating colorful streams but from the darkness cast by the shadows of Mons Serratus. For dramatic effects, one had to imagine back to the days when many monks gathered at night for service. It’s easy to envision the striking scene: beyond the always-closed screen, within the great choir, a thousand kneeling, penitent figures chanting the midnight mass, their voices rising in powerful harmony; the church just lit enough to add mystery to the moment; a ghostly hour with a ghostly assembly of men whose lives had turned into mere shadows. On significant days, countless candles lit up the aisles, softly highlighting the more distant areas. The finely tuned organ resonated with its harmony, shaking the building with its powerful notes and creating beautiful echoes in the far-off dome.
Cloisters of Montserrat.
All this may still be seen and heard now and then, but with the number of monks sadly curtailed. It is said that they now never exceed twenty. When their day of persecution came they escaped to their mountain fastness, climbing higher and ever higher like hunted deer, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the rocks; fear giving them strength to reach parts never yet trodden by the foot of man, whilst many a less active monk slipped and fell into the bottomless abyss, his last resting place, like that of Moses, remaining for ever unknown. The troops of Suchet followed the refugees, found them out, and put an end to many a life that, if useless, was also harmless. Not a few of the survivors became hermits, and on many a crag may be found the ruins of a hermitage, once, perhaps, inhabited by a modern St. Jerome, though the St. Jeromes of the world have been few and far between.
All of this can still be seen and heard occasionally, but the number of monks has sadly dwindled. It’s said that they never exceed twenty now. When their time of persecution arrived, they fled to their mountain refuge, climbing higher and higher like hunted deer, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the rocks; fear giving them the strength to reach places never before touched by human feet, while many less agile monks slipped and fell into the bottomless abyss, their final resting place, like Moses, remaining forever unknown. Suchet's troops followed the refugees, discovered them, and ended many lives that, although useless, were also harmless. Many of the survivors became hermits, and on many a crag you can find the ruins of a hermitage, once possibly inhabited by a modern St. Jerome, though St. Jeromes have been few and far between.
Some sort of religious institution existed here in the early centuries, long ages before Ignatius Loyola founded the order of the Jesuits. In the eighth century the famous black image was hidden away in a cave under a hill to save it from the Moors. Here it miraculously disclosed itself a hundred years later to some simple shepherds. These hastened to the good Bishop, who took mules, crook and mitre, and came down with all the lights of the church and all the pomp of office to remove the treasure to Manresa.
Some kind of religious institution was present here in the early centuries, long before Ignatius Loyola started the Jesuit order. In the eighth century, the famous black image was hidden in a cave under a hill to protect it from the Moors. It miraculously revealed itself a hundred years later to some simple shepherds. They quickly rushed to the good Bishop, who took mules, a crook, and his mitre, and came down with all the church's lights and the full display of his office to bring the treasure to Manresa.
Apparently the image preferred the fresh mountain air to the close, torrent-washed town with its turbid waters, for having reached a certain lovely spot overlooking the vast plain, it refused to go any farther. As it could not speak—being a wooden image—it made itself so heavy that mortal power could not lift it. This was the first of a long succession of miracles. On the spot where the image rested, the Bishop with crook and mitre, and bell and book, and Dean and Chapter, held solemn conclave and there and then went through a service of Consecration. A chapel was built, and the image became the object of devoted pilgrimages.
Apparently, the statue preferred the fresh mountain air to the nearby town filled with muddy waters from the rushing stream, because after it reached a beautiful spot overlooking the vast plain, it refused to move any further. Since it couldn't speak—being a wooden statue—it made itself so heavy that no one could lift it. This was the first of many miracles. At the location where the statue came to rest, the Bishop, with his staff and hat, and the Dean and Chapter, held a serious meeting and conducted a service of consecration. A chapel was built, and the statue became a popular destination for devoted pilgrims.
All traces of the chapel have disappeared long since. Nothing now marks the spot but an iron cross which may be seen far and near. Approaching, you may read the inscription: Aqui sè hizo inmovil la Santa Imagen. After this a nunnery was founded, which in the tenth century became a Benedictine convent.
All signs of the chapel have long disappeared. Now, the only thing that marks the location is an iron cross visible from far away. As you get closer, you can read the inscription: Aqui sè hizo inmovil la Santa Imagen. After this, a nunnery was established, which became a Benedictine convent in the tenth century.
Ages rolled on, and it grew famous. When destroyed by the French it held as many as 900 monks: a great religious community, wealthy and powerful. But the mighty are fallen. The few remaining monks, more exclusive in their retirement than the great body of their predecessors, have a school attached to the monastery in which much time is given to the study of music. It is going far out of the world for instruction, but Nature herself should come to their aid. Amidst these lonely solitudes the Harmony of the Spheres might well be heard.
Ages went by, and it became famous. When it was destroyed by the French, it had up to 900 monks: a large, wealthy, and powerful religious community. But the mighty have fallen. The few monks left, more selective in their solitude than their predecessors, run a school attached to the monastery where a lot of time is dedicated to the study of music. It's quite an out-of-the-way place for education, but Nature herself should support them. In these lonely surroundings, the Harmony of the Spheres could very well be heard.
Passing through the great quadrangle, we entered a narrow passage between the church and hill-side, reminding one a little of some of the narrow streets of Jerusalem. Here, too, we found some arches and buttresses framing in the sky, arch beyond arch. At the end of all we came out once more upon the open world, and what a scene was disclosed!
Passing through the large courtyard, we entered a narrow pathway between the church and the hillside, somewhat reminiscent of the tight streets of Jerusalem. Here, we also saw some arches and buttresses outlining the sky, one arch after another. Finally, we emerged back into the open world, and what a view it revealed!
In front of us was a small chapel attached to a little hermitage. Beside it ran a long avenue of sad and solemn cypresses. It might have been the cemetery of the dead-and-gone monks, but no small mounds or wooden crosses marked where the dead reposed. This mournful avenue extended to the brow of the hill, where we overlooked vast wild precipices. Cañons and gorges opened beneath us and above us in appalling magnitude. The stupendous valley stretched right and left in the distance. Far on the other side reposed a chain of snow-clad hills. Villages lay about the plain and hill-sides. In the far-off hollow slept the little town of Monistrol, its blue smoke mingling with the clearer atmosphere. Through all the valley the river ran its winding, silvery course on its way to the sea.
In front of us was a small chapel connected to a little hermitage. Next to it was a long row of somber cypress trees. It could have been the cemetery for the long-gone monks, but there were no small mounds or wooden crosses to mark where they rested. This sad avenue stretched to the top of the hill, where we looked out over vast, wild cliffs. Canyons and gorges opened up beneath and above us in a shocking scale. The incredible valley spread out to the right and left in the distance. Far across the way lay a chain of snow-covered hills. Villages scattered across the plains and slopes. In the distant valley rested the little town of Monistrol, with its blue smoke blending into the clearer air. Throughout the valley, the river flowed in its twisting, silvery path toward the sea.
The plateau on which we stood held the monastery buildings. Near us stretched the gardens of the monks in cultivated terraces, and above them, winding round the mountain was the white road leading out into the world lying to the south of Montserrat. Again, as we looked, another eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow majestic flight across the valley, no doubt on the track of its mate, perhaps to find out why he tarried so long. A string of boys in caps and black cloaks left the convent and wound round the white road, conducted by a few of the monks whose duty it was to keep watch and ward over the students. These passed out of sight, and once more we seemed alone with nature.
The plateau we were on held the monastery buildings. Nearby, the monks' gardens stretched out in cultivated terraces, and above them, the white road wound around the mountain, leading out into the world to the south of Montserrat. As we watched, another eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow, majestic flight across the valley, probably tracking down its mate, perhaps to see why it had been gone so long. A line of boys in caps and black cloaks left the convent and followed the white road, guided by a few monks whose job it was to watch over the students. They disappeared from view, and once again we felt alone with nature.
But on turning back down the cypress avenue, sitting against the little chapel we saw the Franciscan monk who had lately filled the Norman archway. Though his breviary was open, he was not reading. His eyes—large, dark, dreamy eyes that ought to belong to a genius—were looking out on the mountain and the far-off sky, lost in profound contemplation.
But as we walked back down the cypress avenue, sitting against the small chapel, we noticed the Franciscan monk who had recently been by the Norman archway. Even though his breviary was open, he wasn't reading. His large, dark, dreamy eyes, which seemed fit for a genius, were gazing at the mountain and the distant sky, lost in deep thought.
Montserrat Church.
Of what nature were his thoughts? Introspective or retrospective? Was he thinking of days that were past, or of the life to come? Were regret and remorse his portion, or resignation to his present surroundings? Was he dwelling upon some terrible Might-have-been? He looked inexpressibly lonely, as though he and the world had parted company for ever, but there was something singularly interesting about him. It seemed difficult to intrude upon his solitude, as impossible to pass without speaking.
What kind of thoughts was he having? Was he looking inward or reflecting on the past? Was he thinking about days gone by or the life ahead? Was he feeling regret and remorse, or had he accepted his current situation? Was he stuck on some horrible alternatives? He looked incredibly lonely, as if he and the world had completely separated, yet there was something uniquely intriguing about him. It felt hard to interrupt his solitude, but also impossible to walk by without saying something.
Some influence compelled us to stop. His face was pale and refined. He was so thin as to be almost cadaverous; not an ounce of flesh had he to spare on his bones; there was a certain look of hunger in his large magnificent eyes; not a hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, but, as it seemed, for peace of mind and repose of soul. Grazing at the skies, he appeared to be asking questions of the Infinite Beyond. Where was the kingdom of Heaven and what was it like? When there came for him the great apocalypse of the soul how would it find its way to the realms of paradise?
Some force made us stop. His face was pale and refined. He was so thin he almost looked like a corpse; there wasn't an ounce of flesh to spare on his bones. There was a certain look of hunger in his large, magnificent eyes, but it wasn’t a craving for material things—it seemed more like a yearning for peace of mind and rest for his soul. Gazing at the skies, he looked like he was asking questions about the Infinite Beyond. Where was the kingdom of Heaven and what was it like? When the great awakening of the soul came for him, how would it find its way to paradise?
We stopped in front of him, and he started as though he had only that moment became aware of our presence. He did not seem to resent the intrusion, but looked up with a searching inquiring glance, which presently changed to a smile beautiful and almost childlike in its confidence: sad, beseeching, as though it were in our power to interpret to him the hidden mysteries of the unseen; the perplexing problems of life; the doubts and difficulties with which his questioning heart contended.
We stopped in front of him, and he jumped a little as if he had just realized we were there. He didn’t seem to mind us being there, but looked up with a curious gaze that soon transformed into a smile that was beautiful and almost childlike in its trust: sad, pleading, as if it were up to us to help him understand the hidden mysteries of the unknown; the confusing issues of life; the doubts and challenges that his questioning heart struggled with.
SALVADOR THE MONK.
"It is all my want and all my desire," he replied, in a voice that was full of melody. "I live the life of a hermit. Near at hand I have my small hermitage, and I also have my cell in the monastery, occupying the one or the other as inclination prompts me. For you see by my dress that though this is my home, where I shall live and die, I do not belong to the Jesuits. I am really a Franciscan, but have obtained a dispensation, and I live here. I love to contemplate these splendours of nature; to read my breviary under the blue sky and the shadow of our great mountain. Here I feel in touch with Heaven. The things unseen become real and tangible, doubts and difficulties vanish. My soul gathers strength. I return to my cell, and its walls crush all life and hope out of me; weigh upon me with an oppression greater and deeper than that of yonder giant height. I feel as though I should die, or fall away from grace. There have been times when they have come to my cell and found me unconscious. I have only revived when they have brought me out to the fresh air, this freedom and expanse. The good Father-Superior recognises my infirmity and has given me the hermit's cave. I will show it to you if you like. It is quite habitable and not what you might imagine, for it is a built-up room with light and air, not a cavern dark and earthy. I love solitude and am never solitary. Once I loved the world too much; I lived in the fever of life and dissipation. Heaven had mercy upon me, and you behold a brand plucked from the burning. When my heart was dead and seared, and love and all things beautiful had taken wing, I left the world. The profligate became a penitent. I took vows upon me and joined the Franciscan Order. But I should have died if I had not come up here, where I have found pardon and peace. That was twenty years ago. Yet I am not fifty years old, and am still in the full vigour of manhood. It may be long before a small wooden cross marks my resting-place in the cemetery. When the last hour comes I shall pray them to bring me here, that amidst these splendours of nature my soul may wing its flight to the greater splendours of paradise. I feel that I could not die in my cell."
"It’s all I want and all I desire," he replied, in a voice filled with melody. "I live as a hermit. Nearby, I have my small hermitage, and I also have my room in the monastery, choosing one or the other based on my mood. As you can tell from my clothing, even though this is my home where I will live and die, I don't belong to the Jesuits. I'm actually a Franciscan, but I got a dispensation, so I live here. I love to soak in the beauty of nature; to read my breviary under the blue sky and the shade of our great mountain. Here, I feel connected to Heaven. The unseen becomes real and tangible, and doubts and difficulties disappear. My soul gains strength. When I go back to my cell, its walls crush all life and hope out of me; they weigh on me with a heaviness stronger and deeper than that of the giant mountain over there. I feel like I might die or fall away from grace. There have been times when they found me unconscious in my cell, and I've only come to when they brought me out into the fresh air, this freedom and openness. The good Father-Superior understands my frailty and has given me the hermit's cave. I can show it to you if you'd like. It's quite livable and not what you might think; it’s a constructed room with light and air, not a dark, earthy cave. I love solitude but I'm never lonely. Once, I loved the world too much; I thrived on the excitement of life and excess. Heaven had mercy on me, and you see a soul saved from destruction. When my heart was dead and burned out, and love and all beautiful things had vanished, I left the world. The reckless became a penitent. I made vows and joined the Franciscan Order. But I would have died if I hadn’t come here, where I found forgiveness and peace. That was twenty years ago. Yet I’m not even fifty and still in the full strength of manhood. It could be a long time before a small wooden cross marks my grave in the cemetery. When my final hour comes, I will ask them to bring me here, so that amidst this beauty of nature, my soul can take its flight to the greater beauty of paradise. I feel like I couldn't die in my cell."
"How is it you are allowed so much freedom?" we asked. "We thought that here you were all more or less cloistered. It was our wish to see the interior of the monastery, but the lay monk who receives visitors said it was not permitted."
"How come you have so much freedom?" we asked. "We thought you were all pretty much confined here. We wanted to see inside the monastery, but the lay monk who greets visitors said that wasn’t allowed."
"A strict rule," returned the monk; "but if you are staying here a couple of days, I could take you in. To-morrow is a great fast; to enter would be impossible; the day after it might be done."
"A strict rule," the monk replied; "but if you're staying here for a couple of days, I could let you in. Tomorrow is a big fast; entering would be impossible then; the day after might work."
"Unhappily we cannot remain. To-morrow at latest we return to Barcelona. But, if we may ask it again without indiscretion, whence have you this indulgence and power?"
"Unfortunately, we can't stay. By tomorrow at the latest, we’ll be back in Barcelona. But, if we may ask again without being rude, where do you get this kindness and influence?"
"The secret lies in the fact that I possess a talent," smiled the monk. "I was always passionately fond of music, and as a pastime studied it closely and earnestly. Here I have turned it to account. Whether it was the necessity for an occupation, or that it was always in me, I developed a strange faculty for imparting knowledge to others. I fire them with enthusiasm, and they make vast progress. My name, I am told, has become a proverb in our large towns. It has been of use to the monastery: has enlarged the school, added to the revenues. In return I have obtained certain privileges; a greater freedom of action. Otherwise my power would leave me. This is why I can promise to open doors to you that are usually closed to the world. Yet in what would you be the better? Curiosity would hardly be satisfied in viewing the bare cells and long gloomy passages, the cold and empty refectory, where perchance you might see spread out a banquet of bread and water, a little dried fish or a few sweet herbs."
"The secret is that I have a special talent," the monk smiled. "I’ve always had a deep love for music, and I studied it closely as a hobby. Here, I’ve put it to good use. Whether it was the need for something to do or if it was just in me all along, I developed an unusual ability to teach others. I inspire them with enthusiasm, and they make great progress. I've been told my name has become a common saying in our big towns. It has benefited the monastery by expanding the school and increasing our funds. In return, I’ve gained certain privileges and more freedom to act. Without that, my influence would diminish. That's why I can promise to open doors for you that are usually closed to everyone else. But what good would it do you? Curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied just by seeing the bare cells and long, dark hallways, or the cold and empty dining room, where you might find only a simple feast of bread and water, a bit of dried fish, or a few herbs."
"There is always something that appeals to one, strangely attractive, in the interior of a monastery," we returned.
"There’s always something oddly appealing in the inside of a monastery," we replied.
"I know it," replied the monk, whose new name he told us was Salvador. "It is a world apart and savours of the mysterious. It possesses also a certain mystic element. Thus the atmosphere surrounding it is romantic and picturesque, appealing strongly to the imagination. Sympathy goes out to the little band of men who have bound themselves together by a vow, forsaken the world and given up all for religion. But if you were called upon to share that life only for a month, all its supposed mystery and charm would disappear. It only exists in the sentiment of the thing, not in the reality. It lies in the beauty of the solitary mountains in which the monasteries are often placed; or the splendid architecture they occasionally preserve. In the dull monotony of a daily round never varied, you would learn to dread the lonely cell—even as I once dreaded it more than death itself. Hence my freedom. It will soon be our refectory hour," looking at a small silver watch he carried beneath his robe. "I must return or fast."
"I get it," replied the monk, who told us his new name was Salvador. "It's a whole different world, full of mystery. There's also a certain mystical vibe to it. The atmosphere around it is romantic and picturesque, really sparking the imagination. You can't help but feel for the small group of men who have committed themselves with a vow, left the world behind, and given everything up for their faith. But if you had to live that life for just a month, all its supposed mystery and charm would vanish. It only exists in the sentiment—the feelings surrounding it—not in the actual experience. It’s found in the beauty of the solitary mountains where the monasteries are often located, or in the stunning architecture they sometimes maintain. In the dull routine of an unchanging daily life, you'd come to dread the lonely cell—even like I once feared it more than death itself. That’s why I value my freedom. It will soon be our mealtime," he said, glancing at a small silver watch he kept under his robe. "I need to head back or skip the meal."
Then there came to us a bright idea. "Why leave us?" we said. "Or if you must do so now, why not return? Would you not be allowed to dine with us this evening? You would tell us of your past life before you became a monk, and of your life since then. It must contain much that is interesting. In the evening shadows you would guide us about the mountain paths, tell us of the evil days that fell upon the monks and their flight into the hills."
Then a great idea came to us. "Why are you leaving?" we asked. "Or if you have to go now, why not come back? Can't you join us for dinner tonight? You could share stories about your life before you became a monk and what it’s been like since then. I’m sure there’s so much that’s interesting. In the evening light, you could lead us along the mountain paths and tell us about the hard times the monks faced and their escape into the hills."
Salvador the monk smiled. "You tempt me sorely," he replied. "I should like it much. Such a proposal has never been made to me since I put on cloak and cowl. It would be like a short return to the world—a backward glance into the life that is dead and buried. Then imagine the contrast between your sumptuous repast and the bread and sweet herbs with which we keep our bodies alive. I fear it would not be wise to awaken memories. No, I must not think of it. But to-night I shall dream that I have been to a banquet and walked with you in quiet paths, taking sweet counsel. Oh, I am tempted. What a break in my life to spend a whole day with you, and become once more, as it were, a citizen of the world! But I will make a compromise. If you go up the mountain to-morrow morning to see the sun rise, I will accompany you. Though a fast day, I can do this; and I may take a modest breakfast with you."
Salvador the monk smiled. "You’re really tempting me," he said. "I would love that. No one has ever made such an offer to me since I donned this cloak and cowl. It would feel like a brief return to the outside world—a look back at a life that is long gone. Just think of the contrast between your lavish feast and the bread and herbs we use to sustain ourselves. I worry it wouldn’t be wise to stir up old memories. No, I shouldn’t think about it. But tonight I’ll dream that I’ve been to a feast and walked with you along peaceful paths, sharing sweet conversations. Oh, I’m so tempted. What a change in my life it would be to spend an entire day with you and feel like a part of the world again! But here's a compromise. If you climb the mountain tomorrow morning to watch the sunrise, I’ll join you. Even though it’s a fasting day, I can manage that; and I can have a light breakfast with you."
This decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to deny him. He folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart.
This made up our minds, and we agreed to stay: it would have been harsh to turn him down. He packed up his camp chair and got ready to leave.
"You will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though to-day I may not ask you to pass beyond."
"You'll walk me to my door," he said, a bit wistfully, "though today I can't ask you to come inside."
So we wended back through the arches in the narrow passage between the hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. We reached the great quadrangle, lonely and deserted.
So we made our way back through the arches in the narrow path between the hill and the monastery, and the mountain shadows enveloped us. We arrived at the large courtyard, empty and abandoned.
"Let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "I will show you our little private door."
"Let's go in through the church," said the monk; "I'll show you our little private door."
The great building was silent and empty. Our footsteps woke weird echoes in the distant aisles. Salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we passed into the choir.
The big building was quiet and empty. Our footsteps created strange echoes in the far aisles. Salvador, with some hidden skill, unlocked the door of the screen, which swung open on its hinges, and we entered the choir.
"Here we attend mass," said our guide; "a small community of monks, though I am more often at the organ. In days gone by, when they numbered nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful institution—a magnificent sight and sound. No need then to add to the funds by teaching. All the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are more useful. Nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its repose is no longer unbroken. With a railroad at our very doors, who can say that we are now out of the world? Ah!" as a man crossed the choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. Would you like me to give you some music?"
"Here we attend mass," our guide said, "a small community of monks, though I usually play the organ. In the past, when there were nearly a thousand of them, it was a magnificent and powerful institution—a stunning sight and sound. Back then, there was no need to raise money through teaching. All the glory has faded, but maybe now we’re more helpful. Still, nothing can take away from our scenery, even if its peacefulness isn’t as uninterrupted. With a railroad right at our doors, who can say we’re out of touch with the world? Ah!" he said as a man walked across the choir towards the sacristy, "there's my organ-blower. Would you like me to play some music for you?"
"It would be enchanting. But your repast—would you not lose it?"
"It would be delightful. But your meal—wouldn't you lose it?"
"I have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for the end." He beckoned to the man, who approached. "Hugo, have you dined?"
"I have twenty minutes to kill, and I should still make it for the end." He waved to the man, who came over. "Hugo, have you eaten?"
"Si, Padre Salvador."
"Yes, Father Salvador."
"Then come and blow for me a little."
"Then come and blow for me a bit."
He bade us seat ourselves in the stalls, where the organ was best heard. We listened to their receding footsteps ascending the winding staircase leading to the organ loft. In a few minutes we had lost all sense of outward things. The loveliest, softest, most entrancing music went stealing through the great building. Salvador was evidently extemporising. All his soul was passing into melody. Divine harmonies succeeded each other in one continued flow. It was music full of inspiration, such as few mortals could produce; fugitive thoughts more beautiful by reason of their spontaneity than any matured composition ever given to the world. Here indeed was a genius.
He invited us to sit in the seats where the organ sounded best. We listened to their footsteps fading away as they climbed the winding staircase to the organ loft. In a few minutes, we completely lost track of everything around us. The most beautiful, soft, and captivating music filled the grand building. Salvador was clearly improvising. His whole soul was pouring into the melody. Divine harmonies flowed seamlessly one after another. It was music full of inspiration, something few people could create; fleeting ideas that were even more beautiful because they were spontaneous than any polished composition ever shared with the world. This was truly genius.
Never but once before had we heard such playing. Many years had gone by since one evening on the Hardanger Fjord, we glided through the water under the moonlight and listened to such strains as Beethoven himself could not have equalled. Many a hand oft-clasped in those days lies cold and dead; life has brought its disillusions; the world has changed; but even as we write the glamour of that moonlit night surrounds us, those matchless strains still ring in our ears, lifting us once more to paradise.
Never before had we heard playing like that. Many years had passed since one evening on the Hardanger Fjord when we glided through the water under the moonlight, listening to music that even Beethoven couldn't have matched. Many hands that held ours back then are now cold and lifeless; life has brought its disappointments; the world has changed; but even as we write, the magic of that moonlit night surrounds us, those unforgettable melodies still echo in our ears, lifting us once again to paradise.
This monk's music brought back all those past impressions; "all the sorrow and the sighing, all the magic of the hour." We listened spell-bound, enraptured; and again we were in paradise. No wonder he inspired his pupils to accomplish the impossible. It lasted only a quarter of an hour, but during that time we never stirred hand or foot, scarcely breathed. Ordinary life was suspended; we were conscious only of soul and spirit. When this divine influence ceased we were hardly aware of the silence that succeeded. The monk had thrown us into a trance from which it was difficult to awaken. Only when his cloaked and cowled figure once more entered the choir and quietly approached us did we rouse to a sense of outward things.
This monk's music brought back all those memories; "all the sadness and the sighs, all the magic of the moment." We listened, completely captivated; and once again we were in paradise. It’s no surprise he inspired his students to achieve the impossible. It lasted only fifteen minutes, but during that time we didn’t move a muscle, barely breathed. Everyday life was on hold; we were only aware of our souls and spirits. When this divine influence faded, we barely noticed the silence that followed. The monk had put us into a trance that was hard to break. Only when his cloaked and hooded figure entered the choir again and quietly approached us did we come back to reality.
"I see my music has pleased you," he said. "I do not affect to depreciate its power, since it influences me no less than others. For the time being I am lost to myself. All my soul seems expressing thoughts that words could never utter. No credit is due to me for a power outside and beyond me. The moment I sit down to the organ, Saint Cecilia takes possession of me, and I merely follow whither she leads. Of all arts, it is the most divine. Now before we separate let me take you into the Chapel of the Virgin. The image, you know, is considered the great treasure of the monastery."
"I see my music has made you happy," he said. "I don’t try to downplay its power since it affects me just like everyone else. Right now, I feel like I've lost myself. My entire being seems to express thoughts that words can’t capture. I can’t take credit for a power that comes from somewhere beyond me. As soon as I sit at the organ, Saint Cecilia takes over, and I just follow where she leads. Of all the arts, it’s the most divine. Before we part ways, let me show you the Chapel of the Virgin. The statue, as you know, is considered the monastery’s greatest treasure."
In his voice there seemed almost an inflection of doubt or amusement. "And you also look upon it in this light?" we asked. "You believe in all the miracles, legends and traditions time has gathered round the image?"
In his voice, there was almost a hint of doubt or amusement. "And you see it this way too?" we asked. "Do you believe in all the miracles, legends, and traditions that have built up around the image?"
"I must not talk heresy," smiled the monk; "but I believe more in my music."
"I shouldn't say anything controversial," the monk smiled, "but I have more faith in my music."
We had entered the small chapel, where a light was burning before the celebrated image, black and polished as ebony; an image less than two feet high, seated in a chair, with an infant in its arms. The workmanship was rough and rude, the face ugly and African. There was nothing about it to raise the slightest emotion, for it was not even artistic.
We entered the small chapel, where a light was shining before the famous image, black and polished like ebony; an image less than two feet tall, seated in a chair with an infant in its arms. The craftsmanship was rough and crude, the face unappealing and African. There was nothing about it to evoke the slightest emotion since it wasn’t even artistic.
"On this very spot," said the monk, "Ignatius Loyola is said to have waited for hours in rapture watching the image and receiving manifestations, after which he founded the Order of the Jesuits. He laid his sword upon the altar, declaring that he had done with it for ever, and henceforth his life should be devoted to paths of peace. In like manner I have stood here for hours, waiting for inspiration, for some manifestation, some token, though it should be only borne in upon the mind with no outward and visible sign. And I have waited in vain. Nothing has ever come to me. But I seat myself at the organ and seem wafted at once into realms immortal; my soul awakens and expands; I feel heaven within me. It is my one happiness and consolation; that and being alone with nature."
"Right here," the monk said, "Ignatius Loyola is said to have waited for hours in awe, watching the image and experiencing revelations, after which he founded the Jesuit Order. He laid his sword on the altar, declaring he was done with it forever, and from that moment on, his life would be dedicated to paths of peace. Similarly, I've stood here for hours, waiting for inspiration, for some sign, even if it’s just a thought with no visible manifestation. And I've waited in vain. Nothing has ever come to me. But when I sit at the organ, I feel instantly transported to otherworldly realms; my soul awakens and expands; I feel heaven within me. It's my only joy and solace; that and being alone with nature."
He conducted us back to the screen.
He led us back to the screen.
"Then we cannot prevail upon you to be with us this evening?" we said in a final effort. "You will not give us all the experiences of your past life, spiritual and otherwise?—all you went through in your transition state?"
"Then we can't convince you to join us this evening?" we asked in one last attempt. "You won't share all the experiences of your past life, both spiritual and otherwise?—everything you went through during your transition?"
"Tempt me not," returned the monk. "Your voice would persuade me against my reason. I must not return to the sweets of the world even for an evening. Think of the going back afterwards. But to-morrow morning before dawn breaks in the east I will be with you."
"Don’t tempt me," the monk replied. "Your voice might sway me away from my better judgment. I can't go back to the pleasures of this world, even just for one evening. Consider how hard it would be to leave that behind again. But tomorrow morning, before dawn arrives in the east, I will be with you."
He bade us farewell and closed the gate. We watched the solitary figure glide down the choir until it disappeared. The quiet footsteps ceased to echo, and we stood alone in the church. The silence was painful and the building had no power to charm. We passed out to the great quadrangle and soon found ourselves in a very different scene.
He said goodbye and closed the gate. We watched the lone figure move down the aisle until it vanished. The soft footsteps stopped echoing, and we were left alone in the church. The silence was heavy, and the building felt lifeless. We walked out to the large courtyard and quickly found ourselves in a completely different scene.
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 candlelight—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.
Gipsies—Vibrant scene—Romantic moments—H. C. invited to a festive meal—Saved by Lady Maria's celestial visit—The fortune-teller—H. C. gives in to persuasion—Fate revealed—Warnings—Photo requested—Darkness and mystery—Nighttime scene—Gipsies leave—Strange experiences—Restless dreams—Mysterious noises—Ghost appears—H. C. sleeps peacefully—Egyptian darkness—In the chilly morning—Salvador keeps his promise—Breakfast by candlelight—Romantic setting—Salvador turns to the outside world—Pleasant companion—Musician's nature—Miguel and the mule—Leaving the past behind—Darkness fades—St. Michael's chapel—Sunrise and splendor—Incredible scene—Magical atmosphere—Salvador's joy—Agrees to have lunch—Heavenly melodies—"Not goodbye"—Leaves in quiet sadness—Last of the amusing monk.
IT was the other end of the settlement. All the houses were behind us; the railway station was in a depression at our left. The plateau expanded, forming a small mountain refuge, sheltered and surrounded by great boulders that were a part of Mons Serratus towering beyond them. Grass and trees grew in soft luxuriance. Under their shadow a picnic party had encamped; noisy Spaniards who looked very much like gipsies; an incongruous element in these solemn solitudes, yet a very human scene. They were scattered about in groups, and the bright handkerchiefs of the women formed a strikingly picturesque bit of colouring. Baskets of rough provisions were abundant. A kettle hung on a tripod and a fire burnt beneath it, from which the blue smoke curled into the air and lost itself in the branches of the trees. The people were enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. Here and there a couple had hoisted a red or green umbrella, which afforded friendly opportunities for tender love passages. Some were drinking curiously out of jars with long spouts shaped like a tea-kettle. These they held up at arm's length and cleverly let the beverage pour into their mouths. Practice made perfect and nothing was wasted. Chatter and laughter never ceased. They were of humble rank, which ignores ceremony, and when H. C. approached rather nearly, he was at once invited to join their festive board and make one of themselves.
I was at the far end of the settlement. All the houses were behind us; the train station was in a dip to our left. The plateau spread out, creating a small mountain retreat, sheltered and surrounded by huge boulders that were part of Mons Serratus looming beyond them. Grass and trees flourished beautifully. In their shade, a picnic group had set up camp—loud Spaniards who looked a lot like gypsies; an odd sight in this quiet wilderness, yet a very relatable scene. They were scattered in groups, and the bright scarves of the women added vibrant color. There were plenty of baskets filled with simple food. A kettle hung on a tripod over a fire, sending blue smoke up into the air, blending into the branches of the trees. Everyone was enjoying themselves to the fullest. Here and there, couples had set up red or green umbrellas, creating cozy spots for romantic moments. Some were drinking curiously from jars with long spouts that looked like teapots. They held these up at arm's length, cleverly pouring the drink into their mouths. They were skilled at it, and nothing went to waste. Chatter and laughter were constant. They were of humble backgrounds, unconcerned with formalities, and when H. C. approached somewhat closely, he was immediately invited to join their feast and become one of them.
One handsome, dark-eyed maiden looked at him reproachfully as he declined the honour—the astral body of Lady Maria in her severest aspect having luckily presented itself to his startled vision. The siren had a wonderfully impressive language of the eyes, and it was evident that her hand and heart were at the disposal of this preux chevalier.
One beautiful, dark-eyed young woman looked at him disapprovingly as he turned down the honor—the astral form of Lady Maria in her sternest form fortunately appearing to his shocked gaze. The siren had a remarkably powerful way of communicating with her eyes, and it was clear that both her affection and support were available to this gallant knight.
"Señor," she said, "I am a teller of fortunes. Show me your hand and I will prophecy yours."
"Sir," she said, "I'm a fortune teller. Show me your hand and I'll predict your future."
H. C. obligingly held it out. She studied it intently for about half a minute, then raised her eyes—large languishing eyes—and seemed to search into the very depths of his.
H. C. kindly held it out. She looked at it closely for about thirty seconds, then lifted her gaze—big, dreamy eyes—and appeared to look deep into his.
"Señor, you are a great poet. Your line of imagination is strongly influenced by the line of music, so that your thoughts flow in rhyme. But the line of the head communicates with the line of the heart, and this runs up strongly into the mount of Venus. You have made many love vows and broken many hearts. You will do so again. You cannot help it. You are sincere for the moment, but your affections are like champagne. They fizz and froth and blaze up like a rocket, then pass away. You will not marry for many years. Then it will be a lady with a large fortune. She will not be beautiful. She will squint, and be a little lame, and have a slight hump—you cannot have everything—but she will be amiable and intellectual. I see here a rich relative, who is inclined in your favour. It is in her power to leave you wealth. Beware how you play your cards. I see by your hand that you just escape many good things by this fickle nature. I warn you against it, but might as well tell the wind not to blow. There is one thing, however, may save you—the stars were in happy conjunction at your birth. The influence of the house of Saturn does not affect you. I see little more at present. Much of your future depends on yourself. To you is given, more than to many, the controlling of your fate. You may make or mar your fortune. No, señor," as H. C. laughed and tried to glide a substantial coin into her hand, "I do not tell fortunes for money to-day. It is a festa with our tribe, almost a sacred day, the anniversary of a great historical event. To-day we do all for love; but I should much like your photograph."
"Sir, you're an amazing poet. Your imaginative talent is heavily influenced by music, so your thoughts come out in rhyme. But the mind connects with the heart, and this leads strongly to the area of love. You've made many promises of love and broken many hearts. You'll keep doing this; it’s just who you are. You’re genuine in the moment, but your feelings are like champagne. They bubble and sparkle and go up like a rocket, then fade away. You won’t marry for many years. When you do, it’ll be a woman with a lot of money. She won’t be beautiful—she might squint, be a little lame, and have a slight hunch—but she will be kind and smart. I see a wealthy relative who favors you. She has the power to leave you riches. Be careful how you play your hand. I see from your palm that you often miss out on great things because of this changeable nature. I caution you against it, but it’s like trying to tell the wind not to blow. However, there is one thing that might save you—the stars aligned favorably when you were born. The influence of Saturn doesn’t affect you. I can’t see much more at the moment. A lot of your future is in your hands. You have more control over your fate than many do. You can either create or ruin your fortune. No, sir," as H. C. laughed and tried to slide a significant coin into her hand, "I’m not telling fortunes for money today. It’s a festival with our people, almost a sacred day, the anniversary of a significant historical event. Today, we do everything for love; but I really would like your photograph."
Montserrat Valley.
H. C. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put aside for the Madrid houri who married the Russian nobleman. This he presented with much grace to the enraptured Sibyl. Their heads were very close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air. We happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the Sibyl's face seemed flushed and conscious, and H. C.'s poetically pale complexion had put on a delicate pink. This was a little too suspicious—even to our unsuspecting mind—and with a hasty bow to the interesting assembly, and wishing them all good appetites and fair fortunes, we went on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst H. C. for the next ten minutes fell into silence.
H. C. happened to have one in his wallet, which he had once set aside for the Madrid beauty who married the Russian nobleman. He presented it with great charm to the captivated Sibyl. Their heads were very close together at that moment; there was a clinking sound in the air. We happened to be checking the time, and when we looked up, the Sibyl's face seemed flushed and aware, while H. C.'s poetically pale complexion had taken on a soft pink. This felt a bit too suspicious—even to our naïve minds—and after a quick nod to the intriguing group, wishing them all good appetites and good luck, we continued on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was still gazing at us with a very sentimental expression, while H. C. fell into silence for the next ten minutes.
The day wore on to evening. We watched the shades of night gathering over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything grew hazy and indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery. The outlines of Mons Serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. The stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their awful and majestic silence. The great constellations were strongly marked. Here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the various houses of the settlement. Where the gipsy party had encamped, silence and solitude now reigned. A black mark told where the tripod had held the kettle and betrayed what had been. The whole encampment had returned to the lower world by the evening train. We had watched them enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. Their spirits had not failed. As the train moved off they sent up a shout which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. Presently, when the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from the world for a season. We were taking a last look at the Gothic arches, through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. The night was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. It might have been a dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. Throughout the little settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed; here and there a light still glimmered. We caught sight of another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted with his ground—perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. We wondered whether it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven.
The day turned into evening. We watched as nightfall settled over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything became blurry and vague before giving way to a world of darkness and mystery. The outlines of Mons Serratus towered against the night sky. The stars emerged, sparkling brightly as they moved along in their profound and majestic silence. The major constellations stood out clearly. Here and there, lights flickered in the monastery and the various houses in the settlement. Where the gipsy group had set up camp, silence and solitude now dominated. A dark spot marked where the tripod had held the kettle, revealing what had been. The entire camp had gone back to the lower world with the evening train. We had seen them get into a special carriage that they filled to the brim. Their spirits didn’t dwindle. As the train took off, they let out a shout that echoed in many a gorge and crevice. Soon, as the stars continued their journey, we felt it was time to vanish from the world for a while. We took a last look at the Gothic arches, through which the sky and stars shone with calm serenity. The night was solemn and impressive; a strange quiet settled over everything. It could have been a dead universe, only inhabited by the spirits of the long-gone monks and hermits wandering the mountains. Throughout the little settlement, not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were shut; here and there a light still flickered. We spotted another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by someone who was well-acquainted with the terrain—perhaps a last surviving hermit taking a stroll, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. We wondered if it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed closer to heaven.
As we passed out of the arches we came upon our funny little monk, who, having ended all his duties, was going to his night's rest. He caught sight of us and gave a brisk skip.
As we walked out from under the arches, we ran into our quirky little monk, who had finished all his tasks and was heading off to bed. He spotted us and did a cheerful skip.
"Welcome to Montserrat," he cried once more. "I am delighted to see you." From long habit he evidently used the form unconsciously—it was his peculiar salutation. "You are about to retire, señor. Let me conduct you to your rooms. I should like to see you comfortably settled for the night."
"Welcome to Montserrat," he exclaimed again. "I’m really happy to see you." Obviously, he used this greeting out of habit—it was his signature way of saying hello. "You're about to head to bed, sir. Let me show you to your rooms. I want to make sure you're settled in comfortably for the night."
From his tone and manner he might have been taking us to fairyland; beds of rose-leaves; a palace fitted up with gold and silver, where jewels threw out magic rays upon a perfumed atmosphere. He swung back the great gates of the Hospederia. We passed into an atmosphere dark, chilling, and certainly not perfumed. Mysterious echoes died away in distant passages. The little monk lighted a lantern that stood ready in the corridor, and weird shadows immediately danced about. One's flesh began to creep, hair stood on end. In this huge building of a thousand rooms we were to spend a solitary night. It was appalling. As the monk led the way passages and staircases seemed endless: a labyrinth of bricks and mortar. Should we survive it: or, surviving, find a way out again?
From his tone and manner, it felt like he was taking us to a magical place; beds made of rose petals; a palace decorated with gold and silver, where jewels cast enchanting glows in a fragrant air. He swung open the massive gates of the Hospederia. We stepped into an environment that was dark, cold, and definitely not fragrant. Mysterious echoes faded in distant hallways. The little monk lit a lantern that was waiting in the corridor, and strange shadows immediately started to move. Our skin began to crawl, and our hair stood on end. In this massive building with a thousand rooms, we were set to spend a lonely night. It was terrifying. As the monk led us, the hallways and staircases seemed never-ending: a maze of bricks and mortar. Would we make it through, or if we did, would we find a way out again?
A FEW GYPSIES AT MONTSERRAT.
At last our rooms. Small candles were lighted that made darkness visible. We should manage to see the outline of the ghosts that appeared and no more. The little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams. Pleasant dreams! Never but once before—and that in the fair island of Majorca—did we spend such a night of weird experiences. If we fell asleep for a moment our dreams were troubled. We awoke with a start, feeling the very thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. The corridors were full of mysterious sounds: our own particular room was full of sighs. Ghostly hands seemed to pass within an inch of our face, freezing us with an icy cold wind that never came from Arctic regions. Once we were persuaded an unearthly form stood near us; to this day we think it. We were wide awake, and when we sat up it was still there. The form of a monk in cloak and cowl. A strange phosphoric light seemed to emanate from it, making it distinctly visible. The face was pale, sad and hopeless. Large dark eyes were full of an agony of sorrow and disappointment. It was evidently the ghost of a monk who had repented his vows and learned too late that even a convent cell cannot bring peace to the soul. A strange thrill passed through us as we gazed, yet of fear or terrors we felt nothing. The sadness and beauty of the face held us spell-bound. We found courage to address it. "Spirit of the dead and gone, wherefore art thou here? Why wander in this unrest? Can we do aught to ease thee of thy burden? Will our earthly prayers and sympathy avail thee in thy land of shadows?"
At last, we reached our rooms. Small candles were lit, making the darkness visible. We could just about see the outlines of the ghosts that appeared, nothing more. The little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams. Pleasant dreams! Only once before—and that on the beautiful island of Majorca—had we spent such a night filled with weird experiences. If we nodded off for even a moment, our dreams were troubled. We woke with a start, feeling like the thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. The corridors were filled with mysterious sounds; our specific room was filled with sighs. Ghostly hands seemed to brush within an inch of our faces, freezing us with an icy cold that didn’t come from the Arctic. At one point, we were convinced an otherworldly figure stood near us; to this day, we believe it. We were wide awake, and when we sat up, it was still there. The figure of a monk in cloak and cowl. A strange phosphorescent light seemed to radiate from it, making it clearly visible. The face was pale, sad, and hopeless. Large dark eyes were full of deep sorrow and disappointment. It was clearly the ghost of a monk who had regretted his vows and realized too late that even a convent cell cannot bring peace to the soul. A strange thrill ran through us as we stared, yet we felt no fear or terror. The sadness and beauty of the face captivated us. We found the courage to speak. "Spirit of the dead and gone, why are you here? Why wander in this unrest? Can we do anything to ease your burden? Will our earthly prayers and sympathy help you in your land of shadows?"
No doubt there was a slight suspicion of rhythm in the words that would have become H. C. rather than our more sober temperament; but they came of their own accord, and we did not wait to turn them into better prose. We listened and longed for a reply, but none came. Nothing but a deep-drawn sigh more expressive of sorrow than all the words that ever were coined. The singular part of it was that whilst the apparition was visible, all the mysterious sounds and echoes in the passages ceased, and began again when it disappeared.
No doubt there was a hint of rhythm in the words that would have suited H. C. more than our serious mindset; but they flowed naturally, and we didn’t bother to refine them into better prose. We listened and waited for a response, but none came. Nothing but a deep sigh, more expressive of sorrow than all the words ever created. The strange part was that while the figure was there, all the mysterious sounds and echoes in the hallways stopped, then resumed when it vanished.
As disappear it did. No word was spoken; no sign was made. For one instant a mad thought had passed through our brain that perhaps it was about to conduct us to some buried treasure: some Aladdin's lamp, whose possession should make us richer than Solomon, more powerful than the kings of the earth. But the strange light grew faint, the outlines shadowy, until all faded into thin air. The room was once more empty; and we held no treasure. It was a long and troubled night. Rest we had none. Yet next morning H. C.—whose poetical temperament should have made him susceptible to all these influences—informed us that he had slept the dreamless sleep of the just. He had heard and seen nothing. This seemed unfair, and was not an equal division of labour.
As it vanished, no words were exchanged; no signs were given. For a brief moment, a wild thought crossed our mind that perhaps it was going to lead us to some hidden treasure: an Aladdin's lamp, whose ownership would make us wealthier than Solomon, more powerful than the kings of the earth. But the strange light dimmed, the shapes became blurry, until everything disappeared into thin air. The room was empty once again; and we had no treasure. It was a long and restless night. We couldn’t find any rest. Yet the next morning, H. C.—whose poetic nature should have made him open to all these influences—told us that he had slept the dreamless sleep of the virtuous. He hadn’t heard or seen anything. This felt unfair, and it wasn't a fair distribution of effort.
Before daylight we were up and ready for our pilgrimage. It required some courage to turn out, for the world was still wrapped in Egyptian darkness. In the east as yet there was not the faintest glimmer of dawn. In the house itself a ghostly silence still reigned. Apparently throughout the little settlement not a soul stirred. Nevertheless it was the end of the night, and before we were ready to sally forth there were evidences of a waking world. We went down through the dark passages carrying a light, which flickered and flared and threw weird shadows around.
Before dawn, we were up and set for our journey. It took some guts to get up since the world was still shrouded in deep darkness. In the east, there wasn't even the slightest hint of morning yet. Inside the house, an eerie silence lingered. It seemed that throughout the small settlement, not a single person was awake. Still, it was the end of the night, and before we could head out, signs of a waking world began to appear. We made our way through the dark hallways with a light that flickered and danced, casting strange shadows all around.
We opened the door and passed out into the clear, cold morning. The stars still shone in the dark blue sky. Through the gloom, passing out of the quadrangle, we discerned a mysterious figure approaching: a cowled monk with silent footstep. It was Salvador, true to his word.
We opened the door and stepped out into the clear, cold morning. The stars were still shining in the dark blue sky. Through the dim light, as we left the quadrangle, we saw a mysterious figure approaching: a monk in a hood moving silently. It was Salvador, keeping his promise.
"We are both punctual," he said, joining us. "I think the morning will be all we could desire."
"We're both on time," he said as he joined us. "I believe the morning will be everything we want."
It had been arranged that breakfast should be ready at the restaurant. Salvador had refused to dine with us, he did not refuse breakfast. The meal was taken by candle-light, and he added much to the romance of the scene as he threw back his cowl, his well-formed head and pale, refined face gaining softness and beauty in the subdued artificial light. Salvador had the square forehead of the musician, but eyes and mouth showed a certain weakness of purpose, betraying a man easily influenced by those he cared for, or by a stronger will than his own. Perhaps, after all, he had done wisely to withdraw from temptation.
It had been arranged for breakfast to be ready at the restaurant. Salvador had declined to join us for dinner, but he accepted breakfast. The meal was enjoyed by candlelight, and he added to the romantic atmosphere as he pulled back his hood, his well-defined head and pale, refined face becoming softer and more beautiful in the dim light. Salvador had the square forehead typical of a musician, but his eyes and mouth revealed a certain weakness of character, showing that he was easily swayed by those he cared about or by a stronger will than his own. Perhaps, in the end, he had made the right choice to avoid temptation.
This morning his monkish reticence fell from him; he came out of his shell, and proved an agreeable companion with a great power to charm. Once more for a short time he seemed to become a man of the world.
This morning, his monk-like shyness faded away; he stepped out of his shell and turned into an enjoyable companion with a strong ability to charm. For a little while, he once again appeared to be a worldly man.
"You make me feel as though I had returned to life," he said. "It is wonderful how our nature clings to us. I thought myself a monk, dead to all past thoughts and influences; I looked upon my old life as a dream: and here at the first touch I feel as though I could throw aside vows and breviary and cowl and follow you into the world. Well for me perhaps that I have not the choice given me. Why did you not leave me yesterday to my solitude and devotions, and pass on, as others have done? You are the first who ever stopped and spoke. To-day I feel almost as though I were longing once more for the pleasures of the world."
"You make me feel like I've come back to life," he said. "It's amazing how we can't escape our nature. I thought I was a monk, completely detached from all my past thoughts and influences; I saw my old life as just a dream: and now, at the first touch I feel like I could just throw away my vows, prayer book, and robe and follow you into the world. Maybe it's a good thing that I don't have that choice. Why didn’t you just leave me yesterday to my solitude and prayers and keep going, like everyone else? You’re the first person who ever stopped to talk to me. Today, I almost feel like I’m missing the joys of the world again."
Serrated Mountain in Cloudland.
We knew it was only a momentary reaction. He had the musician's highly nervous and sensitive organisation. Our meeting had awakened long dormant chords, memories of the past; but the effect would soon cease, and he would go back to his monkish life and world of melody, all the better and stronger for the momentary break in the monotony of his daily round.
We knew it was just a temporary reaction. He had the highly nervous and sensitive nature of a musician. Our meeting had stirred up long-buried feelings and memories from the past; but the effect would soon fade, and he would return to his reclusive life and world of music, all the better and stronger for the brief break in the routine of his daily life.
We did not linger over breakfast. At the door a mule stood ready saddled. This also went with us in case of need. H. C. and the monk were capable of all physical endurance. Like Don Quixote they would have fought with windmills or slain their Goliaths. Nature had been less kindly to us, and the mule was necessary.
We didn't take long over breakfast. By the door, a mule was saddled and ready. We brought it along just in case we needed it. H. C. and the monk could handle any physical challenge. Like Don Quixote, they would have fought windmills or taken on giants. Nature hadn't been as generous with us, so the mule was essential.
It would be difficult to describe that glorious morning. When we first started, the path was still shrouded in darkness. We carried lighted lanterns, and Miguel, following behind with the mule, looked a weird, picturesque object as he threw his gleams and shadows around. Our path wound round the mountain, ever ascending. One by one the stars were going out; in the far east the faintest glimmer was creeping above the horizon. This gradually spread until darkness fled away and light broke. We were high up, approaching St. Michael's chapel, when the sun rose and the sky suddenly seemed filled with glory.
It’s hard to describe that amazing morning. When we first set out, the path was still covered in darkness. We carried lit lanterns, and Miguel, trailing behind with the mule, looked like a strange, picturesque figure as he cast his light and shadows around. Our path wound around the mountain, steadily going uphill. One by one, the stars disappeared; in the far east, the faintest glimmer began to rise above the horizon. This slowly expanded until the darkness disappeared and light emerged. We were high up, getting close to St. Michael's chapel, when the sun rose and the sky suddenly filled with brilliance.
It was a scene beyond imagination. The vast world below us was shrouded in white mist. Under the influence of the sun this gradually rolled away, curling about the mountain in every fantastic shape and form, and finally disappeared like a great sea sweeping itself from the earth. The whole vast plain lay before us. Towns and villages unveiled themselves by magic. Across the plains the Pyrenees rose in flowing undulations, their snow-caps standing out against the blue sky. The winding river might be traced in its course by the thin line of vapour that hung over it like a white shroud. The whole Catalonian world, all the sea coast from Gerona to Tarragona, came into view, with the blue waters of the Mediterranean sleeping in the sunshine. In the far distance we thought we discerned our lovely and beloved Majorca, and were afterwards told this was possible.
It was an unbelievable sight. The huge world below us was covered in white mist. Under the sun's warmth, it slowly rolled away, twisting around the mountains in all sorts of amazing shapes before finally vanishing like a great sea pulling back from the land. The entire expansive plain stretched out before us. Towns and villages appeared as if by magic. Across the plains, the Pyrenees rose in smooth waves, their snow-capped peaks standing out against the blue sky. The winding river could be traced by the thin line of vapor hovering over it like a white shroud. The entire Catalonian region, with its coastline from Gerona to Tarragona, came into view, with the blue waters of the Mediterranean glistening in the sunshine. In the far distance, we thought we saw our beautiful and cherished Majorca, and later learned that this was indeed possible.
All about us were deep, shuddering crevices, into which one scarcely gazed for horror. Immense boulders jutted out on every hand; some of them seeming ready to fall and shake the earth to its centre. Wild and barren rocks gave foothold to trees and undergrowth more beautiful than the most cultivated garden; nothing lovelier than the ferns and wildflowers that abounded.
All around us were deep, shuddering crevices that you barely dared to look into out of fear. Huge boulders jutted out in every direction; some looked like they could fall at any moment and shake the earth to its core. Wild and barren rocks provided a home for trees and undergrowth that were even more beautiful than the most well-tended garden; nothing was more lovely than the ferns and wildflowers that thrived there.
As the sun rose higher, warmth and brilliancy increased until the air was full of light. We breathed a magic atmosphere.
As the sun climbed higher, the warmth and brightness grew until the air was filled with light. We breathed in a magical atmosphere.
"This is what I delight and revel in," cried Salvador the monk. "This lifts me out of myself. It is one of the glories of Spain, and makes me feel a new being with one foot on earth and one in heaven. Can you wonder that I should like to inhabit yonder cave? Day by day I should watch the sun rise and the sun set, all the hours between given to happiness and contemplation. As I look on at these effects of nature my soul seems to go out in a great apocalypse of melody. The air is filled with celestial music. Yet no doubt our Principal is right, and in the end the influence would not be good for me. I am a strange contradiction. There are moments when I feel that I could go back to the world and take my place and play my part in all its rush and excitement; other moments when I could welcome the solitude of the desert, the repose of the grave."
"This is what I love and enjoy," shouted Salvador the monk. "This lifts me out of myself. It’s one of the glories of Spain, and it makes me feel like a new person, with one foot on the ground and one in heaven. Can you blame me for wanting to live in that cave? Day after day, I would watch the sun rise and set, spending all the time in between in happiness and reflection. As I observe these natural wonders, my soul seems to burst forth in an incredible symphony. The air is filled with heavenly music. Yet our Principal is probably right, and in the end, it wouldn’t be good for me. I’m a strange contradiction. There are times when I feel like I could return to the world and step into the chaos and excitement; other times when I long for the solitude of the desert, the peace of the grave."
It was almost impossible to turn away from the scene, undoubtedly one of the great panoramas of the world. Here, indeed, we seemed to gaze upon all its kingdoms and glories. Without the least desire to become hermits, we would willingly have spent days upon the mountain. As that could not be we presently commenced our long descent, winding about the mountain paths, gathering specimens of rare wildflowers, and gazing upon the world below. We made many a halt, rested in many a friendly and verdant nook, and took in many an impression never to be forgotten. On returning to the settlement we felt we had been to a new world where angels walked unseen. It was difficult to come back to the lower levels of life. We had quite an affection for our patient mule, that looked at us out of its gentle eyes as though it knew quite well the service rendered was as valued as it was freely given.
It was nearly impossible to look away from the view, surely one of the most breathtaking sights in the world. Here, we felt like we could see all its kingdoms and treasures. Without wanting to become hermits, we gladly would have spent days on the mountain. But since that wasn’t possible, we started our long descent, winding down the mountain paths, collecting rare wildflower specimens, and looking out over the world below. We took many breaks, relaxed in numerous friendly green spots, and absorbed countless unforgettable impressions. When we returned to the settlement, we felt like we had entered a new world where angels walked unseen. It was hard to come back to the everyday grind. We had a real fondness for our patient mule, which looked at us with gentle eyes as if it understood that the help it provided was appreciated just as much as it was freely given.
Salvador joined us at luncheon: we would not be denied.
Salvador joined us for lunch: we weren't taking no for an answer.
"It is a fast-day," he said; "how can I turn it into a feast?"
"It’s a fast day," he said; "how can I turn it into a celebration?"
"You are a traveller, and as such are permitted an indulgence."
"You’re a traveler, so you’re allowed to treat yourself."
He smiled. "It is true," he returned. "I perceive that you know something of our rules." Nevertheless he was abstemious almost to fasting. "And yet it has been indeed a feast compared with my daily food," he said when it was over. "Now would you like to go into the church and have some music? My soul is full of the melody I heard on the mountain."
He smiled. "That's true," he replied. "I can see that you know something about our rules." Still, he was really restrained, almost to the point of fasting. "And yet, it has been quite a feast compared to my usual meals," he said when it was over. "Would you like to go into the church and listen to some music? My soul is overflowing with the melody I heard on the mountain."
So it happened that presently we were listening to such strains as we never shall hear again. Once more we were lifted to paradise with melody that was more heavenly than earthly. Again his very soul seemed passing out in music. Had he gone on for hours we should never have moved. But it came to an end, and silence fell, and presently we had to say farewell.
So it happened that soon we were listening to music like we’ll never hear again. Once more we were elevated to paradise with melodies that felt more heavenly than earthly. Again, it seemed like his very soul was pouring out in music. If he had played for hours, we would never have moved. But it came to an end, and silence fell, and eventually we had to say goodbye.
"I cannot say it," he cried in a voice slightly tremulous. "It has been a day of days to me, never to be repeated. Another glimpse of the world, and a final leave-taking thereof. I will never again repeat this experience—unless you return and once more ask me to guide you up Mons Serratus."
"I can’t say it," he exclaimed, his voice a bit shaky. "This has been an unforgettable day for me, one that will never come again. A last look at the world and a final farewell. I’ll never go through this again—unless you come back and ask me to take you up Mons Serratus one more time."
This was very improbable, and he knew it. He grasped our hand in silence, essayed to speak, but the farewell words died unuttered. Then he silently turned, drew up his cowl and left us for ever. We watched him disappear within the shadows of the church, heard a distant door closed, and knew that in a moment he would have regained the solitude of his cell.
This was very unlikely, and he knew it. He took our hand in silence, tried to speak, but the goodbye remained unsaid. Then he quietly turned, pulled up his hood, and left us forever. We watched him vanish into the shadows of the church, heard a distant door close, and knew that soon he would be back in the solitude of his cell.
We went back to the world. As we crossed the quadrangle the little lay brother who had first received us caught sight of and skipped towards us.
We went back to the world. As we crossed the courtyard, the little lay brother who had first welcomed us spotted us and came over excitedly.
"Welcome to Montserrat. I am most happy to see you," he cried. "So you have been to the top of the mountain to see the sun rise. And our good Salvador has been your guide. He is lucky to get so many indulgences, but he deserves them. What would the school do without him?—lose half its pupils. And what would the convent do without the school?—starve. Did you sleep comfortably in your beautiful rooms?"
"Welcome to Montserrat! I'm really glad to see you," he exclaimed. "So you've been to the top of the mountain to watch the sunrise. And our good Salvador has been your guide. He's fortunate to receive so many benefits, but he truly deserves them. What would the school do without him?—it would lose half its students. And what would the convent do without the school?—it would struggle. Did you sleep well in your lovely rooms?"
We thought it hardly worth while to relate our ghostly visitations, and left him with the impression that, like H. C., we had slept the sleep of the just.
We thought it wasn’t really worth it to share our ghostly experiences, and left him thinking that, like H. C., we had peacefully slept without a care.
"And now you are going back to Barcelona," he said. "Well, there is nothing more to be seen. After looking upon the beautiful black Virgin and sunrise from St. Michael's chapel, you may depart in peace."
"And now you're heading back to Barcelona," he said. "Well, there's nothing else to see. After admiring the stunning black Virgin and the sunrise from St. Michael's chapel, you can leave in peace."
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, señor?"—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.
Manresa—Tropical downpour—Snap judgment—Catalan hills and valleys—Dramatic entrance—Seizing the moment—Basic inn—Odd gathering—Unpleasant choice—Sebastien—Manresa feeling gloomy—Amazing shapes—Underwhelming church—Sebastien takes the lead—Old streets—Charming yet sad—Popular figure—"What can I do for you, sir?"—Sebastien's Biblical knowledge lacking—Lesson postponed—A revelation—La Seo—Church feels cold and empty—Cave of Ignatius Loyola—Hermitage of St. Dismas—Juan Chanones—Fasting and penance—Visions and insights—Spiritual battles—Eve of the Annunciation—Swapping outfits—Knight becomes monk—Juan Pascual—Loyola arrives in Manresa—Fanaticism—Vale of Paradise—"Spiritual Exercises"—Founding the Jesuit Order—Dying to self—The lovely Anita—In the convent chapel—Two novices—Vision of angels—The White Ladies—Tense moment—Another Romeo and Juliet—Back to the hotel—Sebastien feeling down—"Tomorrow the sun will shine"—Dreaming big—A prophecy comes true.
ONLY a few miles from Montserrat and within sight of some of its mountain peaks, you find the wonderful old town of Manresa. Thither we wended our way one gloomy morning.
ONLY a few miles from Montserrat and within sight of some of its mountain peaks, you find the wonderful old town of Manresa. We made our way there one gloomy morning.
From the skies came a constant downpour of almost tropical rain. We were well sheltered and comfortably housed in Barcelona, but H. C. declared Joseph's friend was a true prophet after all, the rainy season had set in, and if we waited for the weather, we might wait for ever.
From the skies came a steady downpour of nearly tropical rain. We were well-protected and comfortably settled in Barcelona, but H. C. declared that Joseph's friend was indeed a true prophet, as the rainy season had begun, and if we waited for the weather, we might be waiting forever.
Acting upon this rash judgment we departed under lowering skies. Water ran down the streets like small rivers, and the omnibus waded to the station.
Acting on this hasty decision, we left under gloomy skies. Water flowed down the streets like little rivers, and the bus made its way to the station.
"Such days have their beauty," said H. C. in his best artistic style. "The effect of atmosphere is very fine. And after all we are not made of sugar."
"Those days have their beauty," said H. C. in his most artistic style. "The atmosphere has a really nice effect. And after all, we’re not made of sugar."
The very train seemed to struggle against the elements as it made way through the Catalan hills and valleys, and we certainly acknowledged a peculiar charm as we saw them half veiled through the mist and the rain that yet was distinctly depressing. On nearing Manresa, it lightened a little: the clouds lifted and the rain ceased, but only for a short respite.
The train seemed to fight against the weather as it made its way through the Catalan hills and valleys, and we definitely noticed a unique charm in the way they looked half-hidden by the mist and rain, which was still quite disheartening. As we approached Manresa, the weather improved a bit: the clouds parted and the rain stopped, but only for a brief break.
Nothing could be more striking than the approach to the old town. Perched on a hill, outlined against the grey sky was the famous old cathedral, rising upwards like a vision. Far down at the foot of the hill ran the rapid river, winding through the country between deep banks. A splendid old bridge added much to the impressive scene, about which there was a wildness that seemed very much in harmony with the grey and gloomy skies.
Nothing could be more striking than the approach to the old town. Perched on a hill, outlined against the gray sky was the famous old cathedral, rising upward like a vision. Far down at the foot of the hill ran the swift river, winding through the countryside between steep banks. A magnificent old bridge enhanced the impressive scene, which had a wildness that felt perfectly in tune with the gray and gloomy skies.
As we crossed the bridge outside the railway station, a young man, well built, handsome, with a fresh colour and honest face, came up and offered to bring us a carriage or personally conduct us to the hotel. Few people visit Manresa; omnibuses are unknown, and carriages only come out when ordered. We chose to walk, in spite of the rain, which was coming down again with vengeance. The services of the guide were accepted, and we soon found that he filled the important office of general factotum to the hotel.
As we crossed the bridge outside the train station, a young man, fit, attractive, with a healthy complexion and a sincere face, approached us and offered to get us a cab or personally take us to the hotel. Not many people visit Manresa; there are no buses, and cabs only come out when requested. We decided to walk, despite the rain, which was pouring down heavily again. We accepted the guide’s help, and soon realized that he held the important role of general helper at the hotel.
"Ah, señor," taking us into his confidence in the first five minutes, "if you would only petition the padrone in my favour and get him to promote me to the dining-room! As it is, I fetch and carry all day long and scarcely earn money enough to pay for the boots I wear out."
"Ah, sir," he said, trusting us within the first five minutes, "if you could just ask the boss to help me and get me promoted to the dining room! Right now, I run around all day and barely make enough money to replace the boots I wear out."
We certainly thought no time was being lost in enlisting our sympathies, and mildly suggested the padrone might not thank us for meddling with his own affairs.
We definitely felt like no time was wasted in gaining our support and gently pointed out that the boss might not appreciate us interfering in his business.
The streets were very steep, stony and winding. Water streamed from the houses and ran down the hills, and the place altogether looked very hope-forsaken, for it especially needed sunshine. Yet in spite of all we found it very interesting, and its situation is so striking that it could never be otherwise. We waded on and thought the rain would never cease or the walk ever end.
The streets were really steep, rocky, and twisty. Water flowed from the houses and ran down the hills, making the place seem pretty grim, especially since it needed some sunshine. Still, despite everything, we found it quite interesting, and its location was so remarkable that it couldn’t be anything but that. We trudged on, thinking the rain would never stop or the walk would never finish.
At last the inn, which would hardly have been found without our guide. He pointed to it with pride, but we could not rise to the sentiment. The entrance was small, and we soon found ourselves mounting a narrow wooden staircase which had neither the fashion of Barcelona nor the dignity of Gerona. The first landing opened to a long low room of many windows, looking old enough to have seen the birth and death of many a century. This was given over to the servants of the house, and the humbler folk whose rank entitled them to a place below the salt. They were seated at round tables—but certainly were not knights—in detachments of eight or ten, and their boisterous manners and loud voices kept us at a respectful distance, without any desire for a nearer approach. For ourselves, we had to go a stage higher in the world, represented by the second floor. Here we found the quality at breakfast—the substantial mid-day meal: a worthy crew hardly a degree better than those we had just interviewed. They proved, indeed, the roughest specimens we had yet met in Catalonia: an assemblage of small farmers, pedlars and horse-dealers. Had the landlord added house-breakers to his list, one or two might have answered to the description.
At last, we found the inn, which we probably wouldn't have located without our guide. He pointed to it with pride, but we couldn't share in his sentiment. The entrance was small, and we soon found ourselves climbing a narrow wooden staircase that lacked the style of Barcelona and the elegance of Gerona. The first landing opened into a long, low room filled with many windows, looking old enough to have witnessed the birth and death of many centuries. This area was occupied by the house's servants and the less privileged folks whose status entitled them to sit below the salt. They were gathered around round tables—but definitely not knights—in groups of eight or ten, and their loud behavior and raucous voices kept us at a respectful distance, with no desire to get any closer. For us, we needed to go up a level in society, represented by the second floor. Here we found the higher class having breakfast—the substantial midday meal: a group that was hardly a notch better than those we had just encountered. They were, in fact, the roughest people we had met in Catalonia: a mix of small farmers, peddlers, and horse traders. If the landlord had included housebreakers in his guest list, a couple of them might have fit the description.
But as travelling, like adversity, makes us acquainted with strange companions, and we cannot always choose our types, we sat down to table with a good grace. The only alternative was to fast, a penance in which H. C. had no faith whatever. To-day this motley assemblage seemed peculiarly objectionable, without any of the redeeming points such people often have: honest, straightforward speech, directness of purpose and modesty of manner which are a certain substitute for cultivation, and atone for the want of breeding. Nothing of this was perceptible to-day.
But since traveling, like hardship, introduces us to unusual companions, and we can't always pick our company, we sat down at the table with good grace. The only other option was to go without food, something H. C. absolutely didn't believe in. Today, this mixed group felt especially unpleasant, lacking any of the redeeming qualities that such people often possess: genuine, straightforward conversation, a clear sense of purpose, and modest behavior that can somewhat compensate for a lack of polish and make up for poor upbringing. None of that was evident today.
The room like the one beneath was long and low, but lighted only by one window at the end, so that we were in a semi-obscurity still further increased by the weeping skies. A redeeming feature was the civility of the inn people, a fault their slowness. To make matters worse, the food was coarse and ill-served, and we had to pass almost everything. Long before déjeuner came to an end we left them to it and went forth to explore. We had very little time to spare, having arranged not to spend the night in Manresa: a lucky arrangement on our part, for picturesque and striking as the place really is, its resources are soon exhausted. A wet evening in such an inn would have landed one in the profoundest depths of melancholy.
The room, similar to the one below, was long and low, but lit only by one window at the end, which left us in a semi-darkness made worse by the dreary weather. A saving grace was the friendliness of the inn staff, even though they were slow. To make things worse, the food was bland and poorly served, and we ended up passing on most of it. Long before breakfast was finished, we decided to leave and explore. We had very little time, having planned not to spend the night in Manresa: a fortunate choice on our part, because as beautiful and impressive as the place is, there isn’t much to do. A rainy evening in such an inn would have left us in a deep state of gloom.
On leaving the table we found that for the moment the rain had ceased. Our guide evidently thought it his duty to look after us, and no sooner caught sight of us as we passed downwards than he sprang up, leaving upon his plate a delicious piece of black-pudding. In vain we offered to wait whilst he finished his bonne-bouche. "You are very good, señor, but it is not necessary," he replied. "I am very fond of black-pudding, but this was my third helping, and really I have had enough."
On leaving the table, we found that the rain had stopped for the moment. Our guide clearly felt it was his responsibility to take care of us, and as soon as he spotted us heading down, he jumped up, leaving a tasty piece of black-pudding on his plate. We offered to wait while he finished his treat, but he replied, "That’s very kind of you, sir, but it’s not necessary. I really like black-pudding, but this was my third serving, and honestly, I’ve had enough."
This seemed probable. "Apparently the supply equals the demand," we said. "You must have a liberal master in the landlord of the inn."
This seemed likely. "It looks like the supply matches the demand," we said. "You must have a generous boss in the innkeeper."
"Yes, that is true," returned Sebastien—for such he soon told us was his name. "But we only have black-pudding once a week, and we ought to have it twice. We are agitating for it now, and as the padrone knows the value of a good servant I expect we shall get it."
"Yeah, that's true," Sebastien replied—his name, as he soon shared with us. "But we only get black pudding once a week, and we should have it twice. We’re pushing for that now, and since the boss knows the worth of a good worker, I expect we’ll get it."
Sebastien would not leave us again and became our shadow, sublimely indifferent to the rain which every now and then came down in waterspouts. To this day we feel that we saw Manresa under a cloud. It was a study in grey; and if we paid it another visit in sunshine we should probably not know it again. For this H. C. was responsible in preaching up his rainy season: the true fact being that the next day and for ever after we had blue skies and cloudless sunshine.
Sebastien wouldn’t leave us again and became our constant companion, perfectly unfazed by the downpours that occasionally fell in torrents. Even now, we remember seeing Manresa shrouded in gray. It was a study in muted colors; if we visited again on a sunny day, we probably wouldn’t recognize it. H. C. was to blame for promoting his rainy season: the truth is, the next day and for all the days after, we enjoyed blue skies and clear sunshine.
Manresa is rich in outlines. Its church towers stand out conspicuously on the summit of the rock on whose slopes much of the town is built. On leaving the inn we saw before us one of the old churches standing in solemn repose, grey and silent above the houses. The interior proved uninteresting in spite of the nave, wide after the manner of the Catalan churches. Sebastien thought every moment spent here waste of time. "It is cold and ugly," he declared, constituting himself a judge—and perhaps not far wrong. "It makes me shiver. But when the altar is lighted up on a Sunday evening, and the place is full of people, and the organ plays, and the priest gives the Benediction, then it is passable."
Manresa is full of interesting features. Its church towers stand out prominently at the top of the rock on which much of the town is built. When we left the inn, we saw one of the old churches in quiet solitude, gray and silent above the houses. The interior was underwhelming despite the nave being wide like many Catalan churches. Sebastien felt that every minute spent there was a waste. "It's cold and ugly," he said, judging the place—and perhaps not too far off the mark. "It makes me shiver. But when the altar is lit up on a Sunday evening, and the place is filled with people, and the organ plays, and the priest gives the Benediction, then it’s bearable."
MANRESA.
The streets, decayed and old-world looking, had a wonderfully picturesque and pathetic element about them, and on a bright day would have been full of charm. A canal ran through one of them, spanned by a picturesque single-arch stone bridge. On each side the houses rose out of the water, reminding one of Gerona or a Venetian street; handsome, palatial, full of interesting detail; a multitude of balconies, many of rich wrought ironwork; many a Gothic window with deep mullions; many an overhanging casement, from which you might have dropped into the running stream. Waterspouts stood out like gargoyles, and slanting tiled roofs were full of colouring. Towering above these rose a lovely church tower, splendid with Gothic windows, rich ornamentation and an openwork parapet, with a small round turret at one corner.
The streets, worn and quaint, had a beautifully charming yet sad vibe, and on a sunny day, they would have felt enchanting. A canal flowed through one of them, crossed by a charming single-arch stone bridge. On both sides, houses rose from the water, reminiscent of Gerona or a Venetian street; elegant, grand, and full of captivating details; a variety of balconies, many adorned with intricate wrought iron; numerous Gothic windows with deep mullions; several overhanging casements, from which you could easily drop into the flowing stream. Water spouts jutted out like gargoyles, and the slanted tiled roofs were vibrant with color. Towering above all was a beautiful church tower, splendid with Gothic windows, rich decorations, and an openwork parapet, featuring a small round turret at one corner.
We stood long on the bridge, gazing at the wonderful scene, all its infinite detail and harmony of effect; the deep shadows reflected in the dark water which needed so much the blue sky and laughing sunshine. It was evident that Sebastien could not understand what kept us spell-bound. He stood by in patience, now looking intently as though trying to learn what was passing in our minds, now directing his attention to the water and the houses, as though to guess the secret of their fascination. Apparently he was hail-fellow-well-met with every one in the town—that dangerous element, a popular character; for not a creature passed us, man or woman, youth or maiden, but he had something to say to them.
We stood on the bridge for a long time, taking in the amazing view with all its endless details and harmonious effects; the deep shadows mirrored in the dark water that craved the blue sky and cheerful sunlight. It was clear that Sebastien couldn't grasp what kept us captivated. He remained there patiently, sometimes looking closely as if trying to figure out what we were thinking, and at other times focusing on the water and the houses, as if to understand the secret of their charm. He seemed to be widely liked by everyone in the town—a risky quality, being a popular figure; because not a single person passed us, whether man or woman, young or old, without him saying something to them.
"You seem to know every one, Sebastien," we remarked, as we took our kodak out of the case he had slung over his shoulder, in the wish to carry away with us some of these splendid outlines.
"You seem to know everyone, Sebastien," we said, as we took our camera out of the bag he had slung over his shoulder, hoping to capture some of these amazing scenes.
"What would you, señor? The town is not large, the inhabitants do not change, and I was born and bred here. I am fond of company, and make friends with them all. I wanted to be a soldier and go out and see the world, but they said my sight was not strong enough, and they would not have me; so I turned to and took service in the hotel. I am comfortable enough, and just earn my living, without a trifle over for the old mother, but I don't see much prospect of rising unless I am promoted to the dining-room."
"What do you want, sir? The town isn’t very big, the people don’t really change, and I was born and raised here. I enjoy being around others and have made friends with everyone. I wanted to be a soldier and travel the world, but they said my eyesight wasn’t good enough, so they wouldn’t take me; instead, I started working at the hotel. I make enough to get by and support my elderly mother a little, but I don’t see much chance of moving up unless I get a promotion to the dining room."
Manresa from the river: Morning.
"They are as strong as yours, señor—if I may say so without offence. I never could make out what they meant. Sometimes I have thought my old mother was at the bottom of it, and because I was her only child, went to the authorities and begged them to spare me. I don't know that she did, but I have my suspicions. One day I taxed her with it point-blank. She was very confused for a moment, and then told me not to be foolish—the authorities wouldn't pay attention to such as her, even if she had gone to them. I'm not so sure of that. It is well known the old mother has seen better days, and when she goes out dressed in her best, with her black lace mantilla over her head, which she has had ever since she was a young woman, why, she commands respect, and I can quite believe the authorities would listen to her."
"They're as strong as yours, sir—if I can say that without offending you. I never really understood what they meant. Sometimes I've thought my old mother was behind it all, and since I was her only child, she might have gone to the authorities and asked them to spare me. I don't know if she did, but I have my suspicions. One day, I confronted her directly about it. She was very confused for a moment, then told me not to be silly—the authorities wouldn't pay any attention to someone like her, even if she had approached them. I'm not so sure about that. It's well known that my old mother has seen better days, and when she goes out dressed in her best, with her black lace mantilla on her head, which she has had since she was young, she certainly commands respect, and I can totally believe the authorities would listen to her."
"Why not try again with those eyes of yours?" we suggested. "You cannot be more than nineteen."
"Why not give it another shot with those eyes of yours?" we suggested. "You can't be older than nineteen."
"Not more than nineteen!" returned Sebastien, opening the said eyes very wide. "Why, señor, I am twenty-three, going on for twenty-four. I know I look young, and do what I will I can't help it, and can't make myself look any older. I have tried hard to grow a moustache, but it is only just beginning to sprout."
"Not more than nineteen!" Sebastien replied, widening his eyes. "Come on, sir, I’m twenty-three, almost twenty-four. I know I look young, and no matter what I do, I can’t help it or make myself look any older. I’ve really tried to grow a mustache, but it’s just starting to come in."
He laughed, and we laughed with him, for the down upon his upper lip was of the most elementary description. He looked youthful in every way, but we cheered him with the reflection that it was a fault time would inevitably rectify.
He laughed, and we laughed with him, because the mustache on his upper lip was very basic. He appeared youthful in every way, but we comforted him with the thought that it was a flaw that time would definitely fix.
"I have one consolation," he said. "At the fonda I get as much black-pudding as I want—once a week; in the army they don't give black-pudding at all. So if I have lost something, I have gained something too."
"I have one comfort," he said. "At the inn, I get as much black pudding as I want—once a week; in the army, they don't serve black pudding at all. So if I've lost something, I've gained something too."
"Sebastien, we are ashamed of you! Would you sacrifice your birthright for a mess of pottage?"
"Sebastien, we're ashamed of you! Are you really going to give up your birthright for a bowl of stew?"
"What does the señor mean?" asked Sebastien, looking puzzled.
"What does the señor mean?" Sebastien asked, looking confused.
"Have you never heard of Esau?"
"Have you never heard of Esau?"
"Never, señor. Was he a Spaniard or an Englishman? And was he, too, fond of black-pudding?"
"Never, sir. Was he a Spaniard or an Englishman? And was he also fond of black pudding?"
It was impossible to help laughing; but we passed over the question, feeling that a course of Bible history begun on the bridge would come to an untimely end. So we left him to his ignorance and his preference for black-pudding, passed away from the canal, the old bridge and ancient outlines, and climbed about the steep decayed streets. The rain poured through the water-spouts, and every now and then we came in for an unwelcome shower-bath. This highly amused Sebastien, who never enjoyed the fun more than when he himself was victim.
It was impossible not to laugh, but we skipped over the question, sensing that a discussion on Bible history started on the bridge would meet a quick end. So we let him stick to his ignorance and love for black pudding, moved away from the canal, the old bridge, and the ancient surroundings, and climbed the steep, crumbling streets. Rain poured from the gutters, and every now and then, we got caught in an unwelcome shower. This really entertained Sebastien, who always enjoyed the fun the most when he was the one getting soaked.
We had passed by a steep descent into the lower part of the town and stood upon the hill side. To our right rose the great collegiate church of La Seo, crowning a massive and majestic rock. Houses stretched far down the slopes, and the church rose above them in magnificent outlines. It was built of yellow greystone that harmonised wonderfully with the grey skies. For the time being these had ceased to weep, and everything was bathed in a thin mist, which rolled and curled about and threw a wonderful romance and glamour over the scene, especially refining and beautifying.
We had walked past a steep hill down into the lower part of the town and found ourselves on the hillside. To our right stood the grand collegiate church of La Seo, perched on a massive and impressive rock. Houses extended far down the slopes, with the church towering above them in stunning shapes. It was made of yellow greystone that blended beautifully with the grey skies. For now, the skies had stopped raining, and everything was enveloped in a light mist that rolled and curled around, giving the scene a wonderful romantic and glamorous feel, making it appear even more refined and beautiful.
Still below us, on the left, ran the broad river, with its dark, almost blood-red waters flowing swiftly under the high, picturesque bridge. We traced its winding course between deep banks far out into the country; just as we had traced it from the heights of Montserrat, not far off as the eagle flew. Here too everything was veiled in a thin mist.
Still below us, on the left, the wide river flowed, its dark, almost blood-red waters rushing swiftly beneath the tall, scenic bridge. We followed its winding path between steep banks stretching far into the countryside; just as we had followed it from the heights of Montserrat, not far as the eagle flies. Here too, everything was shrouded in a light mist.
The rock on which the church stood consisted of a series of hollows, where grew lovely hanging gardens and flowering trees. The church with its striking outlines looked massive enough to defy the ages. It was of the true fourteenth century Catalan type, and took the place of a church that had existed here in the tenth century. Its buttresses are especially large and prominent. The lofty tower stands over the north aisle. Four arched stone ribs crown the steeple, within which a bell is suspended. A fine Romanesque doorway leads into the modern uninteresting cloister. Other fine doorways lead into the interior of the church. Its great size, high and wide, is impressive, but the details are trivial. The capitals of the enormous octagonal columns are poor, and the arches they support, thin and almost contemptible, take immensely from the general effect.
The rock the church was built on had a series of hollows, where beautiful hanging gardens and flowering trees grew. The church, with its bold shapes, looked solid enough to withstand time. It was a true example of fourteenth-century Catalan architecture and replaced a church that had stood here in the tenth century. Its buttresses are particularly large and noticeable. The tall tower rises over the north aisle. Four arched stone ribs top the steeple, with a bell hanging inside. A nice Romanesque doorway leads into the modern, uninspiring cloister. Other impressive doorways lead inside the church. Its great size, both high and wide, is striking, but the details are underwhelming. The capitals of the huge octagonal columns are lacking, and the arches they support are thin and almost unimpressive, detracting significantly from the overall effect.
Here also, there was no need to remain long. With the charms of Barcelona cathedral lingering in the mind as a dream and a world's wonder, the collegiate church of Manresa, with all its loftiness and expanse, was cold and lifeless, without sense of beauty or devotion. In its striking situation lies the chief merit of the town.
Here too, there was no need to stay long. With the memory of Barcelona Cathedral lingering in the mind like a dream and a marvel of the world, the collegiate church of Manresa, despite its height and size, felt cold and lifeless, lacking beauty or devotion. The main appeal of the town lies in its impressive location.
Manresa from the hillside: evening.
We went down the banks, stood on the shallows and watched the deep red waters rushing through the bridge. Beyond it was a slight fall over which the waters poured in a crimson stream. Near the bridge stood a large, ancient crucifix. On the farther bank of the river rose the outlines of the Cave of Ignatius Loyola. Above the cave has now been built a great church, and the cave itself, reached by a short passage in its north-east corner, has been turned into a votive chapel, to which pilgrims flock at stated times.
We walked down to the banks, stood in the shallow water, and watched the deep red water rush under the bridge. Beyond it, there was a small waterfall where the water flowed in a crimson stream. Near the bridge, there was a large, old crucifix. On the opposite bank of the river, you could see the outline of the Cave of Ignatius Loyola. Above the cave, a large church has been built, and the cave itself, accessible through a short passage in its northeast corner, has been converted into a votive chapel that pilgrims visit regularly.
Manresa is of course for ever associated with the name of Loyola. He had been staying some time at the Monastery of Montserrat, preparing his mind for the great change he intended to make in his life. As he wandered about the mountain in his cavalier's dress, he must have looked far more fitted to lead an army than to become a member of the Church militant.
Manresa is, of course, always linked to the name Loyola. He had been staying at the Monastery of Montserrat for a while, getting his mind ready for the big change he planned to make in his life. As he wandered the mountain in his fancy clothes, he must have looked much more like someone ready to lead an army than to join the Church's fight.
One of his most frequent visits was to the Hermitage of St. Dismas, high up amongst the rocks. Here dwelt a saintly priest, Juan Chanones, who gave Loyola much holy counsel. It must needs be that Loyola earnestly weighed the cost of what he contemplated; impossible but there were moments when the tempter placed before him in the strongest colours imaginable the allurements of the life he was renouncing. When the final die was cast there must be no turning back, no lingering regrets. Loyola was one of the last men to be vacillating or lukewarm; with him it was ever one thing or the other; and so in the quiet monastery, far out of the world, he considered well his decision.
One of his most common visits was to the Hermitage of St. Dismas, high up among the rocks. There lived a holy priest, Juan Chanones, who gave Loyola a lot of wise advice. Loyola had to seriously consider the cost of what he was thinking about; it was impossible that there weren't times when the tempter presented him with the tempting details of the life he was leaving behind in the most vivid way. When the final decision was made, there could be no turning back, no lingering regrets. Loyola was not the type to be indecisive or half-hearted; for him, it was always one thing or the other; and so, in the quiet monastery, far from the world, he carefully thought through his decision.
Chanones was the very man for such a crisis. The hermit was one who imposed upon himself every possible penance. He fasted, wore a hair shirt, and spent many hours of the twenty-four in long prayers and devotions. Loyola had begun by confessing to him the whole of his past life, and confiding his hopes and aspirations for the future: how he wished to become a monk and devote his days to religion. He was already a mystic, full of ecstasies, seeing visions and dreaming dreams. Chanones strengthened his resolutions and fired him yet more with the spirit of mysticism.
Chanones was the perfect person for such a crisis. The hermit had taken on every possible penance. He fasted, wore a hair shirt, and spent many hours each day in long prayers and devotions. Loyola had started by confessing his entire past to him and sharing his hopes and dreams for the future: how he wanted to become a monk and dedicate his life to religion. He was already a mystic, full of ecstasies, having visions and dreaming dreams. Chanones bolstered his resolutions and inspired him even more with the spirit of mysticism.
Under his influence, the night before leaving the monastery he hung up his sword and dagger beside the image of the Virgin as a sort of votive offering, declaring that henceforth he had done with the world and with wars. His only warfare should be spiritual: fighting against the powers of darkness and the influence of evil. He spent the whole night in prayer before the altar; where according to his mystic moods, visions and revelations had been vouchsafed to him.
Under his influence, the night before leaving the monastery, he hung up his sword and dagger next to the image of the Virgin as a kind of offering, stating that from that point on, he was done with the world and wars. His only battle would be spiritual: fighting against the forces of darkness and the influence of evil. He spent the entire night in prayer before the altar, where, according to his mystical feelings, visions and revelations had been granted to him.
But earlier in the evening a slight event had happened.
But earlier in the evening, a small event had taken place.
It was the eve of the Annunciation, in the year 1522. Loyola had come down from the hermit's cave dressed in the rich garb of a cavalier which as yet he had not thrown off. In the Hospederia of the monastery were many poor pilgrims; beggars dressed in rags. Meeting one of these, Loyola persuaded him to exchange his rags for his own splendid dress. Disguised in his sackcloth gown and girdle, few would have recognised the once magnificent knight. His head, accustomed to a helmet, was now bare. His left foot was unshod, on his right he wore a sandal of grass. He was lame from that wound in his leg which had been the turning-point of his career. Never perfectly healed, of late it had become inflamed and painful. In this garb he spent his last night at Montserrat.
It was the night before the Annunciation in 1522. Loyola had come down from the hermit's cave dressed in the fine clothes of a knight, which he hadn’t taken off yet. In the guesthouse of the monastery were many poor pilgrims; beggars in torn clothing. When he met one of them, Loyola convinced him to trade his rags for his own fancy outfit. Disguised in the sackcloth gown and belt, few would have recognized the once-great knight. His head, used to wearing a helmet, was now bare. His left foot was barefoot, while on his right foot he wore a grass sandal. He was limping from a leg injury that had changed the course of his life. It had never fully healed and had become inflamed and painful lately. In this outfit, he spent his last night at Montserrat.
Next morning he went forth at daybreak with a few companions, one of whom was Juan Pascual. They had not proceeded many miles before they were overtaken by a hasty messenger who asked Loyola if it was he who had presented a beggar with the rich dress of a cavalier. The story had been doubted and the man put into confinement. Loyola declared that it was true, lamented the trouble he had brought upon the beggar, and prayed he might be liberated; adding that he had made the exchange from motives of penance and religion, as well as disguise. The messenger returned to the convent, and the little band of pilgrims continued on their way.
The next morning, he set out at daybreak with a few companions, including Juan Pascual. They hadn’t traveled far when a hurried messenger caught up with them and asked Loyola if he was the one who had given a beggar the luxurious clothing of a knight. The story had been questioned, and the man had been locked up. Loyola confirmed it was true, expressed regret for the trouble he had caused the beggar, and prayed for his release; he explained that he had made the exchange out of penance and for religious reasons, as well as for disguise. The messenger headed back to the convent, and the small group of pilgrims continued on their journey.
They journeyed slowly, but the distance was not great. At noon they were overtaken by the mother of Pascual, who in company with others, was returning from celebrating the Feast of the Annunciation at Montserrat. This lady, Inez, directed him to the hospital of Santa Lucia, where he would obtain relief for his leg, which threatened to become troublesome if not dangerous. Inez quickly discovered that Loyola was no ordinary pilgrim, and supplied him with food from her own table during the five days he remained in the hospital.
They traveled slowly, but it wasn't a long distance. At noon, they were caught up with by Pascual's mother, who, along with others, was coming back from celebrating the Feast of the Annunciation at Montserrat. This woman, Inez, guided him to the Santa Lucia hospital, where he could get help for his leg, which was starting to become a problem and could potentially be dangerous. Inez quickly realized that Loyola was no ordinary pilgrim and provided him with food from her own table during the five days he stayed in the hospital.
The day after his arrival he went up to the great church of La Seo, and remained in prayer for five hours, seeking direction for his movements. At the end of five days he left the hospital for a room found him by Inez. Here he at once adopted that spirit of fasting and penance which knew no moderation and with him became fanaticism. The food sent by Inez he gave away, and lived upon black bread and water. He constantly went bare-headed and bare-footed, wore a hair shirt like Chanones, and occasionally added to his sufferings by putting on a girdle made of the leaves of the prickly gladiole. He neglected himself in every way, never cutting his nails or combing his hair and beard; so that he who had once been the most fastidious of cavaliers now became a byword to those who met him and gazed in contempt and derision. He spent much time at the hospital nursing the sick, devoting himself to the most forbidding cases.
The day after he arrived, he went to the grand church of La Seo and prayed for five hours, looking for guidance on what to do next. After five days, he left the hospital for a room that Inez had found for him. Here, he immediately took on a spirit of fasting and penance that was extreme and turned into fanaticism. He gave away the food sent by Inez and lived on black bread and water. He constantly went without a hat and shoes, wore a hair shirt like the Chanones, and sometimes added to his discomfort by wearing a girdle made from the leaves of the prickly gladiole. He neglected himself in every aspect, never trimming his nails or combing his hair and beard, so that someone who had once been the most particular of gentlemen now became a subject of mockery for those who encountered him and looked at him with scorn and ridicule. He spent a lot of time at the hospital caring for the sick, focusing on the most challenging cases.
This life continued for four months, and then he withdrew to the cave which he declared had been miraculously revealed to him. It overlooked a valley called by the people the Vale of Paradise, and its existence was known to few.
This way of living went on for four months, and then he retreated to the cave that he said had been mysteriously shown to him. It looked out over a valley that the locals called the Vale of Paradise, and not many people knew about it.
The cave was dark and small and belonged to a friend of Loyola's who lived to be a century old. Here he existed in great seclusion, spending seven hours of every day in prayer, and often remaining on his knees all night. It was here that he chiefly composed his "Spiritual Exercises," which contain so much beauty and devotion. Here also came to him the first idea of the Order of Jesus, which he afterwards founded. But it must be remarked that the Jesuit Society as framed by Ignatius Loyola was a more simple and unworldy institution than it afterwards became. His own rules seem to have been very pure and without guile or worldly ambition; his mind embraced only heaven and the things which concerned heaven. If Loyola were to return to earth, he would be the first to condemn many of its principles and practices and to say: "These are none of mine."
The cave was dark and small and belonged to a friend of Loyola's who lived to be a hundred years old. Here he lived in great seclusion, spending seven hours a day in prayer and often staying on his knees all night. This was where he mainly wrote his "Spiritual Exercises," which are full of beauty and devotion. It was also here that he first conceived the idea of the Order of Jesus, which he later founded. However, it's important to note that the Jesuit Society as created by Ignatius Loyola was a simpler and less worldly institution than it later became. His own rules appeared to be very pure and without deceit or worldly ambitions; his focus was solely on heaven and matters related to it. If Loyola were to return to earth, he would be the first to condemn many of its principles and practices and say, "These are none of mine."
That he became spiritual as perhaps has been given to few cannot be doubted by any one who had read his writings and studied his life. We of another creed cannot be in touch with him on many points, but all must profoundly admire his absolute death to self, the perfect resignation of all his thoughts and wishes to the Divine guidance.
That he became spiritual in a way that few others have is undeniable for anyone who has read his writings and examined his life. Those of us with different beliefs may not connect with him on many issues, but everyone must deeply admire his complete selflessness and total surrender of all his thoughts and desires to Divine guidance.
In Manresa, we have said that his penances amounted to fanaticism. His prayers and fastings so weakened the body, that frequently for hours and sometimes for days he would lose consciousness, and fall into death-like swoons. He retired to his cave and was tormented by a morbid recollection of his past sins. For many months he was filled with horror and knew nothing of peace of mind or spiritual consolation. He was haunted by terrible voices and visions; and it was only after body and soul had, as it were, been torn asunder, and he had gone through all the agonies of a living spiritual death, that at last peace and light, the certainty of pardon and the Divine favour, came to him.
In Manresa, it's been said that his self-imposed hardships bordered on obsession. His intense prayers and fasting drained his body so much that he often lost consciousness for hours, and sometimes even days, slipping into a death-like state. He isolated himself in his cave, tormented by haunting memories of his past sins. For many months, he was consumed by fear and knew nothing of inner peace or spiritual comfort. He was plagued by dreadful voices and visions; only after his body and soul felt completely torn apart, and he endured the torment of a spiritual death, did he finally experience peace and clarity, along with the assurance of forgiveness and Divine favor.
After that his past life seems to have been placed behind him and knew him no more. He became a teacher of men; a great spiritual healer in whom the heavy-laden found comfort and encouragement; a profound reader of the human heart, to which he never ministered in vain. Perhaps one of his greatest weapons was humility, by which he placed himself on a level with all who came to him, and which enabled him to apply in the right way all the deep and earnest sympathy that was in him.
After that, his past seemed to be behind him, and it didn't define him anymore. He became a teacher of people; a great spiritual healer who brought comfort and encouragement to those burdened with troubles; a deep reader of the human heart, to which he never gave support in vain. Perhaps one of his greatest strengths was humility, which allowed him to connect with everyone who came to him and enabled him to apply his deep and genuine sympathy effectively.
His visions, the voices he heard, the so-called miracles he witnessed, were no doubt delusions due to the highly wrought imagination and ecstatic state of the mystic; but with Loyola they did not end here. They bore fruit. He was practical as well as theoretical: and dead as he became to self, a little of the sensible, matter-of-fact discipline of his early training must have clung to him to the last. His after life was full of activity and action. It would be difficult to say where he did not go, what countries he did not visit with practical issues, in days when men could not easily run to and fro on the earth as they do now.
His visions, the voices he heard, and the so-called miracles he witnessed were likely just delusions from the heightened imagination and ecstatic state of the mystic; but for Loyola, they didn’t stop there. They led to real results. He was both practical and theoretical: and even as he became detached from himself, a bit of the sensible, straightforward discipline from his early training must have stayed with him until the end. His later life was packed with activity and action. It would be hard to say where he didn’t go, what countries he didn’t visit with practical matters, in an era when people couldn’t easily travel back and forth like they do today.
Loyola died as he had lived, full of faith and hope. He had caught the malarial fever in Rome, and was not strong enough to fight against it. In August, 1556, the end came, when he was sixty-five years old; but in everything except years he might have gone through a century of time. His physical powers were worn out with hard work and abstinence; and perhaps the greatest miracle in connection with Ignatius Loyola was the fact that he lived long after the vital forces should have ceased to hold together. After his death the doctors found it impossible to discover what power had kept him alive during his later years, but agreed that it was nothing less than supernatural.
Loyola died as he had lived, filled with faith and hope. He contracted malaria in Rome and didn't have the strength to fight it off. In August 1556, the end came at sixty-five years old; however, in every way except years, he could have lived for a century. His physical abilities were drained from hard work and self-denial; perhaps the greatest miracle related to Ignatius Loyola was that he lived long after his life forces should have stopped. After his death, doctors found it impossible to determine what had kept him alive in his later years, but they agreed it was nothing short of supernatural.
Thus Manresa is for ever connected with the name and fame of Ignatius Loyola the saint.
Thus, Manresa is always linked with the name and legacy of Ignatius Loyola, the saint.
Crossing the bridge and winding through a very ancient and dilapidated part of the town, we presently reached the church, which struck us as being new and gaudy, with very little to recommend it. But we had come to see what had once been the cave, and wished we could have found it in its original state. Certainly the saint himself would never recognise it as the old earthy cavern, nine feet by six, whose mouth was concealed by brier bushes, and where he was wont to pass long days and nights in prayer and penance. The walls are now lined with marble; a light burns before the altar; some poor sculpture represents Loyola writing his book and performing his first miracle.
Crossing the bridge and making our way through an old and rundown part of town, we soon arrived at the church, which seemed new and flashy, with very little to recommend it. But we had come to see what used to be the cave and wished we could have found it in its original condition. Surely, the saint himself wouldn’t recognize it as the old earthy cave, nine feet by six, whose entrance was hidden by thorn bushes, where he used to spend long days and nights in prayer and penance. The walls are now lined with marble; a light burns in front of the altar; some mediocre sculpture depicts Loyola writing his book and performing his first miracle.
The view from his cave must have been magnificent even in his day. There in front of him ran the famous river, and there stood the old bridge. Beyond it rose the rock with its hollows and gardens; and towering above were the splendid outlines of the collegiate church. Beyond all in the distance rose the chain of the Pyrenees, undulating and snow-capped; whilst in one distant spot, standing alone, cleaving the sky with their sharp outlines, appeared the peaks and pinnacles of Mons Serratus; the monastery resting half way down on its plateau, far more beautiful and perfect than it is to-day. Upon this the hermit Loyola—as he might at that time be called—would fix his eyes for hours day after day, seeking inspiration for his "Exercises," perhaps occasionally dreaming of the days when he still wore his cavalier's dress, and had not yet renounced all the pomps and vanities of the world. But as we have said, he was not a man of two minds; having put his hand to the plough, as far as we know he never turned back even with the faintest regret or longing for the pleasures deliberately placed from him.
The view from his cave must have been amazing even back then. In front of him flowed the famous river, and there was the old bridge. Beyond it rose the rock with its hollows and gardens; and towering above were the impressive outlines of the collegiate church. In the distance, the chain of the Pyrenees rose, rolling and capped with snow; while in one far-off spot, standing alone and cutting into the sky with their sharp outlines, were the peaks and pinnacles of Mons Serratus; the monastery resting halfway down on its plateau, much more beautiful and perfect than it is today. The hermit Loyola—as he might have been called at the time—would gaze at this for hours day after day, seeking inspiration for his "Exercises," perhaps occasionally dreaming of the days when he still wore his cavalier’s outfit and hadn’t renounced all the glitz and glam of the world. But as we’ve mentioned, he wasn’t a man of two minds; having put his hand to the plow, as far as we know, he never looked back, not even with the slightest regret or longing for the pleasures he had deliberately set aside.
Sebastien our guide was evidently a good Catholic, having a great reverence for Loyola, with whom he was more familiar than with Esau. He watched us narrowly as we entered the chapel, and was evidently disappointed at the little impression made upon us: expecting a drop-down-deadness of manner, when we stood before the effigy of the saint, which unfortunately only excited a feeling of irritation at the badness of its workmanship.
Sebastien, our guide, was clearly a devout Catholic, holding a deep respect for Loyola, with whom he felt more at ease than with Esau. He observed us closely as we entered the chapel and seemed disappointed by the lack of impact it had on us, anticipating we would be awestruck when we stood before the statue of the saint, which, unfortunately, only stirred feelings of irritation due to its poor craftsmanship.
So we were not sorry to find ourselves once more under the skies, dark and lowering though they were. Here indeed the magnificent view, the splendid outlines of Manresa, all slightly veiled in that charming mist, might well appeal to all one's sense of the beautiful and the sublime, and raise emotions the poor votive chapel could never inspire.
So we were not unhappy to be back outside, even though the skies were dark and gloomy. The amazing view and the impressive shapes of Manresa, all somewhat shrouded in that lovely mist, could definitely stir up a sense of beauty and greatness, and evoke feelings that the simple votive chapel could never inspire.
As we went back into the town, for the moment it seemed very much haunted by the presence of Loyola. Passing a picturesque little house in the centre of a small garden, Sebastien suddenly stopped in front of it and gave a peculiar call, whilst a flush of expectation rose to his face. Surprised at the movement we waited for the sequel. This quickly followed in the opening of a casement, at which appeared the charming head of a young woman.
As we walked back into town, it felt for a moment like it was filled with the spirit of Loyola. Passing a quaint little house in the middle of a small garden, Sebastien suddenly stopped in front of it and let out a strange call, a look of excitement spreading across his face. Surprised by his sudden action, we waited to see what would happen next. In no time, a window opened, and the lovely face of a young woman appeared.
"Sebastien!" she cried, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "Have you come to see me?"
"Sebastien!" she exclaimed, putting her hands together in excitement. "Did you come to see me?"
"Yes, since I see you now," returned Sebastien. "But I cannot come in, Anita. I am guiding these gentlemen through the town, and have to show them everything; they would be lost without me. We have just been to the chapel of the saint, where I said a short prayer for our speedy marriage. Ah! when will it be?"
"Yes, now that I see you," Sebastien replied. "But I can’t come in, Anita. I’m taking these gentlemen around the town and have to show them everything; they’d be lost without me. We just visited the chapel of the saint, where I said a quick prayer for our speedy marriage. Ah! When will it happen?"
"Patience, patience!" cried the fair Anita. "I am getting on well, and you must make el padrone advance you to the dining-room. Oh, it will all come right. Then we are both young and can afford to wait."
"Hang on, hang on!" exclaimed the lovely Anita. "I’m making progress, and you need to get the boss to take you to the dining room. Oh, it will all work out. We’re both young and can afford to wait."
We thought it a pity so interesting a conversation should be carried on in a public thoroughfare, and at a tantalising distance, and offered Sebastien five minutes' interval if he liked to go in and pay his respects to his ladye-love. But he declined, and wafting a warm salute to the fair vision of the casement, intimated he was again at our service.
We thought it was a shame such an interesting conversation was happening on a busy street, and at an annoying distance, so we offered Sebastien a five-minute break if he wanted to go in and greet his lady-love. But he turned it down, and sending a warm gesture to the beautiful figure at the window, indicated he was ready to continue with us again.
"She is the sweetest girl in Manresa," said Sebastien quite openly, "and I am a lucky fellow to have won her. Unfortunately we are both poor. But Anita is with a dressmaker, and will soon be able to start on her own account: we shall not have much difficulty in getting on, if the padrone will only advance me—as indeed I deserve."
"She's the sweetest girl in Manresa," Sebastien said frankly, "and I'm lucky to have won her over. Unfortunately, we're both broke. But Anita is working with a dressmaker and will soon be able to start her own business: we shouldn't have too much trouble getting by if the boss would just give me an advance—as I definitely deserve."
We congratulated Sebastien upon his good fortune and wished him promotion and success: and looking at his straight-forward open face, so singularly free from guile, we thought the fair Anita was by no means to be condoled with, however humble their prospects.
We congratulated Sebastien on his good luck and wished him promotions and success. Looking at his genuine, open face, which was so refreshingly honest, we felt that the lovely Anita definitely didn’t need our sympathy, no matter how modest their future might seem.
Then we made way into the upper part of the town, and presently Sebastien turned into a chapel attached to a convent.
Then we headed into the upper part of the town, and soon Sebastien turned into a chapel connected to a convent.
It was a small building of no pretension, but with a marvellous repose and quietness about it. A screen divided the body of the church from the altar, and immediately before the altar, separated from us by the screen, was a strange and striking vision.
It was a small, unassuming building, but it had a wonderful calmness and serenity about it. A screen divided the main part of the church from the altar, and right in front of the altar, separated from us by the screen, was a strange and captivating sight.
Two young girls who might have been some eighteen years old, knelt side by side at the foot of the steps, motionless as carven images and dressed in white. Their veils were thrown back, but their faces, turned towards the altar, were invisible. Their posture was full of grace, and their dress, whether by accident or design, was becomingly arranged and fell in artistic folds. All the time we looked they moved neither hand nor foot, and might have been, as we have said, carved in stone. We almost felt as though gazing upon a vision of angels, so wonderfully did the light fall upon them as they knelt: whilst in the body of the church we were in semi-obscurity.
Two young girls who seemed to be around eighteen years old knelt side by side at the base of the steps, completely still like statues and dressed in white. Their veils were pushed back, but their faces, directed towards the altar, were hidden. Their posture was graceful, and their clothing, whether by accident or design, was neatly arranged and fell in beautiful folds. The entire time we looked, they didn’t move a hand or foot, and could have, as we mentioned, been carved from stone. We felt as though we were looking at a vision of angels, so beautifully did the light shine on them as they knelt, while in the main part of the church, we were in dimness.
Presently a bell tinkled, a side door opened, and two other young girls very much of the same age and dressed in exactly the same way, entered. The two at the altar rose, made deep, graceful curtsies, and veiling their faces, passed out of the chapel. Those who entered at once threw back their veils. In the obscurity we were not observed. We had full view of their charming faces, far too charming to become the nuns for which Sebastien said they were qualifying.
Currently, a bell rang, a side door opened, and two other young girls, similar in age and dressed exactly alike, came in. The two at the altar stood up, made deep, graceful curtsies, and, hiding their faces, left the chapel. The newcomers immediately pulled back their veils. In the dim light, we weren’t noticed. We had a complete view of their beautiful faces, far too beautiful to be the nuns that Sebastien said they were training to become.
"They are White Ladies," he whispered, "and very soon will be cloistered and never see the world again. It is enough to break one's heart."
"They are White Ladies," he whispered, "and soon they’ll be shut away and never see the world again. It's enough to break your heart."
"You don't approve, Sebastien?"
"Don't approve, Sebastien?"
"Ah, señor, I shudder at the thought. It occurs to me what a terrible thing it would be if Anita were to turn nun instead of becoming my happy wife—at least I shall do all I can to make her happy. But these poor girls—think for a moment of the humdrum life they are taking up; nothing to look forward to; no change, no pleasure of any sort. They might as well be buried alive at once and put out of their misery."
"Ah, sir, I shudder at the thought. It strikes me how awful it would be if Anita became a nun instead of my happy wife—at least I'll do everything I can to make her happy. But these poor girls—just think for a moment about the dull life they’re choosing; nothing to look forward to; no change, no enjoyment at all. They might as well be buried alive right now and be done with their misery."
As the door opened to admit the two novices—if novices they were—we had caught sight of others in the passage; some eight or ten, as we fancied. An elderly nun, equally dressed in white, was going amongst them, almost, as it seemed, in the act of benediction. She was evidently counselling, encouraging, fortifying those to whom she ministered. One might have thought that passing through that doorway was renouncing an old life and taking up a new one; an irrevocable step and choice from which there was no recall and no turning back.
As the door opened to let in the two newcomers—if they really were newcomers—we noticed a few others in the hallway; maybe eight or ten, we guessed. An older nun, also dressed in white, was moving among them, almost as if she were giving a blessing. She was clearly counseling, encouraging, and strengthening those she was helping. One might think that stepping through that doorway meant leaving an old life behind and embracing a new one; a permanent decision that couldn’t be undone or reversed.
H. C. was taken with a lump in his throat as the young fair women unveiled and moved towards the altar. One of them was certainly very beautiful. Large wistful blue eyes stood out in contrast with the ivory pallor of her oval face, than which the spotless veil was not more pure and chaste.
H. C. felt a lump in his throat as the young, fair women unveiled and approached the altar. One of them was definitely stunning. Her large, expressive blue eyes stood out against the ivory complexion of her oval face, which was more pure and innocent than the spotless veil she wore.
It was too much for H. C.'s equanimity. He coughed and betrayed himself.
It was too much for H. C.'s composure. He coughed and revealed his inner feelings.
She turned hurriedly; and seeing a face that corresponded to her own in pallor, and eyes that were quite as wistful, gave him an appealing, imploring glance which seemed to say that she would be saved from her present fate.
She turned quickly and saw a face that mirrored her own in its paleness, with eyes just as full of longing. She gave him a pleading, desperate look that seemed to communicate her wish to be rescued from her current situation.
For an instant we trembled. The case was so hopeless. There was the dividing screen. There was the nun on guard beyond the closed door. There was the drenching rain outside. An escape in a deluge would not have been romantic—and where could they escape to? It was one of those agonising moments of helplessness that sometimes drive men insane.
For a moment, we froze. The situation seemed completely hopeless. There was the dividing screen. There was the nun watching beyond the closed door. There was the heavy rain outside. Escaping in a downpour wouldn’t have been heroic—and where would they escape to? It was one of those painful moments of helplessness that can sometimes drive people crazy.
H. C. grasped the screen. There was an instant when we thought he would have torn it down come what might. He looked reckless and desperate and miserable. Then we placed our hand on his arm as we had done that night at the opera in Gerona, and he calmed down.
H. C. grabbed the screen. For a moment, we thought he would just tear it down no matter what. He looked wild, desperate, and miserable. Then we put our hand on his arm like we did that night at the opera in Gerona, and he relaxed.
We turned to leave the chapel. As we did so, a louder bell rang out, the door opened, and in walked the Mother-Superior at the head of her little army of novices.
We turned to leave the chapel. As we did, a louder bell rang out, the door opened, and in walked the Mother Superior at the front of her group of novices.
They quickly grouped themselves round the altar, moved in utter silence like phantoms and subsided into graceful attitudes, apparently absorbed in devotion. The sight was as charming as it was painful: for who could say how many of these young girls were voluntarily renouncing the world, or in the least realised what they were doing?
They quickly gathered around the altar, moving silently like ghosts and settling into elegant poses, seemingly lost in prayer. The scene was both beautiful and heart-wrenching: for who could say how many of these young girls were willingly giving up the world, or even understood what they were doing?
Before passing out we gave a last look at this angelic vision. Quiet as we were we did not move exactly like phantoms. The meaning of our slight stir penetrated beyond the screen. It was too great a temptation for the fair young novice we have described. She felt that her last hope was dissolving, and she turned towards H. C. with a gaze that would have moved a stone.
Before passing out, we took one last look at this angelic vision. Even though we were quiet, we didn’t move quite like ghosts. The significance of our small movement broke through the barrier. It was too tempting for the lovely young novice we mentioned. She sensed that her final hope was fading, and she turned to H. C. with a glance that could have softened the hardest heart.
Fortunately his eyes were buried in his handkerchief, or it is certain that we should never have left the chapel in the state in which we found it. The screen would have gone; the Mother-Superior defied, there would have been rout and consternation, the alarm bell rung, and perhaps—who knows?—a priest would have appeared upon the scene and married this romantic Romeo and Juliet. The novices would have turned into bridesmaids, and the Mother-Superior have given away her spiritual daughter. A lovely transformation scene indeed! Slighter currents have before now changed the course of nations.
Fortunately, his eyes were hidden in his handkerchief, or we definitely wouldn’t have left the chapel in the same condition we found it. The screen would have been taken down; the Mother Superior would have been challenged, there would have been chaos and panic, the alarm bell would have been rung, and maybe—who knows?—a priest would have shown up and married this romantic Romeo and Juliet. The novices would have turned into bridesmaids, and the Mother Superior would have given away her spiritual daughter. What a beautiful transformation scene that would be! Smaller events have changed the course of nations before.
The door closed upon us without tragic event or catastrophe. Through the deluge we waded to the hotel.
The door closed behind us without any drama or disaster. We trudged through the downpour to the hotel.
The long dining-room was now empty. The waiter brought us coffee and cognac, ordered to restore H. C.'s nervous system; we paid our bill, which was by no means as modest as the pretensions of the inn; and under the faithful and unfailing pilotage of Sebastien, departed for the railway station. The poor fellow looked melancholy.
The long dining room was now empty. The waiter brought us coffee and cognac, which were ordered to help H. C.'s nerves; we paid our bill, which was far from modest, unlike the inn's pretensions; and with the reliable guidance of Sebastien, we headed to the train station. The poor guy looked sad.
"The fates forbid!"—horrified at the bare thought. "A week here in such weather would make one desperate, Sebastien. Remember that we have no fair Anita to turn all our thistles to roses, dull streets into a paradise."
"The fates forbid!"—shocked at the mere idea. "A week here in this weather would drive anyone crazy, Sebastien. Remember that we don’t have our lovely Anita to turn all our thorns into roses and boring streets into paradise."
Sebastien sighed. "To-morrow the sun will shine, señor. You would not know Manresa again under a blue sky."
Sebastien sighed. "Tomorrow the sun will shine, sir. You wouldn't recognize Manresa again with a blue sky."
"But our poet friend declares the rainy season has begun. This deluge is to last many days, if not weeks, Sebastien."
"But our poet friend says the rainy season has started. This downpour is expected to last for many days, if not weeks, Sebastien."
"It is a mistake," said Sebastien. "We have no rainy season. You will see that to-morrow there will be no rain, no clouds. Then if you had stayed, I am sure you would have spoken to the padrone for me, and got him to promote me to the dining-room. And then we could have been married."
"It’s a mistake," Sebastien said. "We don’t have a rainy season. You’ll see that tomorrow there won’t be any rain or clouds. If you had stayed, I’m sure you would have talked to the boss for me and gotten him to promote me to the dining room. Then we could have been married."
Sebastien, like everyone else, was building his castles and dreaming his dreams; and it certainly caused us a slight regret that we could not help to lay them on a solid foundation. All we could do was to give him our best wishes, and tell him that if sufficiently earnest and persevering he would certainly gain the desire of his heart. It only depended on himself.
Sebastien, like everyone else, was building his dreams and pursuing his ambitions; and we felt a bit of regret that we couldn’t help him establish a solid foundation for them. All we could do was offer him our best wishes and remind him that if he was truly determined and persistent, he would definitely achieve what he wanted. It was entirely up to him.
This prophecy seemed to inspire him with hope and courage; and our last reminiscence of Manresa was that of a young man, strong, handsome, fresh coloured, standing hat in hand on the platform, and begging us "with tears in his voice" to stay at least two days in Manresa the next time we passed that way and formally petition the landlord in a deputation of one for his promotion.[B]
This prophecy seemed to fill him with hope and courage; and our last memory of Manresa was of a young man, strong, attractive, and healthy-looking, standing with his hat in hand on the platform, pleading with us "with tears in his voice" to stay for at least two days in Manresa the next time we passed through and officially ask the landlord for his promotion.[B]
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.
Picturesque countryside—Getting closer to Lerida—Charming inn—Notable duenna—Toothless and silent—Smiles at H. C.—Almost collapses—Skilled chef—A parade—Lerida Dragon—City of the dead—Late-night study—Staring at blank walls—A nighttime encounter—Armed figure—Wise folks—Watchman turns out to be an old friend—No promotion—Locked out—Waking the echoes—Night porter shows up—Also El Sereno—Apologetic and remorseful—The lovely Rose—Porter is pleased with himself—Clear morning—H. C. faces the Dragon—In the hands of the Philistines—A fine art in Lerida—Boot-cleaner in Ordinary—Interesting character—H. C. is hilarious—Pulls a fast one.
NO sooner had we left Manresa than the rain ceased, and though the sky remained grey, the clouds lifted.
No sooner had we left Manresa than the rain stopped, and even though the sky stayed grey, the clouds cleared up.
As far as Cervera the country we passed through was evidently picturesque, and only wanted the contrast of sun and shade to make it charming. Conspicuous amidst the landscape for many and many a long mile was the wonderful mountain of Montserrat with its peaks and pinnacles, about which the white mists still rolled and wrapped themselves. The scenery was diversified by many a wide ravine, where tangled bushes grew over the hard rock; many a fertile vale rich in fruit trees, pines, olives, oak and cork trees, intermixed their various shades of green. Beyond Cervera, the country was cold and barren and abounded in rock-strewn plains, to which the grey skies gave a still more sad and sombre tone. We approached Lerida when the shades of night were falling, and could just discern its grand outlines rising out of the great plain. These seemed to yield in interest only to Manresa, whilst the town itself proved far more attractive.
As we traveled through Cervera, the countryside was clearly picturesque, needing just the contrast of sunlight and shade to make it truly charming. Prominent in the landscape for many miles was the stunning mountain of Montserrat, with its peaks and pinnacles, around which white mists still rolled and wrapped themselves. The scenery was varied, featuring wide ravines where tangled bushes grew over solid rock and fertile valleys filled with fruit trees, pines, olives, oaks, and cork trees, blending their different shades of green. Beyond Cervera, the land turned cold and barren, filled with rocky plains that the gray skies made even more dreary. We drew closer to Lerida as night began to fall, barely making out its grand outlines rising from the vast plain. These seemed to rival only Manresa in interest, while the town itself turned out to be much more appealing.
We found the place sufficiently civilised to possess an omnibus, which transported us bag and baggage to the hotel. The long straight thoroughfare in which we found ourselves looked in the darkening night like the fag end of a village, unfinished and unpaved; almost like the street of some far away colonial settlement. It was wide and lined with trees, and beyond the trees on one side, a row of large houses; amongst them our inn; a rambling, cheerless sort of building, too new to be peopled with ghosts or distinguished by artistic outlines. Anything more opposite to the ghostly element could not be imagined. Still, in spite of frightful drawbacks it was some degrees better than Manresa.
We found the place civilized enough to have a bus that took us and all our luggage to the hotel. The long, straight road we were on looked like the edge of a village as night fell—unfinished and unpaved; almost like the street in a distant colonial outpost. It was wide and lined with trees, and beyond the trees on one side was a row of large houses, including our inn; a sprawling, dreary building, too new to have any ghosts or any artistic features. It couldn’t be more different from the eerie atmosphere you might expect. Still, despite its many drawbacks, it was a bit better than Manresa.
We were conducted by a curious but amiable duenna to a large lofty sitting room with a bedroom opening on each side: evidently the state apartments. The place looked empty and neglected, and our candles hardly lighted the obscurity. The electric bells were all broken, and we soon found that if we rang till doomsday no one appeared.
We were led by a curious but friendly chaperone to a spacious, high sitting room with a bedroom on each side: clearly the formal living quarters. The room seemed empty and neglected, and our candles barely illuminated the darkness. The electric bells were all broken, and we quickly discovered that if we rang them for eternity, no one would show up.
Our duenna was toothless and apparently voiceless, for when she opened her capacious mouth and began to talk, no sound came forth. The mouth worked up and down in absolute silence, and the effect was creepy and peculiar. It almost felt as though a mummy had been galvanised into life minus the voice. Her costume had nothing redeeming about it. An impromptu turban placed over a shock head of hair, petticoats of the shortest, revealing feet and ankles that would have supported a substantial Dutch vrouw. We afterwards found she was the laundress of the establishment, and this was the costume in which she presided at the wash-tub. She smiled sweetly upon H. C. and her face looked like a huge, amiable cavern. With an imagination full of the lovely face of that young novice in Manresa, he shuddered, dropped into the furthest chair, and begged us to complete the arrangements without him.
Our duenna was toothless and seemed unable to speak, because when she opened her big mouth and started to talk, no sound came out. Her mouth moved up and down in complete silence, and it was both creepy and strange. It felt almost like a mummy had been brought back to life but couldn’t make a sound. Her outfit had nothing good about it. She wore a makeshift turban on a frizzy head of hair, along with very short petticoats that showed off feet and ankles that could have supported a hefty Dutch woman. Later, we found out she was the establishment’s laundress, and this was the outfit she wore while doing laundry. She smiled sweetly at H. C., and her face looked like a large, friendly cave. With his mind filled with the lovely face of that young novice in Manresa, he shuddered, sank into the furthest chair, and asked us to finish the arrangements without him.
There was nothing to arrange, and the Dragon soon withdrew with her cavernous smiles and voiceless words. Then from a distant corner we heard an anxious murmur: "What about dinner?" H. C.. had not expired; the Dragon had evidently not frightened away all earthly desires.
There was nothing to plan, and the Dragon quickly faded away with her vast smiles and silent words. Then from a far corner, we heard a worried whisper: "What about dinner?" H. C. had not given up; the Dragon clearly hadn't scared off all earthly desires.
Fortunately dinner was forthcoming, though when we had finally settled down and removed the stains of travel, and H. C. had recovered his nerves, the night was growing apace. We plunged into wide passages, and after half a dozen wrong turnings at length found ourselves in the dining-room, large, lofty and well lighted. The chef sent up a civilised bill of fare, and the landlord himself waited upon us; whilst under the influence of fortifying dishes and refined wines the charms of the Manresa novice faded into the background, and H. C. felt almost equal to challenging the Lerida Dragon to single combat as a libel upon her sex. We were conducted back to our rooms by quite a procession, including the thin landlord and imposing landlady, headed by the Dragon bearing a flambeau.
Luckily, dinner was on the way, and after we finally got settled and cleaned off the travel grime, and H. C. calmed down, the night was moving along. We navigated through some wide hallways and after several wrong turns, we finally found ourselves in the dining room—spacious, high-ceilinged, and well-lit. The chef presented a sophisticated menu, and the landlord himself served us; as we enjoyed the hearty dishes and quality wines, the charms of the Manresa novice faded into the background, and H. C. felt almost ready to challenge the Lerida Dragon to a duel, viewing her as a slander against her gender. We were escorted back to our rooms by quite a group, including the thin landlord and the impressive landlady, led by the Dragon holding a torch.
Once on our balcony, we found the night had changed for the better. Clouds had disappeared, stars shone, the trees before us were rustling gently in the wind, calmness and repose had fallen upon the world. It was past ten o'clock; the place seemed still and deserted as a city of the dead; not a sound broke the silence as we went forth for a night-study of Lerida.
Once we were on our balcony, we noticed that the night had improved. The clouds were gone, the stars were shining, and the trees in front of us were softly rustling in the wind. A sense of calm and tranquility enveloped the world. It was past ten o'clock; the place felt quiet and abandoned, like a city of the dead. Not a sound interrupted the silence as we stepped out for an evening study of Lerida.
It was intensely dark. Here and there an oil lamp glimmered, making darkness visible. Presently we found ourselves on the bridge, looking down upon the waters of the river that runs so closely to the town as to reflect its outlines. To-night it was too dark to reflect anything, excepting here and there a faint track of light thrown by a distant star. The surface was not disturbed by any sort of craft.
It was incredibly dark. Here and there, an oil lamp flickered, making the darkness noticeable. Soon, we found ourselves on the bridge, looking down at the river that flows so close to the town that it mirrors its shapes. Tonight, it was too dark to reflect anything, except for a faint trace of light from a distant star. The surface wasn’t disturbed by any kind of boat.
To the right rose the houses of the town, and above them faint and shadowy against the night sky, the outlines of the wonderful old cathedral, perched on its rock 300 feet above the town itself.
To the right stood the town's houses, and above them, faint and shadowy against the night sky, were the outlines of the beautiful old cathedral, sitting on its rock 300 feet above the town itself.
We tried to reach it, climbing and stumbling up the narrow ill-paved thoroughfares, that seemed to wind and twist about like the contortions of a snake. The darkness might be felt. There was not a solitary light to guide our feet, and every now and then we found ourselves charging a dead wall as Don Quixote charged the windmills.
We tried to get there, climbing and tripping along the narrow, poorly paved streets that twisted and turned like a snake. You could feel the darkness around us. There wasn't a single light to guide our way, and every now and then, we found ourselves crashing into a dead end like Don Quixote charging at windmills.
Once H. C. plunged against the door of a low cottage, and before he could turn round there rushed out a demon in light attire with a torrent of hard words and a blunderbuss-sort of weapon. Fortunately for H. C. a dog also rushed out at the moment between the man's legs, bringing him to the ground, where he and his blunderbuss lay motionless. All the dogs in the neighbourhood set up a howl and a bark, and the place was fast turning to pandemonium.
Once H. C. crashed into the door of a small cottage, and before he could turn around, a figure in light clothing burst out, firing off a stream of harsh words and holding a weapon that resembled a blunderbuss. Luckily for H. C., a dog sprinted out right between the man’s legs, causing him to fall to the ground, where he and his blunderbuss remained still. All the dogs in the neighborhood started howling and barking, and the scene quickly turned into chaos.
We were evidently on dangerous ground, where strangers were not expected and made welcome; doors opened above us and voices inquired who passed that way so late. Our lives were in jeopardy amongst these wild Catalonians, howbeit they have not the sword-and-dagger temperament of the more impulsive Spaniards. We had fallen amongst thieves. Discretion being the better part of valour, we glided back like phantoms, passing safely through the ranks of the enemy, and found ourselves on the great square which is the market-place, and where we breathed freely.
We were clearly on dangerous territory, where strangers weren't expected and wouldn't be welcomed; doors opened above us and voices asked who was passing by so late. Our lives were at risk among these wild Catalonians, even though they don't have the fiery temperament of the more impulsive Spaniards. We had stumbled among thieves. Keeping a low profile is smarter than being brave, so we slipped away like ghosts, making it safely through the enemy lines, and ended up in the big square that serves as the market-place, where we could finally breathe easy.
No one followed in pursuit. It seemed as though, their own territories abandoned, they cared nothing what became of intruders. Presently the dogs ceased to bark, silence once more fell upon the night. We hoped our friend of the blunderbuss had not been seriously wounded, but under the circumstances it was impossible to make anxious inquiries.
No one chased after them. It felt like they didn’t care what happened to the intruders, having abandoned their own territories. Soon, the dogs stopped barking and silence returned to the night. We hoped that our friend with the blunderbuss hadn’t been seriously hurt, but given the situation, it was impossible to ask too many questions.
It was difficult to get even a faint impression of the town. Here and there we caught a vision of promising arcades, and apparently ancient outlines of houses and gabled roofs, but everything was in tenebrous gloom. Hardly a single window reflected the faintest ray; the streets were deserted. Only from a solitary café came forth, as we passed, a small band of some half dozen men, who quietly went up a side street and disappeared. It was only a little past eleven, but the people of Lerida are wise and know nothing of midnight oil, wasting energies, and burning the candle at both ends.
It was hard to get even a faint sense of the town. Here and there, we caught glimpses of promising arcades and seemingly old outlines of houses with gabled roofs, but everything was shrouded in darkness. Not a single window reflected even the faintest light; the streets were empty. Only from a lone café did a small group of about half a dozen men emerge as we walked by, quietly heading up a side street before vanishing. It was just a little past eleven, but the people of Lerida are wise and know nothing of staying up late, wasting energy, or burning the candle at both ends.
"We are doing no good," said H. C. whose head had been rather damaged by coming in contact with doors and walls in the narrow lane. "I think it would be as well to follow the example of these people and retire, reserving our energies for to-morrow. In this darkness we might charge another cottage door without a friendly dog to deliver us from a murderous blunderbuss."
"We're not helping at all," said H. C., whose head had taken a beating from bumping into doors and walls in the narrow alley. "I think it would be smart to follow these people's lead and take a step back, saving our energy for tomorrow. In this darkness, we could easily charge at another cottage door without a friendly dog to save us from a serious mistake."
So we turned back in the long narrow street of which Lerida seemed chiefly composed, and presently found ourselves in the broad hotel avenue.
So we turned back in the long, narrow street that made up most of Lerida, and soon found ourselves on the wide hotel avenue.
We thought we recognised both face and voice. Where had we met?
We thought we recognized both the face and the voice. Where had we seen them before?
"You are late, gentlemen. It grows towards midnight. In a few minutes I must call the hour and the weather. The people of Lerida are even earlier than those of Burgos, where I was watchman until six months ago."
"You guys are late. It's almost midnight. In a few minutes, I have to announce the hour and the weather. The people of Lerida are even earlier than those in Burgos, where I was a watchman until six months ago."
Then the mystery was solved. This was the very old watchman who had piloted us to the hotel the night we had lost ourselves in that most uncomfortable of Spanish towns, with the worst of Spanish inns.
Then the mystery was solved. This was the very old watchman who had guided us to the hotel the night we got lost in that really uncomfortable Spanish town, with the worst Spanish inn.
"Have you forgotten us?" we asked. "Do you not remember taking two strangers through the streets of Burgos more than a year ago, and seeing them safely to their door?"
"Have you forgotten us?" we asked. "Do you not remember taking two strangers through the streets of Burgos over a year ago and seeing them safely to their door?"
The watchman put down his lantern deliberately and struck the ground with his spear. "Is it possible, señor! Santa Maria! A plague upon memory and eyesight! But the night is dark, and my lantern burns dim. Indeed I remember it well. Can I ever forget your largesse on that occasion? I have often wondered how you fared in Spain and whither you wandered. Often wished I might meet you again."
The watchman set down his lantern carefully and tapped the ground with his spear. "Is it possible, sir! Santa Maria! What a curse on memory and sight! But the night is dark, and my lantern barely gives light. I definitely remember it well. How could I ever forget your generosity that time? I've often thought about how you did in Spain and where you traveled. I've often wished I could see you again."
"But what brings you here? Surely Burgos is more important than Lerida, and you have progressed backwards. This hardly looks like promotion."
"But what brings you here? Surely Burgos is more important than Lerida, and you’ve gone backward. This doesn’t seem like a promotion at all."
"Oh, señor, there is no promotion for us poor watchmen. One town is much as another. I earn as much in Lerida as I did in Burgos, and the saints know either pays little enough."
"Oh, sir, there’s no advancement for us poor watchmen. One town is just like another. I earn as much in Lerida as I did in Burgos, and honestly, neither pays very well."
"Were you, then, sent here for any special reason?"
"Were you sent here for a specific reason?"
"A reason of my own, señor. My wife's old parents live here and she wanted to be near them; so I petitioned to come here and it was granted. On the whole I am better off than in Burgos."
"A reason of my own, sir. My wife's elderly parents live here, and she wanted to be close to them; so I requested to come here, and it was approved. Overall, I'm better off than I was in Burgos."
After some further conversations, and with a substantial remembrance for auld lang syne, we left the old watchman and turned for our hotel.
After a few more conversations, and with a strong nostalgia for the past, we left the old watchman and headed back to our hotel.
We soon felt almost as lost as in that past time at Burgos. The houses were all exactly alike. Every light was out, every door closed. There was no especial lamp to indicate which was the inn, and we could discover neither sign nor name. At last in the darkness we managed to trace on a lamp, in small characters, the words Fonda de España. The great door beneath was shut, like every other door; but there was a ponderous knocker, to which we directed our energies.
We quickly felt just as lost as we had back in Burgos. The houses all looked the same. Every light was off, and every door was shut. There wasn't a special lamp to show which one was the inn, and we couldn't find any sign or name. Eventually, in the dark, we spotted the words Fonda de España in small letters on a lamp. The big door below was closed, just like all the others; but there was a heavy knocker, which we focused our efforts on.
It was all in vain, for no one responded. Knock after knock brought forth no result. The echoes we roused in the avenue were enough to wake the dead. Our watchman had gone to the far end, and by the gleam of his lamp we saw him turn and hasten. The habitable part of the inn was upstairs, a league of passages separated it from the outer door. If everyone was in bed and asleep, we might knock away until daybreak.
It was all pointless, as no one answered. Knock after knock yielded no response. The echoes we created on the street could have woken the dead. Our watchman had gone to the far end, and by the light of his lamp, we saw him turn and hurry back. The part of the inn where people could stay was upstairs, and there was a long series of hallways between it and the front door. If everyone was in bed and asleep, we could keep knocking until dawn.
We were growing concerned, when just as our old friend the watchman arrived upon the scene, up rushed another functionary in breathless agitation: the night porter of the hotel, and he carried great keys in his hand.
We were getting worried when, just as our old friend the watchman showed up, another official rushed in, out of breath and agitated: the night porter of the hotel, and he had big keys in his hand.
"A thousand pardons, gentlemen," he began, as far as want of breath would allow him. "I did not know any one was out and went for a short walk just to breathe the midnight air and contemplate the stars. I heard you knocking when quite a mile away. You have indeed the strength of Hercules. And there is also something peculiar in this knocker. You may hear it all over the town, but cannot hear it in the hotel unless you are in the porter's lodge. It has been said the house is bewitched, and I think it; for once, when the Bishop breakfasted here, as soon as he entered the doors a loud report was heard and the place trembled, just as if some evil spirit were frightened and had departed in a flash of lightning. If you only knew how I ran when I heard the knocker, you would pity me."
"Sorry about that, gentlemen," he started, as much as he could manage without catching his breath. "I didn’t realize anyone was out and just went for a quick walk to enjoy the midnight air and look at the stars. I heard you knocking from almost a mile away. You really have the strength of Hercules. There's also something strange about this knocker. You can hear it all over town, but not in the hotel unless you're in the porter's lodge. People say the house is haunted, and I believe it; because once, when the Bishop had breakfast here, the moment he walked through the doors, there was a loud noise and the whole place shook, like some evil spirit got scared and left in a flash of lightning. If you knew how fast I ran when I heard the knocker, you’d feel sorry for me."
ARCADES: LLEIDA
We passed into a dark vaulted passage which rather reminded us of the gloomy entrance to the Hospederia at Montserrat. Upstairs every one had gone to bed, and they had not even left us a light. But for the night porter we might have sat all night upon chairs. When the candles threw out a faint illumination, H. C. looked round shudderingly as though he expected to see the Dragon lurking in some corner.
We walked into a dark, arched hallway that reminded us of the gloomy entrance to the Hospederia at Montserrat. Upstairs, everyone had gone to bed, and they hadn’t even left us a light. If it weren't for the night porter, we might have sat in chairs all night. When the candles cast a faint glow, H. C. looked around with a shiver, as if he expected to see the Dragon hiding in some corner.
We had found out that this extraordinary creature rejoiced in the charming name of Rose, and mentioned the name aloud.
We discovered that this amazing creature was called Rose, and we said the name out loud.
"Rose," said the night porter, "that is my wife. She is not a beauty, señor, but she can't scold—she has no voice. When I see other good-looking wives rating their husbands I say to myself, 'Ah ha, my fine fellow! after all beauty is only skin-deep. I wouldn't exchange my peace of mind for all your handsome wives put together.' I married her because she had no voice and also earns good wages. But though she is voiceless by day, she snores by night, and really becomes quite musical. It is a singular contradiction, but nature is freaky."
"Rose," said the night porter, "that’s my wife. She may not be a knockout, señor, but she can't nag—she doesn't have a voice. When I see other attractive wives yelling at their husbands, I think to myself, 'Ah ha, my good man! After all, beauty is just skin-deep. I wouldn’t trade my peace of mind for all your gorgeous wives combined.' I married her because she has no voice and also makes a decent salary. But even though she’s quiet during the day, she snores at night and actually becomes quite musical. It’s a strange contradiction, but nature can be quirky."
He marshalled us to our rooms, a candle in each hand, striding along with great dignity and evidently thinking that he was the life and soul of the establishment. Putting the candles on the sitting-room table, he backed towards the door, made a low bow, once more apologised for being absent without leave and keeping us beating a midnight tattoo, and begged as a favour that we would not mention the circumstance to the landlord.
He led us to our rooms, holding a candle in each hand, walking with great dignity and clearly believing he was the center of attention. Setting the candles on the living room table, he backed away towards the door, gave a low bow, once again apologized for being away without permission and for keeping us up late, and asked as a favor that we not mention this to the landlord.
This we readily promised, and as it was utterly impossible to maintain any sort of gravity on the occasion, the night porter, wishing us refreshing slumbers, departed in great peace of mind—probably to resume his devotions at the untimely bodega. We heard his receding footsteps, and the house sank into repose.
This we quickly agreed to, and since it was completely impossible to keep any seriousness in the moment, the night porter, wishing us a good night's sleep, left feeling very content—likely to return to his activities at the late-night bar. We heard his footsteps fading away, and the house settled into quiet.
The next morning there was not a cloud in the sky. Our study in grey had given place to more positive tones. H. C.'s rainy season had been a pure effort of the imagination. Sebastien was right after all, and in sheer gratitude we sat down and wrote an epistle to his master that would have moved a heart of stone. We represented in glowing colours the happiness of the young pair that a word from him could make or mar; enlarged upon the moral question of conferring pleasure where it was possible, and wound up with a rash assertion, almost an undertaking, that Sebastien would prove a tower of strength to the well-being of the hotel. The result has been recorded.
The next morning there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Our study in gray had transformed into brighter tones. H. C.'s rainy season had been a complete creation of the imagination. Sebastien was right after all, and out of sheer gratitude, we sat down and wrote a letter to his master that would have touched a heart of stone. We described in vivid detail the happiness of the young couple that a word from him could uplift or ruin; we elaborated on the moral issue of providing happiness where we could, and concluded with a bold claim, almost a promise, that Sebastien would be a great asset to the hotel's well-being. The result has been recorded.
We rose early. With that glorious sun shining, who could waste moments in sleep? Presently we heard a sort of alarmed shout from H. C., and on going into the sitting-room, and asking how he had slept, found him pale, agitated, and confronted by the Dragon.
We woke up early. With that amazing sun shining, who could waste time sleeping? Soon, we heard a panicked shout from H. C., and when we went into the living room and asked how he had slept, we found him pale, agitated, and facing the Dragon.
She looked if anything more terrible than last night. Her cavernous mouth was wide open, but no sound came forth, though her capacious jaws moved up and down and her eyes rolled in a fine frenzy. Her sleeves were tucked up above the elbow, revealing a muscular arm that would not have disgraced a prize-fighter. She was evidently primed for another field day at the wash-tub. When we went in she was smiling sweetly upon H. C.
She looked even worse than last night. Her big mouth was wide open, but no sound came out, even though her jaw was moving up and down and her eyes were rolling in a wild frenzy. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, showing off a strong arm that would make a boxer proud. She was clearly ready for another long day at the wash tub. When we walked in, she was smiling sweetly at H. C.
"What does it all mean?" we asked. "Surely you have not been offering to elope with the Dragon?"
"What does it all mean?" we asked. "You can’t be serious about running away with the Dragon, right?"
"I simply want my boots," said H. C. unromantically. "I rang away at the bell just as we knocked at the door last night, and with the same result. The place must be bewitched. Then I opened the door and clapped my hands, and the Dragon suddenly sprang out upon me from a dark cupboard close by, right into my very arms. I nearly had a fit of convulsions. And now when I ask for my boots all she does is to mouth and shake her head. What's to be done? Is it a plot to keep us here? Have we fallen into the hands of the Philistines?"
"I just want my boots," H. C. said flatly. "I rang the bell right as we knocked on the door last night, and got the same result. This place must be cursed. Then I opened the door and clapped my hands, and suddenly the Dragon jumped out at me from a dark cupboard nearby, right into my arms. I almost had a seizure. And now when I ask for my boots, all she does is shake her head and mumble. What should we do? Is it a scheme to keep us here? Have we fallen into the hands of the Philistines?"
Being in a more advanced stage of toilet than H. C., we marched forth in search of the landlord on what we hoped would not prove a bootless errand. He was in his counting-house counting out his money—and arranging his dinners. On making anxious inquiries we discovered that in Lerida boot-cleaning was considered one of the fine arts. There was a Boot-cleaner in Ordinary to the town, who took the inns in turn and was paid according to his work. People had to wait his pleasure. That morning he had not yet arrived; we had risen early.
Being at a more advanced stage of needing the restroom than H. C., we set out to find the landlord, hoping it wouldn't be a wasted trip. He was in his office counting his money and planning his meals. After asking around anxiously, we learned that in Lerida, boot-cleaning was regarded as a fine art. There was an official boot-cleaner for the town, who rotated among the inns and was paid based on his work. People had to wait for his convenience. That morning, he hadn’t shown up yet; we had gotten up early.
Fortunately he appeared at the moment: an old, grey-bearded man with a fine presence, who looked almost past boot-cleaning or any other occupation. We found him quite above his humble employment. He was a Frenchman by birth, but had lived in Spain for nearly seventy years—was now verging on ninety, and his old wife, he told us, was eighty-seven, and two years ago had gone blind. He had not forgotten his native language, which he still spoke very purely. In his last days he was supporting himself and his old wife by cleaning boots. It was the custom of the town. The hotels would do anything for you but clean boots. As far as he was concerned he just managed to keep the wolf from the door, and that after all was all they wanted.
Fortunately, he showed up just then: an old man with a gray beard and a strong presence, who seemed above doing something as menial as cleaning boots or any other job. We found him far too dignified for his humble work. He was French by birth but had lived in Spain for nearly seventy years—now approaching ninety. He mentioned that his elderly wife was eighty-seven and had gone blind two years ago. He hadn't forgotten his native language, which he still spoke very clearly. In his later years, he was supporting himself and his wife by cleaning boots. It was the town's custom. The hotels would do everything for you but clean boots. As far as he was concerned, he was just managing to keep the wolf from the door, and that was really all they needed.
He went off to his task, and returning to H. C. we found a change had come over the spirit of his dream. He sat hilarious and comforted before an empty tray of rolls and coffee, our own share as well as his having disappeared, whilst the Dragon had departed to adorn other realms.
He went off to do his job, and when we got back to H. C., we noticed a change in the mood of his dream. He sat there, cheerful and relaxed, in front of an empty tray that once held rolls and coffee, with all of our shares gone as well as his, while the Dragon had left to beautify other places.
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.
Lerida by daylight—Second city in Catalonia—Past history—Days of the Goths—And Moors—Becomes a bishopric—Troubling times—Brave people—Impressive cathedral—Stunning outlines—Desecration—The new cathedral—Senseless tyranny—One of the most interesting towns—Busy market-place—Picturesque arcades and ancient gateways—Wine-pressers—Good offer refused—Another revelation—Amazing streets—Amongst the immortals—Our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary again—Thereby hangs a tale—His story—Blind wife—Humble request—Nerissa—Charming room—Little queen in the armchair—Perfect picture—Sacrifices but no regrets—"All a new world"—Time to leave this life—Back to the quiet streets—H. C. contemplative—Proposes moving to Salt Lake City—Lerida celebrated by its idyllic charm.
A GREATER contrast than Lerida in the morning and Lerida at midnight could not be imagined. Last night had by no means prepared us for the charms of to-day.
A GREATER contrast than Lerida in the morning and Lerida at midnight couldn’t be imagined. Last night definitely hadn’t prepared us for the charms of today.
Little as one hears of it, it is the second city in Catalonia, with an historical and eventful past that has submitted to constant wars and sieges. In the far-off days it was occupied by the Romans, and the present bridge is built on Roman foundations. It was held by Pompey in the first century B.C. and these were unsettled times for Ilerda, as it was then called. In very early days it became a university town, but so little esteemed that the students of Rome were sent here when rusticated. As the centuries rolled on it grew in favour, though the trail of the rusticated Romans must have remained upon it, for two of its most famous students were Vicenti Ferrer the inquisitor and Calixtus III. the wicked pope.
Little known as it may be, it’s the second largest city in Catalonia, with a rich and eventful history marked by constant wars and sieges. In ancient times, it was occupied by the Romans, and the current bridge is built on Roman foundations. It was controlled by Pompey in the first century B.C., and these were unstable times for Ilerda, as it was then called. In its early days, it became a university town, though it was regarded so poorly that students from Rome were sent here as punishment. As the centuries passed, it gained more recognition, although the influence of those banished Romans likely lingered, as two of its most notable students were Vicenti Ferrer the inquisitor and Calixtus III, the infamous pope.
For the next 400 years little is heard of Lerida; but in 1150 it was restored by Ramon Berenguer, and quickly became popular and important. In the seventeenth century during the great Catalonian revolt, Lerida chose Louis XIII. for king; upon which Philip IV. came down upon them and defeated La Mothe, causing him to raise the siege. Four years afterwards, in 1644, the French again tried to take it but were again defeated. The Grand Condé opened another siege, and caused a number of violins to play before the town to encourage his soldiers. But this also had the effect of encouraging brave Gregorio Brito, the Portuguese Governor, who sallied forth with his army, silenced the fiddlers and put the French to the rout.
For the next 400 years, not much is heard about Lerida; however, in 1150, it was restored by Ramon Berenguer and quickly became popular and significant. In the seventeenth century, during the major Catalonian revolt, Lerida chose Louis XIII as its king. In response, Philip IV attacked and defeated La Mothe, forcing him to lift the siege. Four years later, in 1644, the French attempted to capture it again but were defeated once more. The Grand Condé initiated another siege and had a group of violinists play outside the town to boost his soldiers' morale. But this also inspired the brave Gregorio Brito, the Portuguese Governor, who led his army out, silenced the musicians, and routed the French forces.
In the War of Succession Lerida was again besieged by the French, who behaved with great treachery and cruelly sacked the town after capitulation. Retaliation came in 1710, when Stanhope routed Philip V. at Almenara. The French fled before the English bayonets, and Philip himself, in these early days of his long reign, nearly lost his life. He would have been spared many troubles.
In the War of Succession, Lerida was once again besieged by the French, who acted with great treachery and brutally looted the town after it surrendered. Revenge came in 1710, when Stanhope defeated Philip V. at Almenara. The French retreated in the face of the English bayonets, and Philip himself, during these early days of his lengthy reign, narrowly escaped death. He would have avoided many troubles.
A little later on, in 1810, during the Peninsular War, it was taken by Suchet, and the inhabitants men, women and children were so cruelly treated that the governor, unable to bear the sight of so much suffering, capitulated. Since then Lerida has enjoyed more or less tranquil days. She would now hardly be thought worth taking.
A little later, in 1810, during the Peninsular War, it was captured by Suchet, and the people—men, women, and children—were treated so brutally that the governor, unable to witness so much suffering, surrendered. Since then, Lerida has experienced mostly peaceful times. It would now hardly be considered worth taking.
It was during some of these troublous times, in 1707, that her beautiful cathedral was desecrated, and remains to this day a prominent illustration of the barbarities of war. It towers 300 feet above the town, a magnificent outline against the clear blue sky. The first church existed here as far back as the sixth century. This in time gave place to the present church, of which the first stone was laid by Pedro II. in 1203. It is one of the finest specimens in Europe of the early-pointed style and its desecration was a world's regret. Nevertheless, its style is a little contradictory, for the windows are for the most part round-headed.
It was during some of these difficult times, in 1707, that her stunning cathedral was desecrated, and it remains today a prominent example of the horrors of war. It rises 300 feet above the town, creating a magnificent silhouette against the clear blue sky. The first church stood here as far back as the sixth century. Over time, this was replaced by the current church, where the first stone was laid by Pedro II in 1203. It is one of the finest examples in Europe of the early-pointed style, and its desecration was a loss felt worldwide. However, its style is a bit contradictory, as most of the windows are round-headed.
Perched on the summit of an almost perpendicular rock, it looks even higher and larger than it really is. Its fine octagonal steeple stands out a bold and conspicuous object over many a mile of plain and country. As the sun declines, its shadow falls upon the houses of the town sleeping below, and creeps over the surface of the river. Near it is a building now used as a powder magazine, but in the Middle Ages was a palace given up to the rude scenes of splendour of which those days were typical, and before that it had been a Moorish castle and a Christian temple. Its walls have defied the centuries, but nothing is left of its Moorish beauty and refinement.
Perched on top of a nearly vertical rock, it appears even taller and bigger than it actually is. Its impressive octagonal steeple stands out as a striking and noticeable feature over many miles of open land and countryside. As the sun sets, its shadow stretches over the houses of the town resting below, and glides over the surface of the river. Next to it is a building currently used as a powder magazine, but in the Middle Ages, it was a palace dedicated to the lavish spectacles typical of that era, and before that, it had served as a Moorish castle and a Christian temple. Its walls have withstood the test of time, but there's nothing left of its Moorish beauty and elegance.
In 1707 the French turned the great church into a fortress, and it was never restored to its sacred uses. Peace fell upon Lerida, but the fat old canons had learned to shirk the steep climbing of the rocks in all seasons and all weathers. They agitated for a new cathedral within the town, and had their wish. A hideous Corinthian building arose, and the magnificent church upon the hill after five hundred years of faithful service was shorn of its glory.
In 1707, the French turned the great church into a fortress, and it was never restored for religious use. Peace settled over Lerida, but the overweight canons had gotten used to avoiding the steep climb up the rocks in all seasons and weather. They pushed for a new cathedral in the town, and their wish was granted. An ugly Corinthian building was constructed, and the magnificent church on the hill, after five hundred years of dedicated service, was stripped of its glory.
Yet its outlines are as fine and as striking as ever, and the columns, stonework and tracery that remain, still bear witness to its ancient splendour. It is, however, with the greatest difficulty that admission is obtained, a senseless piece of tyranny. The interior is to the last degree interesting to the lover of ancient architecture, and there are no military or other secrets to be carried away. But say what one will, courtesy is not one of the virtues of the Spanish, and in this matter the Catalonians perhaps take the lead. They are abrupt and uncivil, and unwilling to stir hand or foot to oblige you unless something is to be gained by it.
Yet its outlines are just as fine and striking as ever, and the columns, stonework, and tracery that remain still testify to its ancient splendor. However, gaining admission is extremely difficult, a senseless form of tyranny. The interior is incredibly interesting for anyone who loves ancient architecture, and there are no military or other secrets to take away. But no matter what one might say, courtesy is not one of the virtues of the Spanish, and in this regard, the Catalans might be the worst. They are abrupt and rude, and unwilling to lift a finger to help you unless there's something in it for them.
Sallying forth this morning, we had these magnificent outlines in full view. We have said that the tenebrous darkness of last night had not prepared us for the charms of to-day. Lerida proved one of the most interesting of Spanish towns. This morning it was full of life and movement. The market-place was crowded with buyers and sellers; men and women still wearing a certain amount of picturesque costume. The air seemed full of sound. Fruit and flower-stalls were splendid, and large quantities of each could be bought for a very small sum.
Stepping out this morning, we had these amazing views all around us. We mentioned that the gloomy darkness of last night hadn’t prepared us for the beauty of today. Lerida turned out to be one of the most fascinating Spanish towns. This morning, it was alive and buzzing with activity. The marketplace was packed with buyers and sellers; men and women were still dressed in some colorful traditional outfits. The air was filled with sounds. The fruit and flower stalls were gorgeous, and you could buy a lot of both for a very low price.
As we had discovered last night, the town consisted of one long street running parallel with the river. It was narrow and straggling, full of lights and shadows. Now and then you came upon short arcades that were singularly picturesque, whilst every here and there a fine old gateway led to the river-side. These gateways form part of the fortifications of the town, for Lerida is strongly protected.
As we found out last night, the town was made up of one long street running alongside the river. It was narrow and winding, filled with light and shadow. Occasionally, you came across short arcades that were particularly charming, and every now and then a beautiful old gateway opened up to the riverbank. These gateways are part of the town's fortifications, as Lerida has strong defenses.
Making way through this long street, we presently came upon a wine-pressing machine in the very middle of the road, worked by strong, stalwart men; a very southern and picturesque scene. We watched them pile up the grapes, that had already once been pressed, until the machine was full. Then adjusting it by means of long poles, they turned the press and the rich red grape-juice poured itself into a vat placed for the purpose. The air was full of the scent of muscatel. The men looked as though the red juice ran in their veins and inspired them with energy.
Making our way down this long street, we soon came across a wine-pressing machine right in the middle of the road, operated by strong, sturdy men; it was a very southern and picturesque scene. We watched as they piled up the grapes, which had already been pressed once, until the machine was full. Then, using long poles, they adjusted the press and the rich red grape juice flowed into a vat set up for that purpose. The air was filled with the scent of muscatel. The men looked like the red juice ran in their veins and energized them.
Lerida mules.
As the vat filled, it was emptied with a great ladle into a larger barrel that stood inside the archway of the adjoining house. The sight was novel, and the men seemed amused at our interest. They offered us of the juice in a small vessel, declaring it excellent; but there was a suspicious want of cleanliness about the whole thing—it might have been fancy—and we civilly declined the attention; upon which, possibly to set us a good example, they emptied the vessel themselves, smacked their lips and pronounced it very good.
As the vat filled up, a large ladle poured the contents into a bigger barrel located in the archway of the neighboring house. The scene was interesting, and the men seemed entertained by our curiosity. They offered us some of the juice in a small cup, claiming it was excellent; however, there was a questionable lack of cleanliness about the whole situation—it might have been elaborate—and we politely declined their offer. In an effort to show us a good example, they drank from the cup themselves, smacked their lips, and declared it very good.
Narrow streets led upwards from the main street to the old cathedral, a steep, rough climb. It was a place to revel in, full of wonderful perspectives and artistic groupings, as much the result of accident as of purpose. The eye was arrested by a bewildering accumulation of wrought-iron balconies, casements and sunblinds, all sparkling in sunshine and shadow, whilst above one could trace a long succession of ancient gabled roofs, clear-cut against the blue sky, the projecting water-spout of every house looking like a grinning gargoyle and adding much to the quaint antiquity of the place. Through the old gates we watched the mules passing in their rich and curious trappings.
Narrow streets rose from the main road to the old cathedral, a steep and uneven climb. It was a place to enjoy, filled with amazing views and artistic arrangements, resulting as much from chance as from intention. The eye was caught by a dizzying mix of wrought-iron balconies, windows, and awnings, all shimmering in the sunlight and shadows, while above, a long line of ancient gabled roofs stood out against the blue sky, with the water spouts of every house resembling grinning gargoyles, adding to the charming old-world feel of the area. Through the old gates, we watched the mules go by, adorned in their rich and unique decorations.
Very distinctly we felt that Lerida was a revelation and a discovery; a town by no means to be passed over when searching out the glories of Spain.
We clearly felt that Lerida was a revelation and a discovery; a town that definitely shouldn't be overlooked when exploring the wonders of Spain.
We found the narrow thoroughfare in which last night we had almost come to grief; so tortuous and ill-paved, we wondered how we had escaped destruction. Here and there small houses of the meanest description broke the continuity of dead grey walls. At the door of the cottage H. C. had charged sat an evil-looking dog that growled and showed its teeth as we passed and evidently connected us with the midnight raid. Whether the owner of the blunderbuss had killed himself with his own weapon or was only absent on business remained uncertain; he did not appear.
We found the narrow street where we almost met our doom last night; it was so winding and poorly paved that we couldn't believe we had escaped. Occasionally, small, rundown houses disrupted the constant stretch of dull gray walls. At the entrance of the cottage H. C. had warned us about, an unfriendly-looking dog sat growling and baring its teeth as we walked by, clearly associating us with the late-night raid. It was unclear whether the owner of the gun had accidentally shot himself or was just out running errands; he didn't show up.
Continuing upwards we presently came out upon the open space surrounding the old cathedral.
Continuing upward, we soon emerged into the open space around the old cathedral.
The precincts were certainly not ecclesiastical. We seemed to have reached the poorest part of the town, and the houses were quite picturesque in their shabbiness. A splendid doorway admitted to the interior of the semi-religious fortress, before which a sentinel with gun and bayonet kept watch and ward. No one passed him without a special permission from the churlish old commandant of the town, who, after tracing your pedigree back to Adam, bestowed the simple favour as though conferring upon you the dignity of Spain's high order of the Saint Esprit.
The area definitely wasn't church-like. We seemed to have arrived in the poorest part of town, and the houses were quite charming in their rundown condition. A grand doorway led to the inside of the semi-religious fortress, where a guard with a gun and bayonet stood watch. No one could pass him without special permission from the grumpy old commandant of the town, who, after tracing your family lineage back to Adam, granted the simple favor as if he were bestowing upon you the honor of Spain's highest order, the Saint Esprit.
Lérida.
Strangers and especially Englishmen, evidently visit Lerida at long intervals, and wherever we went we found ourselves attracting an amount of attention that might have confused more bashful minds. As in most other places, the people were especially interested in our little kodak, and seemed to think the honour of being taken equal to canonisation. In the market-place men and women threw themselves into groups and attitudes, set out their stalls to the best advantage, and begged the favour of being made immortal.
Strangers, especially Englishmen, clearly visit Lerida infrequently, and no matter where we went, we found ourselves drawing a level of attention that could overwhelm shyer individuals. Like in many other places, the locals were particularly intrigued by our little camera and seemed to believe that being photographed was on par with being canonized. In the marketplace, men and women grouped together, posed, arranged their stalls for maximum appeal, and eagerly asked to be captured for posterity.
But as the day wore on the crowd dispersed and disappeared, the market-place grew empty, arcades lost their loungers; the afternoon shadows lengthened; there were not so many sun-flashes in the air; outlines mellowed as the sky behind them grew less dazzling; the river lost some of its jewels.
But as the day went on, the crowd thinned out and vanished, the market square became empty, and the arcades lost their visitors; the afternoon shadows grew longer; there weren't as many sunbeams in the air; the outlines softened as the sky behind them became less bright; the river lost some of its sparkle.
We were gazing at the latter, at the wonderful outlines of the town rising gradually upon its rock, crowned by that magnificent fortress with its imposing and impressive tower, when a voice suddenly said beside us: "We hope, señor, you have spent a happy day in Lerida and seen the interior of the old cathedral—now nothing but a useless barrack. The commandant suffers from dyspepsia and is capricious. No one ever knows beforehand whether he will grant or withhold permission. It entirely depends upon his digestion."
We were staring at the latter, at the beautiful outlines of the town slowly rising on its rock, topped by that magnificent fortress with its striking tower, when a voice suddenly interrupted us: "We hope, sir, you’ve had a nice day in Lerida and explored the inside of the old cathedral—now just a useless barrack. The commander has stomach issues and is unpredictable. No one ever knows in advance whether he'll give or deny permission. It completely depends on how he’s feeling."
We turned and saw our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary standing meekly and humbly beside us. Noting his fine face—it was really dignified in spite of his office—his white hair, his nearly ninety years, we thought humility should have been on our side.
We turned and saw our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary standing quietly and modestly beside us. Noticing his distinguished face—it was truly noble despite his position—his white hair, and his nearly ninety years, we felt that humility should have been on our side.
WINE PRESSERS: LERIDA.
"Ah, señor, thereby hangs a tale. If I am to give you my reason, I must go back seventy years in my life, for it dates from that time. And that, you see, will take us very nearly to the days of Waterloo. All my people were respectable and well-to-do, some even distinguished: there was a prosperous life before me. I was in the French army, serving my time. I had been unfortunate and drawn a low number in conscription; besides which, soldiers were wanted and few escaped. Napoleon in devastating other countries had not spared his own. It was then I committed the one great folly of my life, which has ever since been one of repentance. I fell in love with a beautiful Norman girl of gentle blood and breeding; so madly, so desperately, that I think for the time being I lost the balance of my mind. Every consideration faded before the strength of my passion. This beautiful girl seemed equally in love with me. I was young, they told me I was good-looking, and in my uniform I dare say I was not unattractive. Then came my error. I obtained a week's leave of absence, and deserted. We fled together to Spain, and of course I was outlawed. I sacrificed home, country and honour; I ruined all my worldly prospects; and for what? For a pair of bewitching eyes. Nay, she had more than that; she was a good woman and has made me a good wife; but had she been twice favoured, my folly would have been equally vast. For years and years I was possessed of a fever—that of mal du pays: all I had deliberately thrown away gained a hundred-fold in charm, haunted my mind by day, coloured my dreams. But there was no place for repentance. Now it has all passed away. Señor, my great-nephew is a French count, rich and well spoken of, one of the high ones of the land. He does not even know of my existence. Life has only one thing left me—death! But I pray I may live to close the sightless eyes of my wife, and then follow her speedily, that we may rest in one grave."
"Ah, sir, that's quite a story. To explain my reason, I have to go back seventy years in my life, since it starts from that time. And that will take us almost to the days of Waterloo. My family was respectable and well-off, some even distinguished: I had a prosperous life ahead of me. I was in the French army, serving my time. I was unlucky and drew a low number in the draft; besides, soldiers were needed and few escaped. Napoleon, in devastating other countries, didn't spare his own. It was then that I made the one huge mistake of my life, which I've regretted ever since. I fell in love with a beautiful Norman girl of noble birth; so madly and desperately that I think I temporarily lost my mind. Every consideration vanished in the face of my passion. This stunning girl seemed to love me back just as much. I was young, they told me I was good-looking, and in my uniform, I daresay I wasn't unattractive. Then I made my mistake. I got a week's leave and deserted. We ran away to Spain, and of course, that made me an outlaw. I gave up my home, my country, and my honor; I ruined all my prospects; and for what? For a pair of enchanting eyes. However, she was more than that; she was a good woman and has been a good wife to me; but even if she were twice as exceptional, my foolishness would have been just as great. For years, I was consumed by homesickness: everything I had deliberately given up became a hundred times more appealing, haunting my thoughts by day and filling my dreams at night. But there was no room for repentance. Now all of that is gone. Sir, my great-nephew is a wealthy French count, well-respected, one of the high-ranking people in the land. He doesn't even know I exist. Life has only one thing left for me—death! But I hope to live long enough to close my wife's blind eyes, and then follow her quickly, so we can rest in the same grave."
"Has your wife long been blind?" we asked in sympathy.
"Has your wife been blind for a long time?" we asked sympathetically.
"Only two years, señor. You would not know it to look at her. In spite of her eighty-seven years, her eyes are still soft and bright, though closed to the world. I have now not only to earn the daily bread, but to buy it and manage the household. We have many good neighbours who help the old couple, and look in upon the wife when I am at work. Ah, señor, it is delightful to find one to whom I can talk in my own tongue. Surely the señor is French too?"
"Only two years, sir. You wouldn't know it just by looking at her. Despite being eighty-seven, her eyes remain soft and bright, even though she's closed off from the world. Now, I not only have to earn a living but also buy the groceries and take care of the house. We have many good neighbors who help the old couple and check in on the wife while I'm working. Ah, sir, it's wonderful to find someone I can speak to in my own language. Surely you're French too?"
"Land of our birth," we confessed; "nevertheless we are English, and would have it so."
"Land of our birth," we admitted; "still, we are English, and we want it that way."
The old man hesitated; we saw there was something upon his mind; it came out at last.
The old man hesitated; we could tell there was something on his mind; it finally came out.
"Would the señor deign to come and see the wife, and talk to her a little of France and the French? She still speaks it perfectly, and she too has often longed for the country and privileges that for her sake I threw away. Such a visit would colour the remaining of her days. It is but a few steps."
"Would the sir be willing to come and see his wife, and chat with her a bit about France and the French? She still speaks it perfectly, and she too has often yearned for the country and the privileges that I gave up for her sake. Such a visit would brighten her remaining days. It’s just a few steps away."
Soon we reached the spot where we had watched the grape-pressing. The men were giving up work and clearing away, leaving nothing behind them but the stains of the fruit and the scent of the muscatel. They nodded in friendly recognition, and we knew the laugh they gave meant to say that the cup we had refused they had found very cheering. The narrow street was growing dim, and in the arched room, half cellar, half wine vault, they had lighted candles. The semi-obscurity was weird and picturesque in the extreme, almost Rembrandt-like in effect. The men's faces were thrown up against the dark background as the light fell upon them; and as one of them sitting astride a barrel raised a cup to his lips, he looked a true disciple of Bacchus.
Soon we reached the spot where we had watched the grape-pressing. The men were finishing up their work and cleaning up, leaving behind nothing but the stains of the fruit and the sweet scent of the muscatel. They nodded in friendly acknowledgment, and we understood that their laughter meant they found the cup we had refused to be quite enjoyable. The narrow street was growing dim, and in the arched room, half cellar and half wine vault, they had lit candles. The soft shadows created a strange and incredibly picturesque scene, almost like a Rembrandt painting. The men's faces were illuminated against the dark background as the light fell on them; and as one of them sat astride a barrel, raising a cup to his lips, he looked like a true follower of Bacchus.
Our guide passed on and turning up a narrow street halted before the door of a quaint old house. The street was quiet and respectable; the house clean and well cared for, in spite of its age.
Our guide moved on and turned down a narrow street, stopping in front of the door of a charming old house. The street was peaceful and respectable; the house was clean and well-maintained, despite its age.
"We have lived here for a quarter of a century and more—twenty-seven years," said the old man, "and the house does not look a day older than it looked then. Ah, señor," with a sigh, "we cannot say the same of ourselves. Twenty-seven years in a lifetime make all the difference between youth and age. But let us mount. My wife does not expect you, but you will find her ready to receive the young king himself if he paid her a visit."
"We've been living here for over twenty-five years—twenty-seven years," said the old man, "and the house hasn't aged a bit since then. Ah, sir," he sighed, "we can't say the same for ourselves. Twenty-seven years in a lifetime changes everything between youth and age. But let’s get going. My wife doesn’t expect you, but she’ll be ready to welcome the young king himself if he stopped by."
We passed up a broad old staircase of solid oak, that would almost have adorned a palace. In days gone by, this house, fallen to a low estate, must have had a greater destiny. The walls were panelled. There was a refined, imposing air about the place. We would have given worlds for the power to transport the staircase over the seas.
We went up a wide old staircase made of sturdy oak that could have easily been in a palace. In the past, this house, now in disrepair, must have had a much grander purpose. The walls were paneled. There was a classy, impressive vibe about the place. We would have given anything to be able to move the staircase across the ocean.
The old man mounted to the topmost floor, and knocked at a large oak door which well matched its surroundings. A voice responded, he lifted the latch and we walked in.
The old man went up to the top floor and knocked on a large oak door that fit perfectly with its surroundings. A voice replied, he lifted the latch, and we walked in.
"I bring you visitors, Nerissa," said the old man. "A gentleman from France, who will talk to you in our beautiful language, and tell you of scenes and places you have not looked upon for nearly seventy years. You were only eighteen, I only twenty when we turned our backs for ever upon la belle Normandie."
"I have some visitors for you, Nerissa," said the old man. "A gentleman from France, who will speak to you in our beautiful language and share stories about sights and places you haven't seen in almost seventy years. You were just eighteen, and I was only twenty when we left la belle Normandie for good."
It was a sight worth seeing. The room was large and airy, quaint and old as the rest of the house. Light came in through large casements with latticed panes that bore the unmistakable seal of time. The room itself was in perfect and spotless order. In a large alcove stood the bed, neatly draped and curtained. What furniture the room contained matched its surroundings. There was an utter absence of any commonplace element about it.
It was a sight to behold. The room was spacious and bright, charming and as old as the rest of the house. Light streamed in through large windows with grid-like panes that clearly showed their age. The room itself was perfectly clean and organized. In a big nook stood the bed, neatly covered and draped. The furniture in the room complemented its atmosphere perfectly. There was a complete lack of anything ordinary about it.
But it was not all this that distinguished it so singularly. It was the figure of a little old woman seated near the latticed panes in an arm-chair. The evening light, still strong in the west, fell upon her. As we entered she did not move, but turned her sightless eyes towards us, with the intent, listening look that is so pathetic. She was very small, and looked almost like a fairy-queen. Her hair was white as snow, but still abundant and faultlessly arranged. The face was small and refined, and possessed all the beauty of age, just as in years gone by it must have possessed in a very marked manner all the beauty of youth. It had the placid look the blind so often wear, was delicately flushed, and without line or wrinkle. This was very strange in one who must have had, to some extent at least, a hard and laborious life, with many anxieties. Her dress was neatness itself; an old dark silk probably given to her by a rich visitor whose turn it had served; and it was worn with the air that seemed to betoken one who had been a lady. But her whole appearance and bearing was gentle. It was a perfect and faultless picture, charming to look upon.
But it wasn't just all of this that made it so unique. It was the sight of a little old woman sitting near the window in an armchair. The evening light, still bright in the west, shone on her. As we walked in, she didn't move but turned her blind eyes toward us, with that intent, listening look that's so moving. She was very small and looked almost like a fairy queen. Her hair was as white as snow, but still thick and perfectly styled. Her face was small and elegant, and had all the beauty that comes with age, just as in the past it must have had all the beauty of youth in a very noticeable way. It had the calm expression that blind people often have, was gently flushed, and showed no lines or wrinkles. This was quite odd for someone who must have had, at least in part, a tough and laborious life filled with worries. Her dress was impeccably neat; an old dark silk probably given to her by a wealthy visitor whose time had come; and it was worn with the grace that suggested she had once been a lady. But her overall appearance and demeanor were gentle. It was a perfect and flawless image, lovely to behold.
We turned to the old man in wonder. His eyes were fixed upon his wife with an intensity of admiration and reverence almost startling. It was evident that the love of youth had survived every trial, all life's rough lessons. So far he could have nothing to regret. The folly of which he had been guilty—and it was an undoubted folly and mistake—had been condoned and excused by the after life.
We looked at the old man in awe. His gaze was locked on his wife with a level of admiration and respect that was almost shocking. It was clear that the love of his youth had endured every challenge and all of life’s harsh lessons. At that moment, he had nothing to regret. The mistakes he had made—and they were certainly mistakes—had been forgiven and overlooked by the passage of time.
"We no longer marvel that you deserted the ranks of the army for those of a sweeter service," we said, looking from one to the other and feeling that we gazed upon a wonderful idyll.
"We're no longer surprised that you left the army for a more enjoyable job," we said, glancing from one to the other and feeling like we were witnessing a beautiful scene.
"Was she not worth it—even all I renounced!" he cried. "Nerissa, I have told these gentlemen all my boyish folly and indiscretion—all you made me give up for your bewitching eyes."
"Wasn’t she worth it—even everything I gave up!" he exclaimed. "Nerissa, I’ve shared all my youthful mistakes and foolishness with these gentlemen—all that you made me sacrifice for your enchanting gaze."
Almost a youthful flush passed over the old lady's face as she smiled rather sadly in response.
Almost a youthful glow crossed the old lady's face as she smiled somewhat sadly in reply.
"It was indeed much to renounce for me," she said, in a very sweet voice. "I was not worth it; no woman could be worth it. I ought never have permitted it, and the thought has been one of the lasting sorrows of my life. But we act first and think after. Though after all, what I renounced was also great."
"It was a lot to give up for me," she said in a very sweet voice. "I wasn't worth it; no woman could be worth it. I should have never allowed it, and that's been one of the lasting regrets of my life. But we act first and think later. Still, what I gave up was significant, too."
"We are quite sure you would do it all over again. You do not in the least regret it, and your life has been a very happy one."
"We're pretty sure you would do it all over again. You don’t regret it at all, and your life has been really happy."
Again the youthful flush passed over the old lady's face. She put out her hand—a small, delicate hand—as though searching for her husband's. He had soon clasped it.
Again, the youthful glow returned to the old lady's face. She reached out her hand—a small, delicate hand—as if looking for her husband's. He quickly took hold of it.
"Nerissa, you do not regret anything," he said. "You know quite well you would do it all over again if we could go back to the beginning of life."
"Nerissa, you don’t regret anything," he said. "You know very well you'd do it all again if we could start life over."
Her sightless but still wonderfully expressive eyes looked up into his face.
Her blind but still incredibly expressive eyes gazed up at his face.
"With you to tempt me, Alphonse, how could I resist? Alas, human nature is weak where the heart is concerned."
"With you trying to tempt me, Alphonse, how could I say no? Unfortunately, human nature is weak when it comes to matters of the heart."
"Have you any children?" we asked.
"Do you have any kids?" we asked.
"We have four, señor," replied the old lady. "And grand-children also. Our children are all out in the world, and not one of them lives in Lerida. As far as I was able I brought them up well, and tried to give them a little bearing and refinement. But we have always been poor, and poverty means limitation. They are all prospering, but in fairly humble life. At rare intervals one or other pays us a visit; but time flies quickly and they are soon gone again."
"We have four, sir," the old lady said. "And grandchildren too. Our kids are all out in the world, and none of them live in Lerida. I did my best to raise them well and tried to give them some manners and polish. But we've always been poor, and poverty brings limitations. They’re all doing well, but they're living fairly modest lives. Occasionally, one of them comes to visit, but time passes quickly, and they're gone before we know it."
OLD GATEWAYS: LLEIDA.
"Alphonse, it is all a new world," she said over and over again. "If we went back to it we should be lost and strange. It is time we passed out of life. But, señor, your visit has brought back a breath of that old life to me. Those who come to us now are humble, and know nothing of our past world. You almost make me feel young again; bring back lost realities, when I was a lady, and had not thrown up all for love, and dreamed not of a humble life of poverty. But, oh, I would renounce it all again a second time for my husband's sake."
"Alphonse, this is all a new world," she kept saying. "If we went back to it, we’d feel lost and out of place. It’s time for us to move on from life. But, sir, your visit has brought back a hint of that old life for me. The people who come to us now are humble and know nothing of our past. You almost make me feel young again; you revive memories from when I was a lady, before I gave everything up for love, and didn’t dream of a simple life of poverty. But, oh, I would give it all up again for my husband’s sake."
Who would have supposed such an idyll in the quiet town of Lerida? When our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary had come to us that morning and received his humble dole for the work done, who could have imagined that such a romance, a poem in real life, was concealed in his history?
Who would have thought there could be such a perfect moment in the quiet town of Lerida? When our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary came to us that morning and received his small payment for the work he'd done, who could have imagined that such a romance, a real-life poem, was hidden in his story?
When we went back into the quiet streets the gloom had deepened; twilight reigned; a soft glow was in the evening sky; one or two stars were faintly shining. We could not lose the impression of the visit we had just paid; the wonderful little fairy-queen in the arm-chair, who was still ladylike and beautiful and refined in spite of a hard and humble life, and the fine and venerable old man, who for seventy years had remained true and faithful to his first love. No Knight of the Round Table could ever have proved more noble and devoted; worthier King Arthur's friendship. The very streets of the town seemed to have gained a charm as we passed through them on our way to the fonda.
When we returned to the quiet streets, the gloom had intensified; twilight was everywhere; a soft glow filled the evening sky; a star or two faintly twinkled. We couldn’t shake off the impression from the visit we had just made; the wonderful little fairy queen in the armchair, who remained elegant, beautiful, and refined despite a tough and humble life, and the distinguished old man, who had stayed true and loyal to his first love for seventy years. No Knight of the Round Table could have been more noble and devoted; he was worthy of King Arthur's friendship. Even the streets of the town seemed to have gained charm as we walked through them on our way to the inn.
H. C. was singularly quiet and grave. "Of what are you thinking?" we asked.
H. C. was unusually quiet and serious. "What are you thinking about?" we asked.
He started, as if suddenly aroused from sleep. "I am thinking of the faithfulness of that beautiful old couple," he replied. "No, if I tried for a hundred years I never could be as constant as that. In fact I begin to think my only chance of happiness is to emigrate to Salt Lake City and become a Mormon."
He jumped, as if suddenly waking up. "I'm thinking about the loyalty of that lovely old couple," he said. "Honestly, even if I tried for a hundred years, I could never be as devoted as they are. I’m starting to believe my only shot at happiness might be to move to Salt Lake City and become a Mormon."
H. C. only shook his head and murmured something about having a heart large enough to embrace a whole Agapemone of beauty. We did not argue the point, feeling there are opinions and delusions time alone can correct.
H. C. just shook his head and muttered something about having a heart big enough to hold an entire Agapemone of beauty. We didn't debate the point, understanding that some opinions and delusions can only be set straight by time.
But we went back to the bridge and looked down upon the quiet stream, and beyond the houses of the town to the wonderful outlines of the old cathedral, darkly and distinctly visible against the evening sky. Everything seemed glorified by the story we had just learned, the romance we had witnessed. It was an experience we would not have lost; and henceforth to us the word Lerida would be weighted with a hidden charm of which the interpretation meant everything that was true and chivalrous, everything that was brave and constant, lovely and of good report.
But we went back to the bridge and looked down at the peaceful stream, and beyond the town's houses to the stunning outlines of the old cathedral, clearly visible against the evening sky. Everything felt elevated by the story we had just learned, the romance we had witnessed. It was an experience we wouldn’t trade for anything; and from then on, the word Lerida would carry a hidden charm for us, representing everything that was true and noble, all that was brave and steadfast, beautiful and admirable.
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 señor 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 café—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, señor"—El Sereno disappears for the last time—Daybreak—In presence of death—Alone, but resigned—Surpassing loveliness—Sacred atmosphere.
Days of chivalry aren't over—In the evening light—Night porter grateful—Dragon is fully engaged—Combative and vengeful—Ready for anything—Gall turns to sweetness when H. C. appears—Last night in Lerida—The bane of our host's life—Mysterious disappearance—Monastery of Sigena—Devout ladies—Returning at night—Place is empty and deserted—Birds have flown with the keys—Quite a commotion—"The señor likes to joke"—Was a murder committed?—Mysteries uncovered—Probably down the well—Searching for skeletons—Host's horror—"We drink the water"—A tragedy—Out in the quiet night—Discords—Lerida café—Creating a sensation—Polite captain—Offer turned down—Regrets—Final crash—Paradise or Lerida—Deserted market place—Trees whisper their secrets—El Sereno at the witching hour—Close to the angels—Not a bed of roses—Alphonse—End of a long life—Until dawn—Acolyte and priest—"We all must face it, señor"—El Sereno disappears for the last time—Daybreak—In the presence of death—Alone, but resigned—Surpassing beauty—Sacred atmosphere.
SO the days of chivalry and devotion were not over: could never be over as long as there are Alphonses and Nerissas in the world. As we went back to the hotel in the evening light, the whole town seemed full of romance. One by one the outlines faded and died out, and when we entered the fonda the stars were beginning to shine.
SO the days of honor and dedication weren't finished: they could never be finished as long as there are Alphonses and Nerissas in the world. As we returned to the hotel in the evening light, the entire town felt filled with romance. One by one, the outlines blurred and disappeared, and by the time we entered the inn, the stars were starting to appear.
The night porter was standing in the doorway, though his reign had not yet begun. He made us a low bow.
The night porter was standing in the doorway, even though his shift hadn't started yet. He gave us a slight bow.
"Señor, allow me to thank you for not complaining of me this morning to the padrone. I am still full of remorse for having locked you out last night, but it is seldom any of our visitors trouble the dark streets of Lerida at midnight. Most of our guests are commercial travellers, who have no eye for the ancient and picturesque, and are generally glad to get early to bed."
"Sir, I want to thank you for not complaining about me to the boss this morning. I’m still really sorry for locking you out last night, but it’s rare that any of our visitors venture out into the dark streets of Lerida at midnight. Most of our guests are business travelers, who don’t appreciate the old and charming sights, and are usually happy to get to bed early."
Again assuring the worthy man of our good will, we passed up the shabby old staircase. At the top we came into contact with the Dragon striding along with bare arms and flourishing a rolling-pin. She looked the picture of fiery indignation and we wondered what had gone wrong.
Again assuring the worthy man of our goodwill, we climbed the shabby old staircase. At the top, we encountered the Dragon striding along with bare arms and brandishing a rolling pin. She looked like a picture of fiery indignation, and we wondered what had gone wrong.
After some difficulty we managed to gather that the waiter, in spite of her want of beauty, in spite of her being an appropriated blessing, had offered her a chaste salute. In return for the affront, the rolling-pin—it was a washing pin, by the way—had come into sharp contact with his skull, which, fortunately for him was a hard one. Since then the Dragon had been marching up and down with threatening weapon and flashing eyes, brandishing her rolling-pin like another Communist, mouthing voiceless words.
After some trouble, we figured out that the waiter, despite her lack of looks and being a taken lady, had given him a pure greeting. In response to the insult, the rolling pin—it was actually a washing pin, by the way—had hit his head hard, which, luckily for him, was a tough one. Since then, the Dragon had been pacing back and forth with a menacing weapon and intense eyes, waving her rolling pin like another Communist, silently mouthing words.
As soon as she caught sight of H. C., however, her gall turned to sweetness; she marshalled him to our rooms, threw wide the door, and beamed on him one of her most cavernous smiles. That a chaste salute from him would have been very differently received was evident.
As soon as she saw H. C., though, her irritation turned into friendliness; she led him to our rooms, opened the door wide, and greeted him with one of her biggest smiles. It was clear that a pure greeting from him would have been received very differently.
It was our last night in Lerida. The landlord still attended us at dinner, for the waiter was nursing his wounds in the kitchen. A violent headache had come on, and he was vowing vengeance against the Dragon, declaring she had imagined the whole thing.
It was our last night in Lerida. The landlord still served us at dinner, since the waiter was tending to his wounds in the kitchen. A severe headache had hit him, and he was swearing revenge against the Dragon, claiming she had made the whole thing up.
"But for the servants, my life would be happy," said our host. "If they keep the peace with me, they are disputing amongst themselves. The last waiter and chambermaid I had, after quarrelling like cat and dog for six months, suddenly went off one day together, and we never heard of them again. It was a Sunday, and madame and I had gone off with some friends by train to Sariñena—a long day's excursion, for we were going to the Monastery of Sigena, near Villanueva. Has the señor visited the famous monastery?"
"But if it weren't for the staff, my life would be great," our host said. "When they're not causing trouble for me, they're at each other's throats. The last waiter and chambermaid I had fought like cats and dogs for six months, and then one day they just left together, and we never heard from them again. It was a Sunday, and my wife and I had gone on a train trip to Sariñena with some friends—it was a long day because we were visiting the Monastery of Sigena, near Villanueva. Has the gentleman been to the famous monastery?"
We had never done so.
We had never done that.
"It is to be regretted," returned the landlord, as he busily changed the plates and poured out the wine. "The monastery is the most interesting in our neighbourhood; and people come from far and wide to see it. In situation it is most romantic, standing near a lovely stream full of fine fish. The nuns, however, don't fish; the very thought would be sacrilege. They are devout ladies, some of them very handsome; a pity so much beauty should be wasted. They are of the order of St. John of Jerusalem, which I have heard dates as far back as the twelfth century, but I am not learned in those matters. I have seen the nuns at mass in their chapel, and they looked like a vision of angels. But I was saying. We had left the hotel in charge of the waiter and chambermaid. As it happened, there were no guests staying here. When we came home at night, we found the place locked and empty. Both servants had flown, and to add insult to injury had taken the keys with them. Fortunately the glass doors in this very dining-room had been left open, and by means of a ladder, and climbing over walls at the risk of one's life, I managed to get in, took the duplicate keys out of my desk, and admitted madame. It caused quite a commotion."
"It’s a shame," the landlord replied, as he hurriedly switched the plates and poured the wine. "The monastery is the most interesting place in our area; people come from all over to see it. It’s in a really romantic spot, right by a beautiful stream full of great fish. However, the nuns don’t fish; the very idea would be considered sacrilege. They are devoted ladies, some of them very attractive; it’s a shame so much beauty is wasted. They belong to the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, which I’ve heard dates back to the twelfth century, but I’m not really knowledgeable about that. I’ve seen the nuns at mass in their chapel, and they looked like a vision of angels. But I digress. We had left the hotel in the care of the waiter and chambermaid. As it turned out, there were no guests here. When we returned at night, we found the place locked and empty. Both servants had vanished and, to add insult to injury, had taken the keys with them. Luckily, the glass doors in this very dining room were left open, and by using a ladder and climbing over walls at great risk, I managed to get in, took the duplicate keys from my desk, and let madame in. It caused quite a stir."
"And had the enterprising pair taken nothing but the keys?" we asked. "Was your gold plate safe, and madame's diamonds?"
"And did the adventurous duo take only the keys?" we asked. "Was your gold plate safe, and madame's diamonds?"
"The señor is pleased to joke," laughed the landlord. "My gold plate is pewter, and madame's jewelry is false, excepting her wedding-ring and the few things she happened to have on that never-to-be-forgotten day. No; they had taken nothing. But they had made a first-rate meal, and had tapped and emptied three bottles of my very best Chambertin 1868 vintage, and consumed half a bottle of Chartreuse."
"The gentleman enjoys joking," chuckled the landlord. "My gold plate is actually pewter, and madame's jewelry is fake, except for her wedding ring and a few pieces she wore on that unforgettable day. No; they didn't take anything. But they made a great meal, finished three bottles of my finest Chambertin 1868, and drank half a bottle of Chartreuse."
"But you have no proof that they went off together," we suggested. "It may be that murder was committed. The dead body of the chambermaid all this time may be crumbling to dust and ashes in some hole or corner of your cellar. Have you a cellar, or any other place in which a murdered body might be concealed?"
"But you have no proof that they left together," we pointed out. "It's possible that a murder took place. The chambermaid's dead body could be rotting away in some hidden spot in your cellar or somewhere else. Do you have a cellar, or any other place where a murdered body might be hidden?"
"Santa Maria!" cried our host, turning pale. "The idea never occurred to me, but I shouldn't wonder if you are right. It would explain a good deal that has remained a mystery. We have a deep well out in the yard; so deep that we do not know the bottom, which is supposed to communicate with the river. The man might easily have murdered the woman and thrown her down. And we drink the water!"
"Santa Maria!" our host exclaimed, his face going pale. "I never thought of that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you're right. It could explain a lot that has been a mystery. We have a deep well in the yard; it’s so deep that we don’t even know where the bottom is, and it is said to connect with the river. The man could have easily killed the woman and thrown her in. And we drink the water!"
"That is hardly the solution that suggests itself. After drinking your three bottles of Chambertin and your half-bottle of Chartreuse, depend upon it their heads began to go round; they felt the world coming to an end, and determined to be beforehand with it. It is clear as daylight: they both threw themselves down the well, and there you will find the skeletons. You had better have it dragged and give them decent burial, or you will certainly be seeing ghosts in the house."
"That’s definitely not the solution that comes to mind. After drinking your three bottles of Chambertin and your half-bottle of Chartreuse, trust me, their heads started spinning; they felt like the world was ending and decided to get ahead of it. It's clear as day: they both jumped into the well, and that’s where you’ll find the skeletons. You should probably get it dragged out and give them a proper burial, or you’ll definitely start seeing ghosts in the house."
By this time the landlord was trembling with horror; his eyes, grown large and round, would almost have matched the Dragon's. He was no longer in a fit state to pour out wine or change plates.
By this point, the landlord was shaking with fear; his eyes, now wide and round, could almost compare to the Dragon's. He was no longer able to serve wine or switch out plates.
"And we drink the water," he murmured half a dozen times over. "We drink the water. This accounts for my queer symptoms. But, after all, the bodies cannot be there. They must have communicated with the river, and so floated out to sea. I dare say they will some day turn up in the Panama Canal or on the shores of New Zealand. Señor, I am quite certain this is the true state of the case. I never could understand why those two should go off together. They were always quarrelling, and seemed to hate each other like poison, and I dare say they even disputed as to which should go first down the well. But when all's said and done, it is three years ago, and they will never come back to trouble me."
"And we drink the water," he murmured half a dozen times. "We drink the water. That's why I'm having these weird symptoms. But honestly, the bodies can't be there. They must have interacted with the river and floated out to sea. I bet they'll eventually show up in the Panama Canal or on the shores of New Zealand. Sir, I'm sure this is what really happened. I never could figure out why those two left together. They always fought and seemed to hate each other, and I wouldn't be surprised if they argued about who should go down the well first. But still, that was three years ago, and they’re never coming back to bother me."
"Not even as ghosts?"
"Not even as spirits?"
He shivered.
He trembled.
"I never saw a ghost, señor, but I suppose there are such things. I shouldn't care to see one. Nevertheless, I will have the well dragged—quietly, not to raise a scandal. I can pretend to have dropped in a diamond ring belonging to a client. If the skeletons turn up we must hush up the matter as well as we can, and so dispose of the ghosts. They would never walk after decent burial. Ah, señor, what a tragedy you have opened up! And all the time I was accusing the wretched pair of I know not what!"
"I've never seen a ghost, sir, but I guess they exist. I wouldn’t want to see one, anyway. Still, I’ll have the well searched—quietly, to avoid a scandal. I can pretend I lost a diamond ring that belonged to a client. If any skeletons are found, we’ll have to cover it up as best we can, and that should take care of the ghosts. They wouldn’t come back after a proper burial. Oh, sir, what a tragedy you’ve uncovered! And all this time, I was blaming that poor couple for something I can’t even imagine!"
Fortunately for us this conversation took place towards the end of dinner, or we should have fared badly. We left the landlord in his dining-room. He had dropped into a chair and was gazing on vacancy, evidently in deep thought as to how he could have the well dragged without creating a scandal to the detriment of his hotel.
Fortunately for us, this conversation happened toward the end of dinner, or we would have been in trouble. We left the landlord in his dining room. He had slumped into a chair and was staring into space, clearly deep in thought about how he could get the well cleaned out without causing a scandal that would hurt his hotel.
We went out into the quiet night, making sure the night porter was on duty and would keep there. The streets were as dark, quiet and ill-lighted as ever, and we took care to avoid Pandemonium. The market-place, so full and lively this morning, was now empty and silent. From the café already alluded to streams of light and strains of music were flowing. We turned in out of curiosity. Half a dozen musicians at the further end were making unearthly discords: shrieking and wailing instruments set one's teeth on edge and went down one's back like cold water. The room was fairly full, the atmosphere heavy with smoke; such smoke as only the Catalonians know how to produce.
We stepped out into the quiet night, making sure the night porter was on duty and would stay there. The streets were as dark, quiet, and poorly lit as ever, and we made an effort to steer clear of Pandemonium. The marketplace, which was bustling and lively this morning, was now empty and silent. From the café we had mentioned earlier, streams of light and strains of music flowed out. Our curiosity led us to go in. At the far end, half a dozen musicians were creating strange, jarring sounds: shrieking and wailing instruments that made your teeth grind and sent chills down your spine. The room was pretty crowded, and the atmosphere was thick with smoke; a type of smoke that only the Catalonians know how to create.
Our entrance created quite a sensation. We were recognised as English, and the English who visit Lerida are few and far between. Was our visit friendly or the opposite? Their glances plainly asked the question. Then one in military uniform came up, and, with a military salute ventured to sit down near us. We thought it a singular proceeding, but decided to take it in good part. He proved to be a captain of the regiment stationed at Lerida, and a really friendly and polite man.
Our entrance caused quite a stir. People recognized us as English, and English visitors to Lerida are rare. Were we being welcomed or not? Their looks clearly questioned this. Then, a man in military uniform approached us, saluted, and took a seat nearby. We found it a bit odd but chose to take it in stride. He turned out to be a captain of the regiment stationed in Lerida and was genuinely friendly and polite.
"I perceive, sirs, that you are strangers," he said. "Can I be of any service to you in a place where I am very much at home?"
"I see, gentlemen, that you are newcomers," he said. "Can I help you in a place where I feel very comfortable?"
To which we replied that our stay was drawing to a close, and we had probably seen the best of the town. "There is nothing you can do for us, though we are grateful for your good intentions. But if you would induce those in authority to grant their passes into the fortress with less restriction, you would confer a favour upon any who may come after us."
To which we replied that our visit was coming to an end, and we had likely seen the best of the city. "There's nothing you can do for us, but we appreciate your good intentions. However, if you could persuade those in charge to provide passes to the fortress with fewer restrictions, it would be a favor to anyone who comes after us."
"A senseless restriction indeed," replied our new friend, "and we all feel it so; but until some disappointed visitor of consequence appeals to the Queen or the Madrid Government, the thing will go on. There is absolutely no reason why all the world should not be admitted."
"A ridiculous rule for sure," replied our new friend, "and we all feel the same way; but until some important visitor gets upset enough to complain to the Queen or the Madrid Government, this will continue. There’s really no reason why everyone shouldn’t be allowed in."
"Do you call that music?" we asked.
"Is that really music?" we asked.
"I do not," he returned, "because I have spent much time in Paris, where barbaric music would not be tolerated. But these frantic discords just please the people of Lerida, who have not been educated to anything better. It is over for the night, and now everyone will depart. They have drunk their coffee or wine or spirit, sat a whole evening in a clouded, heated atmosphere, listening enraptured to the strains which have set you quivering, and are going home feeling that if this or paradise were offered to them they would not hesitate to reject paradise. Such is their life."
"I don’t,” he replied, “because I’ve spent a lot of time in Paris, where terrible music wouldn’t be accepted. But these chaotic sounds really appeal to the people of Lerida, who haven't been exposed to anything better. It’s over for the night, and now everyone will leave. They've had their coffee, wine, or liquor, spent the whole evening in a stuffy, warm atmosphere, captivated by the tunes that made you shudder, and they're going home feeling that if they were offered this or paradise, they wouldn't hesitate to choose this. Such is their life."
We got up to depart also.
We got up to leave too.
"I am sorry that I can be of no use to you," said our polite captain; "but if you are leaving Lerida to-morrow, time certainly runs short. I can, however, give you my card, and place myself and all I have at your disposal. If ever you visit Lerida again, and I am quartered here, I hope you will find me out. I will at least promise you a pass into the fortress; and there are a few things you would not be likely to see without the open sesame of one of ourselves."
"I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you," said our polite captain; "but if you’re leaving Lerida tomorrow, time is definitely short. However, I can give you my card and offer my services and everything I have. If you ever come back to Lerida and I’m stationed here, I hope you’ll look me up. At the very least, I can promise you access to the fortress; there are some things you wouldn’t normally see without the magic words from someone like me."
Upon which he shook hands, gave us a military salute, "wrapped his martial cloak about him," and passed out into the night.
Upon which he shook hands, gave us a military salute, "wrapped his military cloak around him," and stepped out into the night.
We listened to his quick receding footsteps and then turned away. The silence was only broken by the distant cry of a watchman proclaiming the hour and the weather. "El Sereno," as we called the old guardians of the darkness in Majorca, where many a time we wandered with them in the dead of night amidst the old palaces and watched them light up the wonderful old Moorish remains with their swinging lanterns.
We heard his footsteps fading away and then looked away. The silence was only interrupted by a distant watchman's call, announcing the hour and the weather. "El Sereno," as we called the old guardians of the night in Majorca, where we often wandered with them in the dead of night among the old palaces and watched them illuminate the beautiful old Moorish ruins with their swinging lanterns.
POBLET ENTRANCE.
It was a very dark night, though the stars flashed overhead. We found ourselves on the empty market-place, where trees whispered together. In the morning, when fruit and flowers and a hundred stalls and a crowd of noisy people called for all one's attention, the whispering trees were neglected. Now it was their hour, and they told each other their mighty secrets, and one felt that they were wiser and greater than mankind in its little brief authority. We stood and listened, but they talked in an unknown tongue. Almost as mysterious and full of meaning seemed the outlines of the gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky.
It was a very dark night, even though the stars were twinkling above. We found ourselves in the empty town square, where the trees were whispering to each other. In the morning, when fruit, flowers, countless stalls, and a bustling crowd grabbed everyone's attention, the whispering trees were overlooked. Now it was their time, and they shared their profound secrets, making it feel like they were wiser and more powerful than humanity in its brief moment of control. We stood and listened, but their conversation was in a language we couldn't understand. Almost as enigmatic and full of significance were the shapes of the gabled houses on the hills, topped by that striking semi-religious fortress, the tall tower piercing the sky.
From this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who, purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service had begun. But those days are over. For nearly two hundred years the bells have been silent. The sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts the precincts. Sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred pavement.
From this, long ago, the bells called people to church and made many a heavy old canon hurry his steps and catch his breath as he waddled into his spot before the altar after the service had started. But those times are gone. For almost two hundred years, the bells have been quiet. The priest’s somber robe no longer wanders the grounds. Sentries with guns and bayonets are now in charge, and signs and symbols of war clutter the old aisles and pollute the holy floor.
Gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. It was a watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our Burgos Sereno.
Gazing at the faint shapes in the darkness of night, the light from a distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our attention. It was a watchman, and our instincts told us he was none other than our Burgos Sereno.
He waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting to find the inhabitants of Pandemonium lurking in secret corners. As he walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time with his footsteps. "It is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the night is fair. El sereno." We gradually approached him, knowing well we were in his mind. The rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern had peace.
He waved his lantern more vigorously than usual, as if he expected to find the residents of Pandemonium hiding in the shadows. As he walked, his staff hit the ground "in measured moments," matching his footsteps. "It's midnight," he shouted, "and the night is beautiful. El sereno." We slowly got closer to him, fully aware that we were in his thoughts. The beams suddenly shone on us, and the lantern settled down.
"Señor, instinct told me you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems your hour for walking. In truth it is far better than midday, for the world is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. I hope that wily porter does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. To-day fifty people have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, señor? She is not the angel she looks——"
"Sir, I had a feeling you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems to be your time for wandering. Honestly, it's much better than midday because the world is asleep and we can see the stars. I hope that tricky porter doesn't plan to pull the same stunt on you tonight. Today, fifty people asked me if the town had been bombed, saying they expected to see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, sir? She's not the angel she appears to be—"
"Are you not rather hard upon the angels, Sereno?"
"Are you being a bit too harsh on the angels, Sereno?"
"I don't think I quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "No, she does not look an angel—and she is not one either. It is said that when her husband misbehaves, she beats him with her washing-pin; and it is also said that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. It may be a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other way of venting her spleen. I don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of roses, though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of his bargain."
"I don't think I really meant to say it like that," he replied, laughing deeply. "No, she doesn’t look like an angel—and she’s not one either. They say that when her husband acts up, she hits him with her washing pin; and there are stories that she’s even threatened the landlord himself more than once. It might be just a tale, but when a woman can’t speak up, she has to find another way to express her frustration. I don’t think the porter has an easy life, even though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of it."
"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the porter's domestic relations unprofitable.
"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, thinking that speculating about the porter’s personal life wouldn’t be helpful.
"Just the same as ever, señor. There was no change anywhere. The everlasting bells chime out the hours and the quarters, and the voices of a half a dozen watchmen take up the tale. The hotel grows rather worse and more unpopular, if that be possible, and for want of a good inn the town is neglected. No one ever goes there a second time. In that respect one is better off in Lerida."
"Just like always, sir. There was no change at all. The never-ending bells ring out the hours and quarters, and the voices of a handful of watchmen carry on the story. The hotel seems to be getting worse and more unpopular, if that's even possible, and because there's no good inn, the town is being neglected. No one ever visits it a second time. In that sense, you're better off in Lerida."
We were standing near the new cathedral in the market-place, when suddenly we saw a quiet figure hurrying towards us. Even afar off we knew it well. It was our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary.
We were standing next to the new cathedral in the marketplace when we suddenly spotted a quiet figure rushing towards us. Even from a distance, we recognized him. It was our regular boot cleaner.
At once we felt something was wrong; the figure, in spite of quick footsteps, was tragic in its bearing. We went up to him. He grasped our hand and his face told its own tale.
At once we sensed something was off; the figure, despite walking quickly, had a tragic air about him. We approached him. He took our hand, and his expression said everything.
"Oh, señor! the end has come, the end of a long life. Who would have thought it would be so sudden? My poor Nerissa! My life's partner, and my life's blessing! Two hours ago the heart suddenly failed. The doctor gives her until the dawn. But she is quite ready and quite resigned. 'Think what it will be, Alphonse,' she said to me just now. 'To-morrow morning I shall see once more.' Señor, I am broken-hearted. And now that she is being taken from me, I feel that I have not prized her half enough."
"Oh, sir! The end has come, the end of a long life. Who would have thought it would happen so suddenly? My poor Nerissa! My partner in life, and my greatest blessing! Just two hours ago, her heart suddenly failed. The doctor says she has until dawn. But she is completely ready and at peace. 'Think about it, Alphonse,' she told me just now. 'Tomorrow morning, I will see once more.' Sir, I am heartbroken. And now that she is being taken from me, I realize I haven't appreciated her nearly enough."
"You have been her joy and happiness on earth, and have an eternity of happiness to look forward to. For you and for her life is only beginning. The end of a long and happy life is a matter for rejoicing, not for sorrow."
"You have been her joy and happiness here on earth, and you have an eternity of happiness ahead of you. For both of you, life is just beginning. The end of a long and happy life is something to celebrate, not to mourn."
Old Cathedral: Lleida.
Presently a small door was opened and there issued forth in the stillness of the night an acolyte bearing a lighted lantern, followed by a priest carrying the Host. Alphonse had gone before, and we felt that the greatest kindness was to let him return alone, unhindered. The small silent procession was full of mysterious pathos and solemnity. It told of a soul about to take its solitary and awful journey to the unknown and the unseen. Seldom, we felt, would extreme unction have been administered to a soul so pure as that of our little fairy-queen. El Sereno went down on one knee as it passed, and bared and bowed his head. With arm outstretched resting on his staff of office, he looked quite solemn and picturesque.
Currently, a small door opened and in the silence of the night, an acolyte appeared with a lit lantern, followed by a priest carrying the Host. Alphonse had gone ahead, and we felt the kindest thing to do was to let him return alone, without interruption. The quiet procession was filled with a sense of mysterious sadness and seriousness. It signaled a soul about to embark on its solitary and daunting journey into the unknown. We felt that rarely would extreme unction be given to a soul as pure as that of our little fairy-queen. El Sereno knelt as it passed by, bowing his head. With his arm outstretched, resting on his staff of office, he looked both solemn and striking.
"We must all come to it, señor. But I often ask myself what consolation even extreme unction can bring to a badly spent life."
"We all have to face it, sir. But I often wonder what comfort even last rites can offer for a life poorly lived."
We watched the little procession cross the great square, their footsteps scarcely echoing. The sacred hush and atmosphere that surrounds the dying seemed to go with them as they walked. Fitful gleams and shadows were thrown out by the lantern—they might have been shades of departed spirits. In the dark night, under the silent stars, and in that solemn moment, we seemed brought into touch with the unseen world. We felt deeply for Alphonse, who was passing through the great sorrow of his life. His own silver cord would now loosen, and no doubt he too would quickly follow into the unseen. His wife would take with her all his hold upon life.
We watched the small procession move through the large square, their footsteps barely making a sound. The sacred stillness and atmosphere that surround the dying seemed to accompany them as they walked. The lantern cast flickering glimmers and shadows—they might have been the spirits of those who had passed. In the dark night, beneath the silent stars, and in that solemn moment, we felt connected to the unseen world. We felt deeply for Alphonse, who was experiencing the greatest sorrow of his life. His own life would soon weaken, and surely he too would quickly follow into the unknown. His wife would take with her everything he held dear in life.
After this solemn incident we could only make our way back to the fonda. El Sereno accompanied us to its threshold. We walked down the avenue between the trees, that were still whispering their mighty secrets to each other. Now they seemed laden with immortal mysteries: their burden was of souls winging their flight to realms where no torment touches them. They were in communion with the stars overhead shining down with a serene benediction.
After this serious incident, we could only head back to the inn. El Sereno walked with us to its entrance. We strolled down the avenue lined with trees that were still sharing their deep secrets. Now they seemed filled with timeless mysteries: their weight was of souls soaring to places where no suffering can reach them. They were connected with the stars above, shining down with a calm blessing.
Our portal to-night was open and the night porter was at his post, watching for his tardy visitors! wondering why they tarried. What to him was that tragedy that was passing at the other end of the town?
Our entrance was open tonight, and the night porter was on duty, waiting for the late arrivals! He was curious about why they were taking so long. What did that tragedy happening on the other side of town mean to him?
The señor was joking. Such manner of dealing was for gentlefolk. For his part, if he owed any one a mortal grudge he would avenge himself by the short Corsican way: a stab in the dark. A short reckoning and a long rest. But he had never quarrelled in his life; never owed any man a grudge. Life was too short; he was too lazy. He thought it a good plan to let things take their course. If any one cared to embrace his wife, they were welcome to do so. He had no jealousy in his composition. She was now sleeping the sleep of the just: and for all he knew and for all he cared, her dreams were of gay Lotharios whom she was chastening with her washing-pin.
The guy was just joking. That way of handling things was for the upper class. As for him, if he had any serious grudge against someone, he would settle it the quick Corsican way: a stab in the dark. A quick resolution and a long rest. But he had never fought with anyone in his life; he had never held a grudge. Life was too short, and he was too lazy. He thought it was better to let things happen as they would. If anyone wanted to hug his wife, they were free to do so. He felt no jealousy at all. She was now sleeping peacefully, and for all he knew and cared, her dreams were filled with charming guys whom she was scolding with her laundry stick.
We said farewell to El Sereno, who lamented our departure on the morrow, and feared he might see us no more.
We said goodbye to El Sereno, who was sad about our leaving the next day, and worried that he might never see us again.
This was probable. Lerida, for all its quaint streets, old-world nooks and splendid outlines, was hardly a place to come to a second time. He moved away rather sadly, for he had his duty to perform, and the moments would not stand still.
This was likely. Lerida, despite its charming streets, old-world corners, and beautiful views, was hardly a place to visit again. He walked away feeling a bit regretful, knowing he had responsibilities to fulfill, and time wouldn’t wait.
We watched him receding in the dark night; a stalwart figure; an honest man, with much that was good in him, though his lines were not cast in grooves where influences for good are strong. At the end of the avenue he called the hour and the night; then passed up out of sight into the market-place once more. There in due time would return that quiet, solemn procession of two; the acolyte bearing the lantern, the priest with his bent back and the weight of years upon him bearing the Host: their mission accomplished: the last rites administered: the pure soul perhaps already far on its long journey.
We watched him fade into the dark night; a strong figure; a good man, with plenty of positive qualities, even if he wasn’t surrounded by strong influences for good. At the end of the street, he announced the hour and the night; then disappeared back into the marketplace. Soon enough, the quiet, solemn procession of two would return; the acolyte holding the lantern, the priest with his hunched back and the burden of age carrying the Host: their mission completed, the last rites given, the pure soul maybe already far along its long journey.
The night passed on to dawn and daybreak and sunrise: a new day, a new world. Was Nerissa still lingering here, or, as she had said, had her sightless eyes opened to the world beyond? It was impossible to leave Lerida without ascertaining how it fared with this couple that we had found so interesting and exceptional. Though it delayed us some hours, it must be done, the visit paid.
The night turned into dawn, then daybreak, and finally sunrise: a new day, a new world. Was Nerissa still here, or, as she mentioned, had her sightless eyes opened to a different realm? We couldn't leave Lerida without checking in on this couple that we found so intriguing and special. Even though it would delay us for a few hours, we had to do it; we needed to pay our visit.
We breakfasted, attended by the erring waiter, who looked pale and brooding and revengeful, as though he meditated drowning the Dragon in her own soapsuds. Then, in the clear early morning, we went forth.
We had breakfast, served by the distracted waiter, who looked pale, moody, and vengeful, as if he was thinking about drowning the Dragon in her own soapy water. Then, in the bright early morning, we stepped outside.
The way was familiar by this time. We knew its every aspect: all the outlines were old friends. We passed up the avenue and through the crowded market-place, where people laughed and talked and bought and sold, as if life were one long joke and would last for ever, and there was no such thing as death and decay. Down the long narrow street where we again saw the men pressing the grapes, and noted the stain of the rich red juice, and smelt the luscious perfume of the muscatel—for they have red grapes here with the muscatel scent and flavour. Onwards into a quiet side street and the quaint old house that now had upon it the dark grey shadow.
The route felt familiar by now. We knew every single detail: all the outlines were like old friends. We walked up the avenue and through the crowded market, where people laughed and chatted and shopped as if life were one endless joke that would last forever, and death and decay didn’t exist. Down the long narrow street, we saw the men pressing grapes again, noticed the stain of the rich red juice, and inhaled the sweet scent of muscatel—because they have red grapes here with that muscatel aroma and flavor. We continued into a quiet side street toward the quaint old house that now had a dark grey shadow over it.
We mounted the fine broad staircase with its carved oak balusters and panelled walls. There was not a sound to be heard. At such moments sympathy is quick to respond, and the awful messenger makes the weight of his errand known.
We climbed the beautiful wide staircase with its carved oak railings and paneled walls. There wasn't a sound anywhere. At times like this, empathy kicks in, and the heavy message of the awful news becomes clear.
The door was slightly ajar. We pushed it gently open and entered, feeling ourselves in the presence of death. Peace had fallen upon the house.
The door was slightly open. We pushed it gently and walked in, sensing the presence of death. A calm had settled over the house.
There in the quiet room was the vacant chair near the latticed window, where so recently we had seen that wonderful embodiment of beauty in age. It would never be seen again. Near the bed Alphonse was seated, holding the hand of his dead wife, his other hand up to his face. He looked the picture of sad despair. The aged form, so recently still endowed with life and vigour, was now bent and bowed under the weight of sorrow.
There in the quiet room was the empty chair by the window with the lattice, where not long ago we had witnessed that amazing display of beauty in old age. It would never be seen again. By the bed, Alphonse sat, holding the hand of his deceased wife, his other hand up to his face. He looked utterly heartbroken. The aged figure, once full of life and energy, was now hunched over, weighed down by grief.
As we entered he glanced up, and stronger than all the evident grief we were surprised to see an unmistakable look of resignation. Quietly placing the cold hand that never would move or clasp his own again, he rose and came towards us.
As we walked in, he looked up, and more powerful than the visible sorrow was an unmistakable expression of resignation. Silently placing the cold hand that would never move or clasp his again, he got up and approached us.
"Oh, señor, this is kind. You come to me in my loneliness. It is all over. The sightless eyes are closed, the beautiful voice is still. I have often prayed that I might be the last to be taken. Heaven is merciful, and has answered me. As the dawn broke in the east her spirit went. Raising her hand as though pointing to some unseen vision: 'Alphonse,' she said, 'I am called. You will soon join me, beloved.' Then a glory seemed to pass over her face, and she was gone. Señor, come near and look upon that beautiful face once more."
"Oh, sir, that's very kind of you. You come to me in my loneliness. It's all over. The sightless eyes are closed, and the beautiful voice is silent. I've often prayed that I could be the last one taken. Heaven is merciful and has answered me. As dawn broke in the east, her spirit departed. Raising her hand as if pointing to some unseen vision, she said, 'Alphonse, I'm being called. You’ll join me soon, my love.' Then a light seemed to pass over her face, and she was gone. Sir, come closer and look upon that beautiful face one more time."
We were almost startled by the beauty disclosed. The face seemed to have gone back to the days of its youth; it might have been that of a young woman of surpassing loveliness. The rapt expression the old man had spoken of was still there. It was impossible but that some divine vision had been seen at the last by those eyes closed to mortal things. It spoke of intense happiness, of a joy that was to be eternal.
We were almost shocked by the beauty revealed. The face looked like it had returned to its youthful days; it could have belonged to a stunning young woman. The look of awe the old man mentioned was still present. It seemed likely that some divine glimpse had been witnessed at the end by those eyes that were closed to earthly matters. It radiated deep happiness, a joy that was meant to last forever.
"Alphonse, how can you look upon that face, which has the divine image upon it and the divine glory, and be sad?"
"Alphonse, how can you look at that face, which has the divine image and divine glory on it, and feel sad?"
"Señor, I have lost my all. I am very lonely. Yesterday I was rich; I knew not how rich; to-day I am poor and stricken. Yet I am resigned; and I am happy in the thought that in a few days—I verily believe in a few days—my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our spirits will be united in Paradise. I am not sad; only intensely lonely. Señor, you gave her almost her very last pleasure. After you had left, she said that for years our little room had not seemed so bright. You brought her a breath from her old world and she declared that she felt her youth renewed. Was it not the spirit telling her in advance how soon her youth should indeed return to her? Oh, Nerissa, my life's joy, my best beloved, in what realms is your pure spirit now wandering? Surely you need me to perfect your happiness?"
"Sir, I have lost everything. I feel incredibly lonely. Yesterday I was wealthy; I didn't even realize how wealthy. Today, I am poor and devastated. Yet, I accept it; I am comforted by the thought that in a few days—I truly believe in just a few days—my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our souls will be united in Paradise. I'm not sad; just profoundly lonely. Sir, you gave her almost her very last joy. After you left, she said that for years our little room hadn't felt so bright. You brought her a glimpse of her old world, and she claimed it made her feel young again. Was that not her spirit hinting to her how soon her youth would indeed return? Oh, Nerissa, my joy in life, my dearest love, where is your pure spirit wandering now? Surely you need me to complete your happiness?"
We stayed awhile with him, and before leaving found the forlorn attitude, the despairing droop had departed. As we said good-bye we quietly placed money in his hand.
We hung out with him for a bit, and before we left, we noticed that his sad posture and hopelessness had faded away. As we said goodbye, we quietly put money in his hand.
"To buy flowers," we explained. "Place them gently in her coffin. The fairest flowers you can find. They will still be less fair than she."
"To buy flowers," we explained. "Place them gently in her coffin. The most beautiful flowers you can find. They will still be less beautiful than she."
"Ah, señor," he returned, "it is a long farewell. I shall look upon your face no more. But when I meet her again we will talk of you. And do not think that you leave me to utter solitude. I have many friends about me, and though humble they are good. For my few remaining days I need have no thought, and I have no fear."
"Ah, sir," he replied, "it's a long goodbye. I'll never see your face again. But when I meet her again, we'll talk about you. And don't think that you're leaving me all alone. I have many friends around me, and even though they're humble, they're good. For my few remaining days, I don’t need to worry, and I have no fear."
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—Cafés 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.
Broad plains of Aragon—Amazing colors—Getting closer to Zaragoza—Heavenly sight—Distance adds to the charm—Ordinary people—The old made new—Disappointment followed by joy—Almost a little Paris—Cafés and their appeal—Not socially captivating—Friendly equality—Mix of social classes—Legacy of the past—Fascinating streets—Arcades and rooftops—Vibrant scenes—People in traditional dress—Picture of Old Spain—Ancient palaces—One particularly romantic—A world worth losing—Fair Lucia—Where love could last forever—Paradise not meant for this world—Cursed—The last sunrise—Inconsolable—Searching for death—Found on the battlefield—A daydream—Few rivals—In the new cathedral—A shocking event—Asking for charity—Young and beautiful—Awkward moment—Horrific tale—Fatal chains—"And then?"—How to help a troubled mind?—Sunshine dimmed—Weight of life—Any way out?—Echoes of past centuries—The mighty have fallen.
THE sun was still high in the heavens when our train steamed out of the station towards Zaragoza and the ancient kingdom of Aragon. Much of the journey lay through broad plains that had no specially redeeming feature about them. Even fertility seemed denied, for they were often destitute of trees and vegetation. Yet were they sometimes covered with a lovely heather possessing a wonderful tone and beauty of its own.
THE sun was still high in the sky when our train pulled out of the station heading towards Zaragoza and the ancient kingdom of Aragon. Most of the journey went through wide plains that didn’t have much to recommend them. Even the land's fertility felt lacking, as they were often bare of trees and plants. Still, at times they were blanketed with beautiful heather that had a wonderful tone and charm of its own.
Most to be remembered in the journey was the sunset. Towards evening as we approached Zaragoza, the sun dipped across the vast plains and went down in a blood-red ball. Immediately the sky was flushed with the most gorgeous colours, which melted into an after-glow that remained far into the night.
Most memorable in the journey was the sunset. In the evening, as we got closer to Zaragoza, the sun sank over the wide plains and set in a blood-red sphere. Instantly, the sky was filled with beautiful colors, blending into an afterglow that lingered well into the night.
In the midst of this splendid effect of sky we saw across the plains the wonderful towers and turrets and domes of Zaragoza rising like a celestial vision. As we neared, we thought it a dream-city: not perched on a gigantic rock like Segovia, but on a gentle height of some 500 feet above the sea-level.
In the middle of this beautiful sky, we saw the amazing towers, turrets, and domes of Zaragoza rising like a dream. As we got closer, we thought it was a city from a dream: not sitting on a huge rock like Segovia, but on a gentle height about 500 feet above sea level.
The approach to the town is very striking. There is an abundant promise of good things, not, we are bound to confess, eventually carried out. Apparently, it is of all cities the most picturesque, with its splendid river running rapidly through the plain, spanned by its world-famed bridge, above which rise the beautiful, refined, eastern-looking outlines; but once inside the town the charm in part disappears. It is to be worshipped at a distance.
The approach to the town is really impressive. There’s a lot of promise for good things, though we have to admit, it doesn’t quite live up to expectations. It seems to be the most picturesque of all cities, with its gorgeous river flowing quickly through the plain, crossed by its world-famous bridge, and above it rise the beautiful, elegant, eastern-looking outlines; but once you’re inside the town, some of the magic fades away. It’s best admired from afar.
Our first impression told us this, as we rumbled through the streets in the old omnibus and marked their modern aspect, the busy, common-place bearing of the people.
Our first impression told us this as we rolled through the streets in the old bus and noticed their modern look, the busy, everyday demeanor of the people.
We had expected a great deal of Zaragoza; hoped to find a city of great antiquity, with nothing but gabled houses and ancient outlines worthy the fair capital of the fair kingdom of Aragon. These we found the exception. Its antiquity is undoubted, but too much of the town has been modernised and rebuilt. Still, the exceptions are so striking that when one's first disillusion is over, it is followed by something very like delight and amazement.
We had high hopes for Zaragoza; we wanted to discover a city filled with historic charm, featuring nothing but beautiful old houses and ancient structures that would befit the lovely capital of the splendid kingdom of Aragon. However, these instances were the exceptions. Its history is clear, but a lot of the town has been modernized and rebuilt. Nevertheless, the striking exceptions are so impressive that once you get past the initial disappointment, you’re left with a sense of real delight and wonder.
The hotel was a large rambling building which might have existed for centuries; and as comfortable as most of the Spanish provincial inns. A perfect maze of passages; and when the hotel guide piloted us to a far-off room to see a collection of antiquities of very modest merit we felt it might have taken hours to get back alone to our starting point.
The hotel was a sprawling building that could have been there for ages, just as cozy as most provincial inns in Spain. It was a complete maze of hallways, and when the hotel guide led us to a distant room to check out a collection of pretty average antiques, we felt like it could take us hours to find our way back to where we started.
Zaragoza is large and flourishing; its prosperity is evident; its new streets are handsome and common-place. Some of them are wide boulevards lined with trees, lighted with electric lamps, possessing "every new and modern improvement." As you go through them you almost think of a small Paris. At night its cafés are brilliantly lighted, and rank as the finest in Spain. They are always crowded, and fond and foolish parents bring their children and keep them in the glare and glitter until towards midnight, when they fall off their perches. Music of some sort is always going on; sometimes the harsh, barbarous discords and howlings the Spanish delight in, at others civilised harmonies and trained voices that are really beautiful but less popular.
Zaragoza is big and thriving; its success is clear; its new streets are attractive yet ordinary. Some of them are broad boulevards lined with trees, lit by electric lamps, featuring "every modern improvement." As you walk through them, you almost think of a small Paris. At night, its cafés are brightly lit and are considered the best in Spain. They’re always packed, and affectionate yet naive parents bring their kids, keeping them in the bright lights and excitement until close to midnight when they eventually tire out. There's always some kind of music playing; sometimes it’s the harsh, chaotic sounds that the Spanish love, while at other times it’s civilized harmonies and trained voices that are genuinely beautiful but less favored.
Those who frequent these cafés are not socially of an attractive class. Many are rough country people who are evidently in Zaragoza as birds of passage. The roughest specimens of apparently unwashed waifs and strays will take possession of a table, and at the very next table, almost touching elbows with them, will be a fashionable couple, dressed smartly enough for a wedding. The one in no way disconcerts the other, and all treat each other on the basis of a friendly species of equality. The lowest of the people who have a few sous to spare in their pocket devote them to this, their earthly paradise. They love the glare and glamour and warmth—it is the one green oasis in the desert of their every-day lives; all the working hours are gilded by the thought of the evening's amusement. Many of them have dull, dark homes, in which they feel cribbed and cabined. Of the quiet pleasures of domestic life they know little, but they are all perfectly happy. One of the strongest characteristics of human nature is its adaptability to circumstances; the back fits itself to the burden. People seldom die of a broken heart.
Those who hang out in these cafés aren't exactly from the most glamorous social class. Many are rough country folks who are clearly just passing through Zaragoza. The scruffiest-looking, seemingly unwashed stragglers will claim a table, while at the very next table, almost elbow to elbow with them, will sit a stylish couple dressed for a wedding. One group doesn't bother the other at all, and everyone treats each other with a kind of friendly equality. Those at the bottom who have a few coins to spare spend them here, in this little slice of happiness. They love the bright lights, the excitement, and the warmth—it's the only green oasis in the desert of their daily lives; all the hard work is brightened by the thought of the evening's fun. Many of them live in dull, dark homes where they feel trapped. They know little of the quiet joys of home life, but they're all perfectly content. One of the strongest traits of human nature is its ability to adapt to different situations; people adjust to their burdens. Few people actually die of a broken heart.
In Zaragoza, more than anywhere else, we saw this strange mixture of classes; wondered that some of them were admitted. But they behaved like ladies and gentlemen, drinking coffee and helping themselves to detestable spirit with an air and a grace only they know how to put on. Yet it is not put on; it is born with them; an inheritance from the past.
In Zaragoza, more than anywhere else, we noticed this strange mix of social classes and were surprised that some of them were allowed in. But they acted like ladies and gentlemen, sipping coffee and pouring themselves some awful liquor with a style and elegance that only they can pull off. Yet it's not just an act; it's something they're born with; an inheritance from the past.
It was not in all this, however, that the charm of Zaragoza consisted. These everyday common-place sights and experiences have few attractions for those who seek to link themselves with the past in its ancient outlines and glorious buildings. The cafés were all very well as studies of human nature, but one very soon had enough of them.
It wasn't in all of this, however, that the charm of Zaragoza lay. These everyday, ordinary sights and experiences don’t hold much appeal for those looking to connect with the past through its ancient outlines and magnificent buildings. The cafés were fine as studies of human behavior, but one quickly grew tired of them.
There was one long street especially old and interesting. On each side were deep, massive arcades of a very early period, above which the houses rose in quaint, gabled outlines, many of the windows still possessing latticed panes, which added so much to their charm. To make the street more interesting, the market was held here. On both sides the road, in front of the arcades was a long succession of stalls, where everything relating to domestic life was sold. Fruit and flower and vegetable stalls were the most picturesque, full of fragrance and colouring. Luscious grapes and pomegranates were heaped side by side with a wealth of roses and orange blossoms and the still sweeter verbena. Many of the stall-holders wore costumes which harmonised admirably with the arcades and gabled roofs. The street was crowded with buyers and sellers and loungers, though few seemed alive to the picturesque element, in which we were absorbed. Many of the men, stalwart, strong and vigorous, were dressed in the costume of the country; knee-breeches and broad-brimmed hat; whilst broad blue and red silken sashes were tied round the waist: a hardy, active race, made for endurance. This scene had by far the most human interest of any we found in Zaragoza. As a picture of Old Spain, it would have made the fortune of an artist as we saw it that day in all the effect of sunlight and shadow, all the life and movement that seemed to rouse the arcades of the past into touch with the present.
There was one long street that was especially old and interesting. On each side were deep, massive arcades from a very early period, above which the houses rose in charming, gabled shapes, many of the windows still featuring latticed panes that added to their appeal. To make the street even more lively, a market was held here. On both sidesof the road, in front of the arcades, there was a long line of stalls selling everything related to daily life. The fruit, flower, and vegetable stalls were the most vibrant, full of fragrance and color. Juicy grapes and pomegranates were piled next to a bounty of roses, orange blossoms, and the even sweeter verbena. Many of the stall-holders wore outfits that blended perfectly with the arcades and gabled roofs. The street was packed with buyers, sellers, and onlookers, though few seemed to appreciate the picturesque aspects that captivated us. Many of the men, strong and sturdy, wore traditional country costumes; knee-breeches and broad-brimmed hats, while wide blue and red silk sashes were tied around their waists: a tough, energetic people made for endurance. This scene had by far the most human interest of any we encountered in Zaragoza. As a representation of Old Spain, it would have been a dream for an artist, as we witnessed it that day with all the effects of sunlight and shadow, all the life and movement that seemed to connect the arcades of the past with the present.
Near to this a wonderful leaning-tower stood until recently; a magnificent Moorish-looking clock-tower built about the year 1500. This was one of the glories of Zaragoza; but the inhabitants after subscribing a sum of money to prop it up, grew alarmed and subscribed another sum to pull it down. In reality it was perfectly safe and might have stood for centuries.
Near this, there was a wonderful leaning tower until recently; a magnificent Moorish-style clock tower built around the year 1500. This was one of the glories of Zaragoza; however, the residents, after contributing money to support it, grew worried and donated another sum to tear it down. In reality, it was perfectly safe and could have stood for centuries.
But when all is said and done, it is in its side streets, narrow, tortuous and gloomy, that the interest of Zaragoza chiefly lies.
But when everything is taken into account, it's in the side streets—narrow, winding, and a bit dark—where the real charm of Zaragoza is found.
Many of the houses are ancient and enormous palaces, once inhabited by the old aristocracy of Aragon. They are so solidly built that they not only defy time, but almost the destructive hand of man. Some of them have wonderfully interesting facades: roofs with overhanging eaves and Gothic windows guarded by wrought ironwork; features that can never tire.
Many of the houses are ancient, massive palaces that were once home to the old aristocracy of Aragon. They’re so well-built that they not only withstand the test of time but also nearly resist destruction by man. Some have incredibly interesting facades: roofs with overhanging eaves and Gothic windows protected by wrought ironwork; characteristics that never get old.
Lucia's Fair House: Zaragoza.
The lady of his choice, fair Lucia, was beautiful and charming, but beneath him. Tradition says that she was an actress, and that he fell hopelessly in love with her as she played in a drama where all ended tragically. It might have been a warning to them, but when was love ever warned? He espoused her and they took up their abode in this wonderful old palace, fitting home of romance.
The woman he loved, fair Lucia, was beautiful and captivating, but not worthy of him. It's said that she was an actress, and he fell head over heels for her while she performed in a play that ended in tragedy. It could have been a warning to them, but when has love ever heeded warnings? He married her, and they settled into this amazing old palace, a perfect place for romance.
As we gazed upon the matchless courtyard: the overhanging eaves, the rounded arches of the balcony with their graceful and refined pillars, the exquisitely-carved ceilings and staircase of rich black oak: the latter wide enough to drive up a coach and four: we felt that here love might reign for ever. And probably it would have lasted long; for the lady, as history says, had all graces of the spirit as well as all the charm of exquisite form and feature: whilst her knight was true as the needle to the pole, constant as death.
As we looked at the incredible courtyard: the sloping eaves, the rounded arches of the balcony with their elegant and refined pillars, the beautifully carved ceilings and staircase made of rich black oak: wide enough to fit a coach and four horses: we sensed that love could last forever here. And it probably would have lasted a long time; the lady, as history tells us, had all the virtues of the soul as well as the allure of perfect beauty: while her knight was as steadfast as a compass needle to the North, constant as death.
They were happy in each other; life was a paradise; and when did such a perfect condition of things ever last? Paradise is not for this world.
They were happy with one another; life was a dream; but when does such a perfect situation ever last? Paradise isn't meant for this world.
Five summers and winters passed and found them still devoted to each other. Every day was a dream. Then a cruel visitation came to their town: an epidemic, sparing not high or low. It attacked the fair Lucia: and though her husband nursed her night and day, and all the leeches of the town combined their skill and judgment to save her, a stronger power than theirs was against them.
Five summers and winters went by, and they were still devoted to each other. Every day felt like a dream. Then a cruel disaster hit their town: an epidemic that affected everyone, rich or poor. It struck the beautiful Lucia: and even though her husband cared for her around the clock, and all the doctors in town combined their skills to save her, a stronger force than theirs was working against them.
The last day dawned; instinct told her that another sun for her could never rise. Her husband bent over her in an agony of grief. She clasped her fair, frail arms around his neck.
The final day began; she could feel deep down that she would never see another sunrise. Her husband leaned over her, overwhelmed with sorrow. She wrapped her delicate, fragile arms around his neck.
"My love, my love, we have been very happy: all in all to each other," she murmured. "These five years, an eternity of bliss, have yet flown swiftly as a day. You have been good—so good; dear—so dear. Perhaps it is well to die thus and now, with all our youth, and all our dreams, and all our illusions undispelled. Eternity will restore us to each other. I leave you with not one mark on the delicate bloom of our great love."
"My love, my love, we have been so happy: everything between us," she whispered. "These five years, an eternity of joy, have passed as quickly as a day. You have been so good—so kind; dear—so cherished. Maybe it’s better to depart like this, right now, with all our youth, all our dreams, and all our illusions still intact. Eternity will bring us back together. I leave you without leaving a single mark on the beautiful essence of our great love."
She died and he was not to be consoled. His people offered to be reunited to him but he would none of them.
She died, and he couldn't be comforted. His people offered to reconnect with him, but he wanted nothing to do with them.
It was the time of the War of Succession. Into this he madly plunged, seeking death and finding it. As a rule death is said to avoid those who court him; but here it was not so. The knight, faithful to the end, was found upon the battlefield, his eyes wide open, looking upon the heavens; where perhaps he saw the vision of his lovely wife, whilst her miniature lay next his heart.
It was the time of the War of Succession. Into this, he recklessly dove, looking for death and ultimately finding it. Generally, it's said that death avoids those who seek it; but that was not the case here. The knight, loyal until the end, was discovered on the battlefield, his eyes wide open, gazing at the heavens; where perhaps he saw a vision of his beautiful wife, with her locket resting next to his heart.
The house still stands much as it stood in those days, but two centuries older. It is the most beautiful in Zaragoza, perhaps has few equals in all Spain. A special atmosphere surrounds it: and as we look a vision rises.
The house still stands much like it did back then, but it's two centuries older. It's the most beautiful in Zaragoza, and probably has few equals in all of Spain. A unique vibe surrounds it, and as we gaze, a vision emerges.
Standing in the courtyard and gazing upon that wide staircase, we see that youthful pair, so favoured by nature, passing to and fro; we see them looking into each other's eyes, hear their love vows. Their arms entwine, their love-locks mingle. A mist blurs the scene, and when it passes all has changed. A sad cortége is descending. A coffin bearing the remains of what was once so fair and full of life. A knight armed cap-à-pied follows, with clanking sword and spur; but his face is pale and his eyes are red with weeping, though they weep not now. They will never weep again. The fountain of his tears is dried.
Standing in the courtyard and looking at that wide staircase, we see the young couple, so blessed by nature, walking back and forth; we see them gazing into each other’s eyes, hearing their love vows. Their arms intertwine, and their hair mingles. A mist clouds the scene, and when it clears, everything has changed. A sad procession is coming down. A coffin carrying the remains of what was once so beautiful and full of life. A knight, fully armed, follows, with a clanking sword and spurs; but his face is pale, and his eyes are red from crying, though he doesn’t cry now. They will never cry again. The source of his tears is dried up.
Again the mist blurs the scene, and when it clears nothing is visible but the solitary knight ascending to his lonely room, love flown, hope dead, his life gone from him.
Again the fog blurs the scene, and when it clears, nothing is visible except the lone knight walking up to his empty room, love lost, hope vanished, his life gone from him.
Presently the palace is closed; no one ascends or descends the staircase; voices are never heard, footsteps never echo. Surely ghosts haunt the sad corridors, look out from the vacant arcades upon the silent courtyard. For the knight has long lain dead upon the battlefield and no one comes to claim the palace and once more throw wide its portals to life, and laughter and sunshine.
Currently, the palace is shut; no one goes up or down the staircase; there are no voices, no footsteps echoing. Surely, ghosts linger in the gloomy hallways, peering out from the empty arches into the quiet courtyard. The knight has been dead on the battlefield for a long time, and no one comes to reclaim the palace and open its doors to life, laughter, and sunlight once again.
We paid it more than one visit during our sojourn in Zaragoza, and each time there passed before us in vivid colours the love-poem of two hundred years ago.
We visited it more than once during our stay in Zaragoza, and each time, the love poem from two hundred years ago came to life in vivid colors before us.
Lucia's Fair House: Zaragoza.
We stood on the farther bank. The stream flowed rapidly at our feet. Before us the wonderful bridge spanned the water with its seven arches: a massive, time-edifying structure. Above this in magic outlines rose the towers, turrets and domes of the new cathedral of El Pilar, as splendid from this point of view as it is really worthless both outwardly and inwardly on a closer inspection. It is certainly one of the most remarkable scenes in all Spain: and from this point Zaragoza possesses few rivals.
We stood on the far bank. The stream rushed by at our feet. In front of us, the stunning bridge stretched across the water with its seven arches: a massive structure that tells a story of time. Above it, in a magical outline, rose the towers, turrets, and domes of the new cathedral of El Pilar, just as impressive from this vantage point as it is ultimately disappointing both outside and inside upon closer look. It’s definitely one of the most remarkable scenes in all of Spain: from this perspective, Zaragoza has few rivals.
The new cathedral of El Pilar: so called because it possesses the pillar on which the Virgin is said to have descended from heaven. It is a very large building, and the domes from a distance are very effective, but the interior is in the worst and most debased style.
The new cathedral of El Pilar: named because it has the pillar where the Virgin is believed to have come down from heaven. It's a massive building, and the domes look impressive from afar, but the interior is in a very poor and degraded style.
As we stood within the vast space that morning, wondering so much wealth had been wasted on this poor fabric, a female, apparently a lady, dressed in sable garments, her face veiled by the graceful mantilla, glided up to us and solicited alms.
As we stood in the large room that morning, questioning how much money had been wasted on this shabby material, a woman, seemingly of high status, dressed in elegant fur garments, her face covered by a beautiful mantilla, approached us and asked for donations.
At the first moment we thought we had mistaken her meaning, but on looking at her in doubt, she repeated her demand more imploringly.
At first, we thought we had misunderstood her meaning, but when we looked at her, unsure, she repeated her request more urgently.
"Señor, for the love of heaven, give me charity." The building was large, the worshippers were few, it was easy to converse.
"Sir, for the love of God, please give me some help." The building was large, there were only a few worshippers, and it was easy to talk.
"But what do you mean?" we said. "You look too respectable to be asking alms. Surely you cannot be in want?"
"But what do you mean?" we said. "You seem too respectable to be asking for help. Surely you can't be in need?"
"In want? I am starving."
"Need something? I'm starving."
And throwing back her mantilla she disclosed a face still young, still fair to excess, but pale, pinched and careworn.
And pulling back her shawl, she revealed a face that was still young, still excessively beautiful, but pale, thin, and worn out.
BRIDGE AND CATHEDRAL OF EL PILAR: ZARAGOZA.
"Listen, señor," she said, as though in reply. "Listen and pity me. I was tenderly and delicately brought up, possessed a comfortable home, indulgent parents. We lived in Madrid, where my father held an office under Government. I was an only child and indulged. Pale, quiet and subdued as you see me now, I was passionate, headstrong and wilful. I fell under the influence of one outwardly an angel, inwardly a demon. He was a singer at the opera, and his voice charmed me even more than his splendid presence. He was beneath me, but we met clandestinely again and again, until at last he persuaded me to fly with him. I was infatuated to madness. All my past life, all past influence, teaching, thought of home, love of parents—all was thrown to the winds for this wild passion. We were secretly married before we fled, for mad as I was I had not lost all sense of honour. Almost from the very first day retribution set in. My father had long suffered from disease of the heart though I knew it not, and the shock of my flight killed him. The home was broken up, my mother was left almost destitute, and in a frenzy of despair, a moment of insanity, took poison. I was an orphan, and then discovered that my husband had thought I should be rich. On learning the truth, he began to ill-treat me. His fancy had been caught for a moment by my fair face. Of this he soon tired and, base villain that he was, transferred his worthless affections elsewhere. Things went from bad to worse. There were times when he even beat me—and I could not retaliate. I had come to my senses; I recognised the hand of retribution, and accepted my punishment. But what wonder that in my misery I learned to seek oblivion in the wine cup? Perhaps my worthless husband first gave me the idea of this temptation, for he was seldom sober. It was in one of those terrible moments that he fell from a height and so injured himself that after five days of intense agony he died. I was free but penniless; knew not where to go, which way to turn. I had not a friend in the world—all had forsaken me. There was but one thing I could do. I had a voice and could sing. I sang in cafés, at small concerts, wherever I could get an engagement and earn a trifle. Now I am in Zaragoza. Most nights I sing in the great café, but my small earnings all go in the same way—to satisfy my craving for wine. Wine, wine, wine; it is my one sin, but oh! I feel that it is fatal. I know that it is surely drawing my feet to the grave. And after that?"
"Listen, sir," she said, as if responding. "Listen and feel sorry for me. I was raised with care and comfort, had a nice home, and parents who spoiled me. We lived in Madrid, where my dad had a government job. I was an only child and was pampered. Pale, quiet, and subdued like you see me now, I was actually passionate, headstrong, and stubborn. I fell for someone who seemed like an angel on the outside but was a demon inside. He was a singer at the opera, and his voice captivated me even more than his handsome looks. He was beneath me socially, but we kept meeting secretly over and over, until finally, he convinced me to run away with him. I was madly in love. I tossed aside my entire past—my upbringing, my education, my love for my parents—everything was sacrificed for this wild passion. We secretly got married before we left because, as crazy as I was, I hadn't completely lost my sense of honor. Almost immediately, karma hit hard. My father had been battling a heart condition for a long time without me knowing, and the shock of my leaving killed him. Our family was shattered; my mother was left nearly broke, and in a moment of desperation, she took poison. I became an orphan, and then I found out that my husband had thought I would be wealthy. When he learned the truth, he started to mistreat me. He was momentarily captivated by my pretty face but quickly grew tired of me and, being the worthless scoundrel he was, turned his affection to someone else. Things went downhill from there. There were times when he even hit me—and I couldn’t fight back. I had come to my senses; I recognized the hand of revenge and accepted my punishment. It's no wonder that in my sorrow I began to seek solace in alcohol. Maybe my worthless husband even inspired this temptation, as he was rarely sober. It was during one of those awful moments that he fell from a height and injured himself so severely that after five days of intense pain, he died. I was free but broke; I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I had no friends left—everyone had abandoned me. The only thing I could do was sing. I performed in cafés, at small concerts, anywhere I could find a gig to make a little money. Now I’m in Zaragoza. Most nights I sing in a big café, but all my meager earnings go to feed my desire for wine. Wine, wine, wine; it’s my only sin, but oh! I know it’s deadly. I feel it leading me toward my grave. And then what?"
She shuddered; then pointed to a tawdry image of the Virgin, before which we stood.
She shuddered and then pointed to a cheap-looking image of the Virgin, in front of which we stood.
"There, before that altar, I have knelt day after day and prayed to be delivered; but I have prayed in vain; no answer comes, and the chains are binding about me. Señor, I saw you enter; recognised that you were a stranger. Something told me I might address you and you would at least listen; would not spurn me or turn away in hateful contempt. But what can you do? I have asked for alms. I have told you I am starving—and so I am; but it is the soul that is starving more than the body. You will bestow your charity upon me—I know you will—and it will not go in food but in wine. Ah, if you could cure me, or give me an antidote that would send me into a sleep from which I should never waken, that indeed would be the greatest and truest charity."
"There, before that altar, I have knelt day after day, praying to be set free; but I have prayed in vain; no answer comes, and the chains are tightening around me. Sir, I saw you walk in; I recognized that you were a stranger. Something told me I could speak to you, and you would at least listen; you wouldn’t reject me or turn away in disgust. But what can you do? I have begged for help. I have told you I am starving—and I really am; but it’s my soul that is starving even more than my body. You will give me your kindness—I know you will—and it won’t go towards food but towards wine. Ah, if only you could heal me, or give me something that would put me into a sleep from which I would never wake, that would truly be the greatest and most genuine kindness."
Then we realised that the pale face and pinched look were not due to want of food. The cause was deeper and more hopeless. It was one of the saddest stories we had ever listened to; and it came upon us so abruptly that we felt helpless and bewildered: sick at heart at the very thought of our want of power to minister to this mind diseased.
Then we realized that the pale face and tight expression weren't just because of not having enough to eat. The reason was deeper and more hopeless. It was one of the saddest stories we had ever heard, and it hit us so suddenly that we felt lost and confused: heartsick at the thought of our inability to help this troubled mind.
"Give us your name and address," we said, after trying to think out the situation. "Let us see if there is any way of escape for you. Your sad story has clouded the sunshine."
"Tell us your name and address," we said, after trying to figure out the situation. "Let’s see if there’s any way for you to get away from this. Your heartbreaking story has dimmed the light."
She drew a card from her pocket in a quiet, ladylike way and placed it in our hands with a pathetic, appealing look that haunts us still.
She pulled a card from her pocket in a gentle, refined manner and handed it to us with a sad, pleading expression that still lingers in our memories.
We watched her turn away and noted the quiet, graceful movement with which she glided down the aisle and disappeared through a distant door; and our keenest sympathy went out to the poor, fair, frail creature whose burden of life was greater than she could bear. Could by any possibility a way of escape be found for her?
We watched her turn away and noticed the quiet, graceful way she glided down the aisle and disappeared through a far-off door; our deepest sympathy went out to the poor, delicate, fragile person whose burden of life was heavier than she could handle. Was there even a chance to find a way out for her?
We passed out of the church, which now seemed laden with an atmosphere of human sorrow and suffering, glad to escape to the free air and pure skies of heaven. From the Cathedral Square we turned into the narrow streets with their great grey palaces and enormous courtyards all full of suggestions of the past centuries. But the mighty have fallen: Aragon has not escaped decline any more than the rest of Spain.
We exited the church, which now felt heavy with an air of human sadness and pain, relieved to step into the fresh air and clear skies above. From Cathedral Square, we moved down the narrow streets lined with their grand grey buildings and vast courtyards, all echoing the history of past centuries. But the powerful have lost their glory: Aragon hasn’t avoided decline any more than the rest of Spain.
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—Magnificent 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—Cæsarea 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 café—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.
Bygone days—Luxurious nests—Old exchange—Traders with good taste—Glory of Aragon—Cathedral of La Seo—Updated exterior—Interior enchants and mesmerizes—Next to Barcelona—Stunning effect—Parish church—Moorish ceiling—Tomb of Bernardo de Aragon—The old priest—Grows enthusiastic—Supernatural vibe—Statue of Benedict XIII.—Mysterious light and shadow—One exception—Alonzo the Warrior—Moorish tiles—Bishop's palace—Simple meal—Trace of old Zaragoza—Fifteenth-century house—Juanita—Streets of the city—Cæsarea Augusta—Worship of the Virgin—Alonzo the Moor—Staunch resistance—Days of struggle—Falling—Return to prosperity—Beautiful maid of Zaragoza—The Aljafería—Ancient palace of the Moorish kings—Wounded by Suchet—Salon of Santa Isabel—Spanish café—Four generations—Beautiful voice—Lamartine's Le Lac—Recognized—Reading between the lines—Out in the night air—An inspiration—Night vision of El Pilar—In the distant future.
THE prosperity of Zaragoza to-day is entirely commercial, but on a small scale. It is not a great financial or manufacturing town. The rooms that once echoed with the voices of dames and cavaliers, flashed with the blaze of jewels and the gleam of scabbards, have now in many cases been turned into stables. The courtyards, once crowded with mailed horsemen setting out for the wars, are now given over to the fowls of the air, that roost in the eaves and have little idea how sumptuously and artistically they are lodged.
THE prosperity of Zaragoza today is completely based on commerce, but it’s on a small scale. It’s not a major financial or manufacturing hub. The rooms that used to echo with the voices of noble ladies and gentlemen, glittering with jewels and the shine of swords, have now in many cases been converted into stables. The courtyards, once filled with armored horsemen heading off to battle, are now home to birds, which roost in the eaves and have no clue how lavishly and beautifully they are accommodated.
Going on to the old Cathedral Square, we faced the ancient Exchange with its splendid cornice and decorations of medallion heads of the bygone kings and warriors of Aragon. The Gothic interior is very interesting, with low, vaulted passages leading to the one great room with its high roof and fine pointed windows, where once the merchants of the town carried on their operations. It would seem that in those past days the sale of stocks and shares, the great questions of finance, did not imply a contempt for the charms of outline and refinement. They loved to surround themselves with the splendours of architecture; and in more than one Spanish town the last and best remnant of the Gothic age is to be found in the Exchange.
Going to the old Cathedral Square, we faced the ancient Exchange with its stunning cornice and decorations of medallion heads of the former kings and warriors of Aragon. The Gothic interior is really interesting, with low, vaulted passages leading to the main hall with its high roof and beautifully pointed windows, where the town's merchants once conducted their business. It seems that back in those days, dealing in stocks and shares, the big financial questions, didn’t imply a disregard for the beauty of design and elegance. They loved to surround themselves with remarkable architecture; and in more than one Spanish town, the last and best remnant of the Gothic era can be found in the Exchange.
The whole square was striking. In the centre was a splendid fountain, at which a group of women for ever stood with their artistic pitchers, filling them in turn. Fun and laughter seemed the order of the day. The square echoed with merriment, to which the many-mouthed plashing fountain added its music.
The whole square was impressive. In the center was a beautiful fountain, where a group of women constantly gathered with their artistic pitchers, taking turns filling them up. Fun and laughter seemed to be the vibe of the day. The square buzzed with joy, accompanied by the melodic sound of the fountain's splashing water.
On the further side of the square is the great glory, not of Zaragoza alone, but of the whole kingdom of Aragon—the old cathedral of La Seo.
On the other side of the square is the great glory, not just of Zaragoza, but of the entire kingdom of Aragon—the old cathedral of La Seo.
The exterior has been much modernised, and perhaps was never specially striking. It is curious only at the N.E. angle, where the wall is inlaid with coloured tiles of the fourteenth century; of all shapes, sizes, patterns and colours. The whole has a rich Moorish effect almost dazzling when the sun shines upon them. Above this rises an octagonal tower decorated with Corinthian pillars.
The exterior has been updated a lot and was probably never particularly noteworthy. It’s interesting only at the northeast corner, where the wall is inlaid with colorful tiles from the fourteenth century, featuring all kinds of shapes, sizes, patterns, and colors. The overall look has a vibrant Moorish effect that’s almost blinding when the sun hits it. Above this is an octagonal tower adorned with Corinthian pillars.
From all this glare and sound, hurry and bustle of life, you pass into the interior and at once are charmed, mesmerised. Calmness and repose fall upon the spirit; in a moment you have suddenly been removed from the world. At once it takes its place in the mind as ranking next to Barcelona. If some of its details are not to be too closely examined, the general effect is magnificent in the extreme.
From all this noise and chaos, the rush and hustle of life, you enter the interior and immediately feel enchanted, spellbound. A sense of calm and tranquility washes over you; in an instant, you’ve been transported away from the world. It quickly becomes clear that it ranks just below Barcelona in your mind. While some of its details might not stand up to close scrutiny, the overall impression is truly stunning.
In form it is peculiar and unlike any other cathedral, for it is almost a perfect square, but this is not observed at the first moment; the Coro occupies the centre, and a multitude of splendid columns support and separate the double aisles. The nave and aisles are all roofed to the same level, giving a very lofty appearance to the whole interior. The vaulting springs from the capitals of the main columns with an effect of beauty and grace seldom equalled. To look upwards is like gazing at a palm-forest with spreading fronds.
In shape, it’s unusual and unlike any other cathedral, as it’s almost a perfect square, though you don’t notice that right away. The choir is in the center, and a host of stunning columns support and separate the double aisles. The nave and aisles all have the same ceiling height, which creates a very spacious feeling throughout the interior. The vaulting rises from the tops of the main columns, creating an effect of beauty and grace that’s rarely matched. Looking up feels like staring into a palm forest with its wide-reaching fronds.
Like many of the Spanish churches, the light is cunningly arranged, and the shadow-effect is very telling. A solemn obscurity for ever reigns, excepting when sunbeams fall upon the windows. Towards evening the gloom deepens, and all looks weird and mysterious. The outlines of the lofty roof and spreading capitals are almost lost. We seem to be in a vast building of measureless dimensions: a dream-structure. The grey, subdued colour of the stone is perfect. Immense buttresses support the side walls, and between these are the chapels.
Like many Spanish churches, the lighting is cleverly arranged, creating a powerful shadow effect. A solemn darkness always prevails, except when beams of sunlight shine through the windows. As evening approaches, the gloom intensifies, and everything appears strange and mysterious. The outlines of the tall roof and wide capitals nearly vanish. We feel like we're in a vast structure with endless dimensions: a dream-like building. The muted grey color of the stone is ideal. Huge buttresses support the side walls, and in between them are the chapels.
A vintage corner in Zaragoza.
The first chapel on the left on entering is used as a parish church. Its Moorish ceiling is magnificent, though difficult to make out in the dim religious light that too often reigns. The chapel also contains a very remarkable alabaster tomb of Bernardo de Aragon, brother of King Alfonso. When we entered, it was almost at the end of a service, and for congregation the old priest had no one but the verger. He seemed relieved when it was over, waddled down the steps and disrobed. Then in a very kindly way he turned to us, bowed as gracefully as his rotund personage permitted, and bade us note the beauty of ceiling and tomb.
The first chapel on the left when you enter is used as a parish church. Its Moorish ceiling is stunning, although it's hard to see clearly in the dim religious light that often fills the space. The chapel also features a remarkable alabaster tomb of Bernardo de Aragon, brother of King Alfonso. When we walked in, the service was almost over, and the only ones in attendance were the old priest and the verger. He looked relieved when it ended, waddled down the steps, and changed out of his robes. Then, in a very friendly manner, he turned to us, bowed as gracefully as his round shape allowed, and urged us to appreciate the beauty of the ceiling and the tomb.
"Light a few more candles," he said to the verger, "and let us try to get at a few of the exquisitely carved details. It is considered one of the finest Moorish ceilings in Spain," he continued; "and in my opinion it is so. You will mark the depth of the sections, beauty of the workmanship, rich and gorgeous effect of the whole composition. There never was a people like those wonderful Moors—never will be again as long as the world lasts. How these candles add a charm to the scanty daylight, giving out almost a supernatural effect! Has it ever struck you in the same way, this strange mingling of natural and artificial light? It is especially refining. Then look at this tomb, and admire its beauty—though it is of a very different character from the ceiling. Here we have nothing Moorish. That overwhelming wealth and gorgeousness of imagination is absent from the cold marble. But how pure and perfect! Note that exquisite statuette of Benedict XIII.: the figures of the knights that surround him with their military orders; the drooping figures of the mourners in the niches. But after all, what is all this compared with the splendours of the cathedral itself," cried the old priest, without pausing to take breath. "Put out the lights, Mateo," turning to the verger; and then without further ceremony led the way into the larger building.
"Light a few more candles," he told the verger, "and let’s try to highlight some of the beautifully carved details. It’s regarded as one of the finest Moorish ceilings in Spain," he added; "and I agree completely. You’ll notice the depth of the sections, the beauty of the craftsmanship, and the rich, stunning effect of the entire composition. There has never been a people like those amazing Moors—and there probably never will be again. The way these candles enhance the limited daylight is almost supernatural! Have you ever noticed this unusual blend of natural and artificial light? It’s quite elevating. Now, look at this tomb and appreciate its beauty—though it has a very different character from the ceiling. Here, we find nothing Moorish. The overwhelming wealth and brilliance of imagination are missing from the cold marble. But it’s so pure and perfect! Check out that exquisite statuette of Benedict XIII.: the knights surrounding him with their military orders; the grieving figures in the niches. But really, what is all this compared to the splendor of the cathedral itself?" exclaimed the old priest, without stopping for a breath. "Put out the lights, Mateo," he said to the verger, then led the way into the larger building without further ado.
He had a large, red, amiable face, this old priest; some day we felt sure that he would die of apoplexy; but he was evidently a lover of the beautiful, and as evidently one who loved his fellow-men.
He had a big, friendly, red face, this old priest; we were sure that one day he would have a stroke; but he clearly appreciated beauty and also genuinely cared for his fellow humans.
"Look!" he said, throwing up his hands as we stood entranced at the scene. "What can be more perfect? Whichever way you gaze you are met by a forest of pillars—a true forest, full of life and breath, for are not those growing like spreading palms? And where will you find pillars so lofty and massive? Where will you discover such a feeling of devotion, so mysterious a chiaroscuro? Apart from their beauty, we must not disdain these influences. They are aids to devotion, and poor, frail, erring human nature needs all the help it can receive both from without and within, from below and Above. I always tell our organist to play soft voluntaries and pull out his sweetest stops, so that he may make music which will creep into the spirit and rouse all its capacities for worship. That should be the true aim of all harmony. Look at the richness of the coro—the splendour of the carving. It all forms an effect which makes this the most wonderful and perfect cathedral in the whole of Spain."
"Look!" he said, throwing up his hands as we stood mesmerized by the scene. "What could be more perfect? No matter which way you look, you’re surrounded by a forest of pillars—a real forest, full of life and energy, for don’t those look like spreading palms? And where else will you find pillars so tall and massive? Where else will you experience such a sense of devotion and such mysterious light and shadow? Beyond their beauty, we must not overlook these influences. They support our devotion, and fragile, imperfect human nature needs all the help it can get, both from outside and within, from below and above. I always tell our organist to play gentle pieces and draw out his sweetest stops, so he can create music that seeps into the spirit and awakens all its abilities for worship. That should be the true purpose of all harmony. Look at the richness of the choir—the splendor of the carvings. It all creates an effect that makes this the most amazing and perfect cathedral in all of Spain."
NORTH WALL OF CATHEDRAL: ZARAGOZA.
"With one exception," we ventured modestly to observe.
"With one exception," we suggested humbly.
"Which is that?" cried the old priest, evidently sharpening his weapon of warfare—the tongue that did him such good suit and service.
"Which one is that?" the old priest shouted, clearly getting ready to use his weapon of choice—the tongue that served him so well.
"Your cathedral is a gem of the very first water," we said. "It throws one into a dream from which one might almost wish not to awaken; but it is not equal to Barcelona."
"Your cathedral is an absolute gem," we said. "It puts you in a dream you might not want to wake up from; but it's not as good as Barcelona."
The old priest put his hand to his forehead and looked depressed.
The old priest placed his hand on his forehead and looked downcast.
"You are right," he said; "I cannot contradict you. But then Barcelona is beyond comparison." Here he brightened again. "Let me tell you the difference. Barcelona was never built by men; it was the work of angels. It is a dream-building that came down from the skies, and some day it will disappear into the skies again. And then here we shall reign supreme. With all its beauty and splendour and charm, there is nothing here to suggest angel master-builders; it is a dream-fabric if you will, but essentially the work of man: firm and strong and substantial, lasting through the ages. In the days of the Goths there was another building on this very spot. The Moors came and it was turned into a mosque; and when Alonza the Warrior re-took the city the church was reconstructed. This was early in the twelfth century. Here the kings of Aragon were crowned with pomp and ceremony, and here our most important councils have been held. Now come and look at our Moorish tiles."
"You’re right," he said; "I can't argue with you. But Barcelona is in a league of its own." He perked up again. "Let me explain the difference. Barcelona was never created by humans; it was made by angels. It’s a structure that descended from the heavens, and one day it will vanish back into the sky. Then we will reign here supreme. Despite all its beauty, splendor, and charm, there’s nothing here that hints at angelic architects; it’s a dream-like creation, if you will, but fundamentally built by humans: solid, strong, and enduring, lasting through the ages. In the time of the Goths, there was another building right here. The Moors came and it was converted into a mosque; and when Alonza the Warrior reclaimed the city, the church was rebuilt. This was in the early twelfth century. Here, the kings of Aragon were crowned in great ceremony, and our most significant councils took place. Now come and check out our Moorish tiles."
And again, without pause in his talk, and without ceremony, he led the way. We could only willingly follow through the lovely forest of pillars, crossing one aisle after another, sharing his enthusiasm. We had the whole church to ourselves. The people of Zaragoza seemed too busy to trouble themselves about dreams of architecture.
And again, without stopping his conversation or any formalities, he took the lead. We could only happily follow him through the beautiful forest of columns, moving from aisle to aisle, catching his excitement. We had the entire church to ourselves. The people of Zaragoza seemed too caught up in their own lives to care about architectural dreams.
"Look again," said the old priest, as we stood outside in front of the north wall. "These tiles are very beautiful and remarkable. They are undoubtedly Moorish; the work of Moorish craftsmen. Do you observe the fineness of the colours, the rich deep blue that contrasts so well with the emerald green? You would think the effect of so much colour would be garish, but on the contrary it is quiet and subdued, with great dignity about it. This is quite the oldest part of the exterior. One can only regret that the whole was not tiled, for then we should have possessed a unique building with which to challenge the world. You see there are still evidences of an earlier church than this," and he pointed to certain remains which were unmistakably Romanesque: in the lower part of the apse, the buttresses and in one of the windows.
"Look again," said the old priest, as we stood outside in front of the north wall. "These tiles are very beautiful and impressive. They are definitely Moorish; the work of Moorish craftsmen. Do you see the richness of the colors, the deep blue that contrasts so nicely with the emerald green? You might think all this color would be overwhelming, but actually, it’s quiet and subdued, with a lot of dignity. This is the oldest part of the exterior. It’s a shame that the whole building wasn't tiled, because then we would have had a unique structure to show off to the world. You can still see signs of an earlier church than this," and he pointed to certain remains that were clearly Romanesque: in the lower part of the apse, the buttresses, and in one of the windows.
"And there," said the old priest, pointing to an immense building, "is the Bishop's palace, which was sacked and ruined by the French in that terrible war. Since that day much that was interesting in Zaragoza has disappeared; but heaven be praised, we have still our cathedral, and as long as we have that, the rest matters little. And now I must wish you good-morning. It is my hour for breakfast—a very frugal meal with me, consisting chiefly of eggs and sweet herbs. Ah, señor," with a round gurgling laugh, "I see what you are thinking—that eggs and sweet herbs never developed this rotundity of person. You are wrong. I fast twice in the week; I never touch anything stronger than coffee; I have only two simple meals a day; and yet you see how prodigal nature is in her dealings with me. You doubt me? Come with me. I live at a stone's throw. You shall see my abode and interrogate my old housekeeper, and you will hear how she corroborates my tale."
"And there," said the old priest, pointing to a huge building, "is the Bishop's palace, which was looted and destroyed by the French in that terrible war. Since then, a lot of what was interesting in Zaragoza has vanished; but thank goodness, we still have our cathedral, and as long as we have that, the rest doesn’t matter much. And now I must wish you good morning. It's time for my breakfast—a very light meal for me, consisting mainly of eggs and fresh herbs. Ah, sir," he said with a hearty laugh, "I can see what you’re thinking—that eggs and sweet herbs could never create this round figure. You’re mistaken. I fast twice a week; I never eat anything stronger than coffee; I have just two simple meals a day; and yet look at how generous nature has been with me. Don't believe me? Come with me. I live just a stone’s throw away. You can see my home and ask my old housekeeper, and she’ll confirm my story."
He led the way, this singular old priest, whom we found not only appreciating the beautiful, but brimming over with humour: one of those delightfully simple, self-unconscious men, who are all sympathy and amiability. We could but follow: down a small narrow street into a quaint sort of cul-de-sac, where we came upon an exquisite trace of Old Zaragoza.
He took the lead, this unique old priest, who not only enjoyed beauty but was also full of humor: one of those wonderfully simple, unpretentious men who radiate kindness and warmth. We had no choice but to follow him down a small narrow street into a charming little cul-de-sac, where we stumbled upon a lovely remnant of Old Zaragoza.
A small fifteenth-century house, with a quaint Gothic doorway, and a window guarded by magnificent iron-work. Touching a hidden spring, this door opened and admitted us into a panelled passage that apparently had not been touched for centuries. Then he turned into a wonderful old room, black with panelled oak, some of which was vigorously and splendidly carved.
A small house from the fifteenth century, featuring a charming Gothic doorway and a window protected by stunning ironwork. By pressing a hidden spring, this door opened and led us into a panelled hallway that seemed untouched for centuries. Then he stepped into a beautiful old room, dark with panelled oak, some of which was skillfully and impressively carved.
"This is my living room," he said, "and here I am happy. I live in the past; the fine old fifteenth-century days when men knew how to produce the beautiful and were great in all their ideas. Here I live, and here I hope to die."
"This is my living room," he said, "and this is where I'm happy. I live in the past; in the wonderful old fifteen-hundreds when people knew how to create beauty and had grand ideas. This is where I live, and this is where I hope to die."
He went to the door.
He went to the door.
"Juanita!" he called. A distant voice answered, and in a moment a quaint old woman dressed in black appeared upon the scene.
"Juanita!" he called. A distant voice responded, and soon a charming old woman in black came into view.
"Juanita, is my breakfast ready?" asked the old priest.
"Juanita, is my breakfast ready?" asked the elderly priest.
"Si, el canon."
"Yes, the canon."
"What have you prepared?"
"What did you prepare?"
"Two fried eggs, canonigo, flavoured with sweet herbs; bread, butter and coffee at discretion—as usual."
"Two fried eggs, sautéed greens, seasoned with sweet herbs; bread, butter, and coffee as you like it—as always."
"You see," laughed the priest. "There is no collusion here! Would that I could ask you to share my frugal meal; but it is emphatically only enough for one—and that an abstemious old canon. Now if you will come and see me this evening or to-morrow, I shall be delighted to receive you. I would even ask you to come and dine with me, but my dinner is as frugal as my déjeuner. Well, for the moment we part; but you will come again."
"You see," laughed the priest. "There’s no conspiracy here! I wish I could invite you to share my simple meal; but it’s definitely just enough for one—and that’s an austere old canon. Now, if you come to see me this evening or tomorrow, I’d be happy to welcome you. I’d even ask you to join me for dinner, but my dinner is as modest as my lunch. Well, for now, we part ways; but I hope you’ll come back."
La Seo Tower: Zaragoza.
We passed from this delightful atmosphere into the modern streets of the city, thinking how little remained of its former traces. For it goes far back in history, even to the days of the Romans, when it was called Cæsarea Augusta; a name that in course of ages was transformed to Zaragoza. Early in the first century it was prosperous; a free city possessing its own charters, seat of the Assizes, owning a mint. But of the old Roman city all traces have disappeared. It was one of the first cities to renounce Paganism. Aurelios Prudentius the first Christian poet was born here in the year 348. Christianity was then the keynote of its life, and martyrs died for the faith. Now it is given up to the worship of the Virgin almost more than any town in Spain. In the eighth century it fell under the dominion of the Moors, who kept it until the twelfth century. Then came Alonso the Warrior, who captured it after a desperate siege of five years, when the people had most of them perished from hunger: one of the most determined resistances in the history of the world.
We moved from this charming atmosphere into the modern streets of the city, reflecting on how little of its past remains. It dates back to Roman times when it was known as Cæsarea Augusta, a name that eventually changed to Zaragoza. In the early first century, it thrived as a free city with its own charters, a seat of the Assizes, and a mint. But all traces of the old Roman city are gone. It was among the first cities to reject Paganism. Aurelius Prudentius, the first Christian poet, was born here in 348. At that time, Christianity was central to its existence, and martyrs died for their faith. Now, it is devoted to the worship of the Virgin more than nearly any other town in Spain. In the eighth century, it fell under Moorish rule, which lasted until the twelfth century. Then came Alonso the Warrior, who took it after a desperate five-year siege, during which many of the inhabitants perished from hunger—one of the most determined resistances in history.
It passed through many vicissitudes as the centuries rolled on. Then in 1808 came the French, who without taking the town managed to leave it almost in ruins. Then came the attack under Napoleon's four generals, and Zaragoza resisted them single-handed for sixty-two days of terrible struggle, combined with plague and famine. All Spain looked on and did nothing to relieve it. It fell in 1809. Since that time it has had a peaceful return to prosperity.
It went through many ups and downs as the centuries went by. Then in 1808, the French came, and although they didn’t capture the town, they left it nearly in ruins. After that, Napoleon sent four generals to attack, and Zaragoza fought them off alone for sixty-two days of intense struggle, dealing with plague and famine. All of Spain watched and did nothing to help. It fell in 1809. Since then, it has enjoyed a peaceful return to prosperity.
Many of the ancient outlines and splendours of the city had disappeared in the "heap of ruins" left by the French. A new element arose, and as we walked towards our rambling old inn, with its thousand-and-one passages, we thought them painfully evident. At the inn we took up our guide, who escorted us through many streets and turnings to the Plaza del Portillo, where stood the ancient west gate of the city.
Many of the old structures and beauty of the city had vanished in the "heap of ruins" left by the French. A new atmosphere emerged, and as we made our way to our sprawling old inn, with its countless passages, we found that quite clear. At the inn, we picked up our guide, who led us through many streets and turns to the Plaza del Portillo, where the ancient west gate of the city was located.
It was on this very spot that occurred the romantic episode of Augustina the Fair Maid of Zaragoza; a Spanish Joan of Arc on a small scale.
It was right here that the romantic story of Augustina, the Fair Maid of Zaragoza, took place; a Spanish Joan of Arc on a smaller scale.
In the terrible siege to which the city was to succumb, Augustina was fighting on the walls side by side with her devoted lover. She watched him fall, death-stricken, then took the match from his loosening hand and worked the gun herself. Determined to avenge her lover, it is said that she fought long and desperately and with more fatal execution than any two artillerymen. But we all know the story by heart; and how, though courting death, she escaped all dangers.
In the horrific siege that overwhelmed the city, Augustina was fighting on the walls alongside her devoted partner. She saw him fall, struck down by death, then took the match from his weakening hand and loaded the gun herself. Determined to avenge her lover, it's said that she fought fiercely and effectively, with more deadly precision than any two artillerymen. But we all know the story well; how, despite facing death, she evaded all dangers.
Not to see this romantic spot were we here, but the Aljaferia, just beyond the gate, in some measure by far the most interesting secular building in Zaragoza. This was the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, and still possesses some exquisite Moorish traces and outlines, though chiefly by way of restoration. It was built by a Sheikh of Zaragoza as a royal fortress, with almost impregnable walls. Ferdinand the Catholic gave it over to the Inquisition party to add to the power of this wretched tribunal, partly because in these strong walls the hated judges found a safe refuge after the murder of the popular and ill-fated Arbues.
Not to overlook this romantic spot we are in, but the Aljafería, just beyond the gate, is definitely the most interesting secular building in Zaragoza. This was the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, and it still has some beautiful Moorish features and details, though mostly due to restoration. It was built by a Sheikh of Zaragoza as a royal fortress, with almost impenetrable walls. Ferdinand the Catholic handed it over to the Inquisition to strengthen this dreadful tribunal, partly because within these strong walls, the despised judges found a safe haven after the murder of the popular and ill-fated Arbues.
In the French war it was much injured by Suchet, who turned it into a barrack, then degraded this ancient palace of the Moorish kings and the kings of Aragon to the rank of a prison. Alphonso XII. restored the palace, and had it redecorated as far as possible to imitate its ancient splendour. The staircase is very fine, and the ceilings of some of the rooms are magnificent. One of the rooms is called the Salon of Santa Isabel, because here that future queen of Hungary, so famous for her goodness, was born in 1271. It is richly decorated in blue and gold. There is a small octagonal mosque of great beauty, which has been left just as it was in the days of the Moors; and some of the horseshoe doorways, in outline at least, have not changed. The visit was full of interest, and in spite of all alteration, carried us back to the days when that wonderful people reigned in Zaragoza. In the upper part was a magnificent armoury, kept in good order by the soldiers—for this fine old building has again been turned into a barrack, and devoted to military use.
In the French war, Suchet severely damaged it, converting it into a barrack, and then reduced this ancient palace of the Moorish kings and the kings of Aragon to a prison. Alphonso XII restored the palace and had it redecorated as much as possible to mimic its former grandeur. The staircase is very impressive, and some room ceilings are magnificent. One of the rooms is called the Salon of Santa Isabel because the future queen of Hungary, known for her kindness, was born here in 1271. It features rich blue and gold decorations. There's a beautiful small octagonal mosque that has been preserved just as it was in the Moorish era, and some of the horseshoe doorways have remained unchanged in outline. The visit was incredibly interesting, and despite all the changes, it took us back to the time when that remarkable people ruled Zaragoza. In the upper part, there was a magnificent armory, well-maintained by the soldiers—this beautiful old building has once again become a barrack and is used for military purposes.
The day passed on to night, and there came an hour when we found ourselves sitting for a time in the café that is said to be the largest in Spain, studying human nature, listening to the music—for once an interesting and civilised performance. The room was gorgeously fitted up with gilding and mirrors that seemed to reflect a million lights. The atmosphere was fast growing to that state of blue haze which the Spaniards delight in, many of whom are said to carry on their smoke in their sleep by some process of conjuring only to be acquired after long practice.
The day turned into night, and there came a time when we found ourselves sitting for a while in the café claimed to be the largest in Spain, observing human behavior and enjoying the music—this time a genuinely interesting and sophisticated performance. The room was beautifully decorated with gold and mirrors that seemed to reflect a million lights. The atmosphere was quickly becoming that blue haze the Spaniards love, many of whom are said to be able to smoke in their sleep through some magical technique that takes years to master.
We happened to be looking away from the orchestra, in deep study of a curious group to our right—a group which seemed to comprise four generations. One was one of the oddest little old women we had ever seen, with a wonderfully wrinkled face, and small restless eyes sharp as an eagle's, and withered hands that looked like a bird's claws. This was the little great-grandmother. She had by no means passed into her dotage, the nonentity of old age, and was possibly not more than seventy or seventy-five, though she looked a hundred. Then came her son and daughter-in-law—unmistakably her son from the likeness to her on a larger and somewhat pleasanter scale. Then a still younger generation: a young man and woman, evidently husband and wife; she as evidently the man's daughter. These were better dressed and looked as though they had climbed a few rungs up the social ladder; they were prosperous in their small way; and the young man was distinctly of a better grade than his father-in-law. On his knee sat a lovely boy some five years old, fast asleep, his head pillowed against the father's shoulder. Here was the fourth generation.
We were momentarily distracted from the orchestra, deeply focused on a curious group to our right—a group that seemed to span four generations. One member was one of the strangest little old women we had ever seen, with a wonderfully wrinkled face, small restless eyes sharp as an eagle's, and withered hands that looked like bird's claws. This was the little great-grandmother. She definitely hadn't slipped into the frailty of old age and was probably no more than seventy or seventy-five, though she appeared to be a hundred. Next was her son and daughter-in-law—clearly her son, given the resemblance to her on a larger and somewhat more pleasant scale. Then a younger generation appeared: a young man and woman, obviously husband and wife; she clearly the man's daughter. They were better dressed and seemed to have climbed a few rungs up the social ladder; they were doing reasonably well in their small way, and the young man was noticeably of a higher status than his father-in-law. A lovely boy about five years old was asleep on his knee, his head resting against his father's shoulder. Here was the fourth generation.
But what most attracted us was the singular beauty of the young man's wife, with her delicate flushed cheeks, her white teeth, clear hazel eyes, and abundant hair perfectly arranged. He seemed to follow her looks and hang upon her words and worship the ground she trod upon, and we did not wonder.
But what caught our attention the most was the unique beauty of the young man's wife, with her soft pink cheeks, bright white teeth, clear hazel eyes, and her thick hair perfectly styled. He seemed to hang on her every word and idolize the ground she walked on, and we weren't surprised.
We were absorbed in this domestic picture, when suddenly we were arrested by the spell of a lovely voice, and well-remembered words fell upon our ear. It was that touching song of Lamartine's, Le Lac, so pathetic in words and music. We turned and felt thrilled and startled as we recognised the face and form that had accosted us in El Pilar and poured out her sad story.
We were caught up in this domestic scene when suddenly we were captivated by a beautiful voice, and familiar words reached our ears. It was that moving song by Lamartine, Le Lac, both poignant in its lyrics and melody. We turned and felt a mix of excitement and surprise as we recognized the face and figure that had approached us in El Pilar and shared her sorrowful story.
But the face was changed. In place of the hungry pallor there was now a crimson flush; the eyes sparkled with light. Was it all due to inward fever, to the wine-cup, or to artificial aid? Not the latter, we thought. There was a beauty upon the face nothing artificial ever yet possessed. She was quietly dressed in black. It might have been the very robe she had worn in the morning, differently arranged.
But the face had changed. Instead of the worn-out pallor, there was now a bright flush; the eyes sparkled with life. Was it all because of inner excitement, the wine, or something artificial? We thought not the latter. There was a beauty in her face that nothing artificial could replicate. She was simply dressed in black. It might have been the same outfit she had worn in the morning, just styled differently.
We must have moved or slightly started, for at that moment she evidently recognised us. For an instant her face changed colour, her voice trembled; then she recovered herself, and apparently did not again notice us.
We must have shifted or moved a bit because at that moment she clearly recognized us. For a second, her face paled, her voice shook; then she collected herself and seemed to ignore us again.
The very first words of the introduction had caught our ear with all the charm and familiarity of an old friend. All its dramatic power was well rendered by the singer.
The very first words of the introduction grabbed our attention with the charm and familiarity of an old friend. The singer conveyed all its dramatic power perfectly.
| "Ainsi toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages, |
| In the endless night carried away without return, |
| Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges |
| "Dock the anchor for one day?" |
So it went on, to the end of the declamation. Then, after a slight pause, whilst the accompanist went through the short refrain, the soft sweet melody, the graceful, mournful words rose upon the air:
So it went on until the end of the speech. Then, after a brief pause, while the accompanist played the short refrain, the gentle, sweet melody, the graceful, sorrowful words filled the air:
| "Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence, |
| We could hear faint sounds from afar on the waves and under the skies, |
| Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence |
| Your harmonious fleets! |
| "O Lac! Rochers muets, grottes, forêt obscure, |
| You who are spared by time, or whom it can rejuvenate, |
| Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature, |
| At least the memory! |
| "Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire, |
| May the light scents of your fragrant air, |
| Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire, |
| "Everyone says: they loved!" |
Not a word was lost. Every syllable rang out softly, distinctly, clear as a bell. We had never heard the song more beautifully sung, or greater justice done to its pathos. Every shade of sadness in its cadences was perfectly given. It was only too evident that trouble had helped the exquisite voice to its sorrowful ring. To us, who were to some extent behind the scenes of the singer's life, it was difficult to listen without emotion. We could read between the lines and knew the source of her inspiration; the deep suffering and misery that lay behind it all.
Not a word was lost. Every syllable came through softly, clearly, as clear as a bell. We had never heard the song sung more beautifully or with more justice to its emotional depth. Every nuance of sadness in its rhythms was perfectly conveyed. It was obvious that hardship had given the beautiful voice its melancholic tone. For us, who had some insight into the singer's life, it was hard to listen without feeling emotional. We could read between the lines and understood the source of her inspiration—the deep pain and suffering behind it all.
When the song was over, with its applause that grated, and the singer had retired, we felt the room had become stifling and unbearable, and went out into the night air. The streets seemed to have grown small and contracted. Something must be done for that sad life that would otherwise soon be lost in every sense of the word; yet apparently we were powerless to move in the matter. Suddenly, as though by an inspiration, we thought of the old canon, so full of sympathy and human kindness. If there could be any possible way of escape, he was the one to suggest it; and we determined to lay the whole case before him.
When the song ended, and the applause that felt grating faded away, the singer left the stage, and we realized the room had become stifling and unbearable. We stepped out into the night air. The streets felt small and cramped. Something had to be done for that sad life that would soon fade away in every way; yet it seemed like we were powerless to take action. Suddenly, as if struck by an idea, we thought of the old canon, who was always so full of sympathy and kindness. If there was any way to escape this situation, he would be the one to suggest it, so we decided to share the entire case with him.
Thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the river. The night was clear and calm; the stars hung in the sky: the moon, brilliant and silvery, was rising behind El Pilar, showing up in magic outlines all the grace of its domes and towers. The old bridge spanned the stream, whose dark waters flowed rapidly through its seven arches.
Thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the river. The night was clear and calm; the stars sparkled in the sky: the moon, bright and silvery, was rising behind El Pilar, highlighting the beauty of its domes and towers. The old bridge crossed the stream, whose dark waters flowed quickly through its seven arches.
It was a perfect night, a witching scene. Everywhere intense quiet reigned, absolute stillness and repose. The world might have been a sleeping paradise, knowing nothing of human suffering. But we had learned that day by sad experience that the time for sorrow and sighing to flee away lay still in the far-off future.
It was a perfect night, a magical scene. Everywhere there was an intense quiet, complete stillness and peace. The world could have been a sleeping paradise, unaware of human suffering. But we had learned that day from sad experience that the time for sorrow and sighing to disappear was still far off in the future.
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—A rivederci—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.
El Pilar during the day—In the old cathedral—The canon looking disappointed—Ready for anything—No pressure needed—Un diner maigre—Forty years in the making—True to the times—Juanita—The results of long service—Exploring Juanita's territory—A house of wonder—"It can't be a fasting day"—Creative dreams—Who can make rules after death?—The canon's self-control—Juanita steps back—Our chance—The canon was sincere and understanding—Eugenie de Colmar—The canon's surprise—An old friend—Truth is stranger than fiction—"You'll forget the old priest"—Ingratitude isn't one of our faults—A rivederci—The canon's letter—The end of Eugenie's story—On the way to Tarragona—The landlord shows up in Lerida—Lost keys—Skeletons floated to Panama—A domestic drama—The dragon back again—Tarragona—Unmatched coastal scenery—A civilized inn—Military presence—A haunted house—An unsolved mystery—Different elements—Roman and other ruins—A dream of the past—Lush pastures and sunny vineyards.
IT was the next day. We had again been standing on the farther bank of the river watching the flowing waters. They were dark and deep, a mighty stream that swept through the seven arches of the wonderful bridge reflecting its outlines. We had contemplated for the twentieth time the marvellous effect of the domes and towers of El Pilar rising like an eastern vision against the clear sky, had asked ourselves over and over again where we should find a fairer and a more striking view, and found the question difficult to answer. We had strolled over that same bridge back into the town, where the charm of outline and ancient atmosphere so strangely disappeared; had passed the fine old Exchange, crossed the square with its plashing fountain and ever-changing group of chattering women filling their artistic pitchers.
IT was the next day. We had once again been standing on the far bank of the river, watching the flowing waters. They were dark and deep, a powerful stream that rushed under the seven arches of the beautiful bridge, reflecting its shape. We had admired for the twentieth time the amazing sight of the domes and towers of El Pilar rising like a vision from the East against the clear sky, repeatedly asking ourselves where we could find a prettier and more striking view, and found the question hard to answer. We had walked across that same bridge back into the town, where the charm of its lines and ancient atmosphere strangely disappeared; had passed the fine old Exchange, crossed the square with its splashing fountain, and the ever-changing group of chatting women filling their artistic pitchers.
As we looked, we noticed a portly figure hurriedly crossing the aisles in our direction. At the first moment he did not see us. An expression of intense amiability and benevolence "was upon the large round face, that would otherwise have been so ugly, and by its aid was made so beautiful. He raised his eyes and came down upon us as an eagle to its prey.
As we watched, we saw a heavyset man quickly making his way through the aisles toward us. At first, he didn't notice us. A look of genuine friendliness and kindness lit up his large, round face, which would have otherwise been unattractive, but instead made him look quite appealing. He lifted his gaze and approached us like an eagle swooping down on its target.
"You are here!" he cried. "I have been wondering all the morning why I did not come across you, in what ancient nook you had buried yourselves. I was now on my way to your hotel to ask whether you had departed to other fields, and to find out why you did not come to me last night. To-night I shall make sure of you. You shall dine with me—I will take no refusal. For once the old priest's frugal fare must suffice you. It shall be a fast-day. Abstinence from flesh-meat occasionally is good, even for travellers. Tell me you will come. Do not pain me by refusing, or make me guilty of pressing you too much. Juanita, my old housekeeper, tells me she is quite equal to preparing you un diner maigre."
"You made it!" he exclaimed. "I've been wondering all morning why I didn't run into you, wondering where you’d hidden yourselves. I was just heading to your hotel to see if you’d moved on to another place and to find out why you didn’t come see me last night. Tonight, I’ll make sure to have you. You’re joining me for dinner—I won’t take no for an answer. For once, the old priest’s simple food will have to do for you. It’s a fast day. Skipping meat every now and then is good, even for travelers. Please tell me you’ll come. Don’t hurt my feelings by saying no, and don’t make me feel guilty for pushing you. Juanita, my old housekeeper, says she can easily prepare you un diner maigre."
Pressure was not needed; we were too glad to accept the good priest's invitation. He was given to hospitality in the best sense of the word, and we readily promised to dine with him. For us, the diner maigre had no terrors.
Pressure wasn't necessary; we were more than happy to accept the kind priest's invitation. He truly embodied hospitality in the best way possible, and we readily agreed to join him for dinner. The meatless meal held no fears for us.
"That is good," he replied, in his rich round voice. "I shall expect you at seven o'clock, though we shall not dine until eight. So you are still lost in amazement at this architectural dream. The oftener you see it, the more beautiful it becomes. With few interruptions I have looked upon it daily for forty years, and every morning its charm seems new and strange to me. Well, since I have seen you I shall not go to your hotel. I have sundry visits to pay to poor sick folk. Until the infirmities of old age become too strong for me I will not give them up. And before that happens I trust a merciful Creator will remove me to scenes where there is neither age nor infirmity nor sick poor in need of consolation."
"That's great," he replied in his deep, smooth voice. "I expect you at seven o'clock, even though we won't eat until eight. So you’re still amazed by this architectural wonder. The more you see it, the more beautiful it becomes. I've been looking at it almost every day for forty years, and every morning it feels fresh and fascinating to me. Well, now that I've seen you, I won’t head to your hotel. I have a few visits to make to some sick people. Until old age makes it too difficult, I won’t stop doing this. And before that happens, I hope a kind Creator takes me to a place where there’s no age, illness, or needy sick people who require comfort."
INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL, DISPLAYING CHOIR AND ORGAN: ZARAGOZA.
As the clock struck seven we rang the bell. The drooping handle was in itself an object of art: a wonderful specimen of iron work cunningly wrought. We were not privileged to use the hidden spring, which moreover we could not discover. The bell was immediately answered by Juanita in grey hair, placid face and black silk gown; a picture of high respectability. She greeted us with a serene smile and assured us that we were welcome: tones and manner a reflection of her master's: the fruits of long and faithful service. Hers was a face to be taken on trust.
As the clock hit seven, we rang the bell. The drooping handle was a work of art: a stunning piece of iron craftsmanship. We weren't allowed to use the hidden spring, which we also couldn't find. Juanita answered the bell right away, with her gray hair, calm expression, and black silk dress; she looked very respectable. She welcomed us with a gentle smile and assured us we were welcome, her tone and manner mirroring her master's: the result of years of loyal service. Her face was one you could trust.
As we entered, the canon came out of his dining-room.
As we walked in, the canon came out of his dining room.
"I like this punctuality," he cried, "and you are doubly welcome. As our frugal dinner is not ready, I will take you through my little house whilst a glimmer of daylight lasts. Let us first lay siege to Juanita's regions—my good old housekeeper who has been with me or mine for fifty years—ever since she was a maiden of ten. We will explore the mysteries of her preparations for our benefit. I always feel like a child when gazing upon her handiwork."
"I like this punctuality," he exclaimed, "and you're even more welcome. Since our simple dinner isn't ready yet, I'll show you around my little house while there's still some daylight. Let's first check out Juanita's domain—my good old housekeeper who's been with me or my family for fifty years—ever since she was just ten. We'll uncover the secrets of her cooking for us. I always feel like a kid when I see her creations."
A long passage panelled in old dark oak led from the dining-room to the kitchen. Here, indeed, we found ourselves in fairyland. The room was far larger than the dining-room. Latticed windows looked out upon a small courtyard, half conservatory, where bloomed a profusion of sweet-smelling flowers. The kitchen itself was a picture; walls were panelled, the ceiling was of oak; everything bore the unmistakable tone of age. Facing the windows were hooks and shelves bearing the brightest of brass pots and pans. The latticed windows, the flowers beyond all, here found their reflections multiplied. Every brass implement was of the most artistic description. At right angles with this, other shelves bore a small but special dinner-service of old Spanish ware, the only example of its kind we had ever seen. Below this was an old dresser on which the silver used by the canon was displayed, with here and there an artistic water-pot and cooler.
A long hallway with dark oak paneling connected the dining room to the kitchen. Here, we truly felt like we were in a fairy tale. The kitchen was much bigger than the dining room. Windows with wooden lattice framed a small courtyard, part conservatory, filled with a variety of sweet-smelling flowers. The kitchen itself was a beautiful sight; the walls were paneled, and the ceiling was oak, giving everything a distinct sense of history. Facing the windows, there were hooks and shelves holding shiny brass pots and pans. The latticed windows and the flowers outside were beautifully reflected inside. Every brass item was artistically designed. To the side, other shelves held a small yet unique dinner set made of old Spanish pottery, the only one we ever encountered. Below that sat an old dresser displaying the silver used by the canon, along with a few artistic water jugs and coolers.
Under one of the latticed windows was Juanita's help-mate: a young woman busily engaged in preparing a dish of olives. One could have lived in this room with the greatest pleasure, and never asked for anything more artistic or luxurious. A savoury smell, as of frying of eggs with sweet herbs, was in the air; yet were there no signs of stove or cooking. A huge chimney-place there was, in which half a dozen people might have comfortably found seats; but nothing was to be seen excepting a couple of old-fashioned dogs on which some lighted wood and peat sparkled and crackled, whilst the blue smoke went curling up the wide opening.
Under one of the latticed windows was Juanita's helper: a young woman busy preparing a dish of olives. One could easily live in this room with the greatest pleasure, and never crave anything more artistic or luxurious. A savory smell, like frying eggs with sweet herbs, filled the air; yet there were no signs of a stove or any cooking. There was a huge fireplace where half a dozen people could have comfortably sat; but all that was visible were a couple of old-fashioned logs on which some kindling wood and peat sparkled and crackled, while the blue smoke curled up the wide opening.
"Wonderful!" we cried, taking in the incomparable effect of the whole room. "This is a house of magic."
"Awesome!" we exclaimed, soaking in the incredible vibe of the entire room. "This is a magical place."
"Very simple magic," laughed the old canon. "I fear that in sleight of hand Juanita and I would be failures. Her magic lies in preparing simple dishes."
"Very simple magic," laughed the old canon. "I fear that in sleight of hand, Juanita and I would be failures. Her magic lies in preparing simple dishes."
"But where are they prepared?" we said. "There is neither sign nor sound of cooking here."
"But where are they cooking?" we asked. "There’s no sign or sound of food being made here."
"Come and see," laughed the canon; and crossing the kitchen, he led the way through a further door down a short passage into a small, whitewashed room beyond. Here on a large stove Juanita and her hand-maiden conducted their mysteries. A dozen brass pans stood upon the stove, and every one of them seemed in use.
"Come and see," laughed the canon; and crossing the kitchen, he led the way through another door down a short hallway into a small, whitewashed room beyond. Here, on a large stove, Juanita and her maid were working on their secrets. A dozen brass pans were on the stove, and each one of them seemed to be in use.
"Surely these are not for dinner!" we cried. "It was to be a fast-day."
"These can't be for dinner!" we exclaimed. "Today was supposed to be a fast day."
"A fast-day as far as flesh is concerned," laughed the canon. "That does not absolutely mean that you are to starve. I know no more than you what Juanita has prepared. If I intruded upon her province with the faintest suggestion, she might retaliate by sending us empty dishes. I fear our faces would lengthen before them—that is if anything could lengthen mine," he gurgled, turning his large, round, delightful countenance full upon us. "I see signs of approaching readiness in those steaming saucepans. Let us continue our inspection. Daylight dies; nothing remains but the afterglow."
"A day without meat," laughed the canon. "That doesn't mean you have to starve. I don't know any more than you what Juanita has cooked. If I even hint at it, she might respond by serving us empty plates. I worry our faces would fall at that—if mine was capable of doing so," he chuckled, turning his large, round, charming face toward us. "I see signs that dinner is almost ready in those steaming pots. Let's keep checking. The daylight is fading; only the afterglow is left."
We passed again through the charming old kitchen, where the logs on the great hearth blazed and crackled.
We walked through the lovely old kitchen again, where the logs in the big fireplace burned and crackled.
We passed up the old oak staircase. Everywhere we came upon the same signs of age; the same artistic old panelling; bedrooms with ancient oak furniture, oak ceilings finely carved. A perfect house of its kind, and much larger than it appeared from the outside. One room was the canon's own sanctum, fitted up with book-shelves, where reposed many a precious volume. Amongst his treasures he produced some ancient illuminated manuscripts of rare value. The desk at which he sat and worked was placed near a latticed window in a corner of the room, through which one just caught sight of the tower of La Seo.
We went up the old oak staircase. Everywhere we looked, we found the same signs of age: the same beautifully crafted old paneling; bedrooms filled with antique oak furniture and intricately carved oak ceilings. It was a perfect house for its kind, much larger than it seemed from the outside. One room was the canon's personal space, equipped with bookshelves holding many precious volumes. Among his treasures, he showed us some ancient illuminated manuscripts of great value. The desk where he sat and worked was positioned near a latticed window in the corner of the room, through which you could just see the tower of La Seo.
Again we exclaimed that so perfect a house should be found in Zaragoza.
Again we exclaimed that such a perfect house could be found in Zaragoza.
"Mine by inheritance," said the canon. "Early in the sixteenth century it belonged to a far-away ancestor, who was Bishop of Zaragoza. Dying, he left it to his brother and his children, of whom I am a direct descendant. The singular thing is that between the bishop and myself there has not been a single ecclesiastic in the family. When I die, the direct line of nearly four centuries will be broken. The house will pass to my nephew, who is mixed up with Court life, and has married a Court beauty. He is already nearly middle-aged, with sons and daughters growing up. As far as possible I have ordained that the house shall never be altered. But who can legislate for what shall happen after death?"
"Mine by inheritance," said the canon. "Early in the sixteenth century, it belonged to a distant ancestor, who was the Bishop of Zaragoza. When he died, he left it to his brother and his children, and I am a direct descendant. The strange part is that there hasn't been a single church leader in our family between the bishop and me. When I die, the direct line of nearly four centuries will end. The house will go to my nephew, who is involved in Court life and has married a Court beauty. He is already almost middle-aged, with sons and daughters growing up. As much as possible, I've arranged that the house should never be changed. But who can control what happens after death?"
We returned to the dining-room, where we soon found that our fast was to be in reality a light, refined and delicate feast. Fish of more kinds than one, dressed to perfection; eggs and sweet herbs in many forms and disguises; choice fruits. And from his cellar the canon brought forth exquisite wines—priceless Johannisberg and Chambertin; whilst with our coffee he gave us Chartreuse fifty years old. Yet he himself passed over all delicacies, limiting his dinner to eggs and sweet herbs, with which he drank coffee.
We went back to the dining room, where we quickly realized that our fast was actually going to be a light, elegant, and delicate feast. There were various kinds of fish, cooked to perfection; eggs and sweet herbs in all sorts of forms; and choice fruits. From his cellar, the canon brought out exquisite wines—priceless Johannisberg and Chambertin; and with our coffee, he served us fifty-year-old Chartreuse. Yet he himself skipped all the delicacies, sticking to just eggs and sweet herbs, and he drank coffee with them.
"I believe in St. James, who said, 'Use hospitality one to another without grudging,'" returned the canon. "I delight in doing this. Heaven has blessed me with means; how can they be better employed than in ministering to others, whether rich or poor? As for myself, do not think I am exercising self-denial. Habit is second nature. Did I not tell you that the pleasures of the table had nothing to do with my physical rotundity. But heaven be praised, I can still manage to roll over the ground without trouble."
"I believe in St. James, who said, 'Show hospitality to one another without complaining,'" the canon replied. "I really enjoy doing this. Heaven has blessed me with resources; how can they be better used than by helping others, whether they are rich or poor? And as for me, don’t think I'm denying myself. It’s just a habit. Didn’t I mention that the pleasures of the table have nothing to do with my physical roundness? But thank goodness, I can still roll around without any trouble."
Juanita waited upon us with unruffled ease, her comely face looking the delight she evidently felt in dispensing luxuries. Her hands were clothed in black silk mittens; her black silk gown rustled with a gentle dignity as she quietly moved about, taking plates and dishes from her hand-maiden, who stood outside the door. Some wonderful old silver adorned the table and everything from first to last showed the ruling hand and head of one born and bred in an atmosphere of refinement.
Juanita served us with calm confidence, her lovely face reflecting the joy she clearly felt in providing luxuries. Her hands were covered in black silk gloves; her black silk dress rustled softly with an elegant dignity as she gracefully moved around, taking plates and dishes from her maid, who stood outside the door. Some beautiful old silver decorated the table, and everything from start to finish showed the influence of someone raised in an environment of sophistication.
We had not sat down to table until eight o'clock, and when coffee was served the old clock on the oak mantelpiece had chimed nine, and its last vibrations had long died upon the air. Yet the time had passed with lightning rapidity, for the canon in giving us some of the experiences of his long life, and in telling us many legends of Zaragoza, had engaged our whole interest and attention.
We didn’t sit down to eat until eight o'clock, and by the time coffee was served, the old clock on the oak mantelpiece had chimed nine, and its last vibrations had faded away. But the time had flown by quickly, because the canon, sharing some of his life experiences and telling us many legends of Zaragoza, had captured our complete interest and attention.
When Juanita had handed us coffee, and left the charming old silver coffee-pot steaming upon the table dispensing its aromatic fumes, she made us collectively a court-curtsey at the door and withdrew.
When Juanita served us coffee and left the charming old silver coffee pot steaming on the table, releasing its fragrant aroma, she gave us a collective curtsy at the door and left.
Then came our opportunity, and we related to the canon our previous day's adventure, with all its sadness and its apparently hopeless element. He listened with earnest attention and sympathy.
Then our chance arrived, and we told the canon about our adventure from the day before, with all its sadness and seemingly hopeless parts. He listened with genuine attention and empathy.
"The world is full of these instances," he cried with a profound sigh, when we had ended. "Do you wonder at my frugal living when I hear of these wrecked lives? I have seen so much of this terrible vice. I know how hard it is to conquer, how seldom the victory is gained. It requires daily care on the part of one stronger than the tempted, and too often even that fails. But who is this frail creature? She must and shall be rescued if human aid, under divine help, can avail. For heaven will not always save us in spite of ourselves. 'My Spirit shall not always strive with men.'"
"The world has so many examples of this," he said with a deep sigh when we finished. "Do you really wonder why I live simply when I hear about these shattered lives? I've seen so much of this awful addiction. I know how tough it is to overcome, how rarely people actually succeed. It takes daily effort from someone stronger than the one who’s tempted, and even then, it often doesn't work. But who is this fragile person? She must and will be saved if human help, with divine support, can make a difference. For heaven won't always rescue us against our will. 'My Spirit shall not always strive with men.'"
Her name and domestic history had been withheld to the last. We now explained who she was, who her father had been, his position under Government, his sudden death from grief. and we gave him her card, which bore both her married and her maiden name—the latter written in pencil: Eugenie de Colmar.
Her name and home background were kept a secret until the end. We now explained who she was, who her father was, his role in the government, and his sudden death from heartbreak. We handed him her card, which had both her married name and her maiden name—the latter written in pencil: Eugenie de Colmar.
The canon quite started as we spoke it, and threw himself back in his chair.
The canon just started speaking as we talked and leaned back in his chair.
"Is it possible!" he cried. "Is it possible! But life is full of these coincidences. Verily the Divine hand holds the threads of the world's human actions; and what we call coincidences are the silent drawing together of these threads for ordained purposes. De Colmar was my intimate friend, though many years my junior. He would come and spend a week at a time with me here, but his visits were not frequent. I knew little of his wife, still less of his child, whom I saw but once when she was about ten years old. I was told of his death; had heard of a tragedy; but the full details I now learn for the first time. It is one of the saddest stories I ever listened to. For the sake of the father I must make every effort to save the child. It will be a hard task, but only needing the more courage. To-morrow I will seek her out. She must be taken from this unwholesome life and excitement. I will tell her that she owes it to the memory of her father, in atonement for the wrong she did him, to place herself in my hands; to give up her will to mine. She shall come into this house and take up her abode with us for a time. Her reform shall be my daily care. Juanita, for all her placid face, has plenty of good sense and decision; she is quite equal to being her companion and to watching over her. It shall be done. I have seldom failed in what I earnestly took in hand, and I must not fail now."
"Is it possible!" he exclaimed. "Is it really possible! But life is full of these coincidences. Truly, a higher power guides the threads of human actions in the world; and what we call coincidences are the quiet weaving together of these threads for specific purposes. De Colmar was my close friend, although he was several years younger than me. He would come and spend a week with me here, but his visits weren't frequent. I knew very little about his wife, even less about his child, whom I met only once when she was about ten years old. I heard about his death; I had heard of a tragedy; but I am learning the full details for the first time now. It’s one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard. For the father’s sake, I must do everything I can to save the child. It will be a tough task, but it just requires more courage. Tomorrow, I will seek her out. She needs to be removed from this unhealthy life and excitement. I will tell her that she owes it to her father's memory, in atonement for the wrong she did him, to put herself in my hands; to surrender her will to mine. She will come into this house and stay with us for a while. Her reform will be my daily priority. Juanita, despite her calm demeanor, has plenty of good sense and determination; she can definitely be her companion and look after her. It will be done. I’ve rarely failed in what I seriously set out to do, and I can't fail now."
This was good news. A load was taken from our mind. Surely all this would bear fruit. There seemed every hope that this poor creature would be rescued and restored. When we got up to leave, it was with a light heart. The time had passed quickly and the hands on the old clock pointed to eleven.
This was great news. A weight was lifted off our minds. Clearly, all of this would lead to something positive. There was every reason to hope that this unfortunate being would be saved and healed. When we stood up to leave, we did so with a light heart. The time had flown by, and the hands on the old clock showed eleven.
"When shall we meet again?" he repeated. "Perhaps never! Even the splendours of La Seo may fail to draw from you a second visit; whilst the welcome awaiting you from the old priest will be altogether forgotten."
"When will we meet again?" he asked again. "Maybe never! Even the beauty of La Seo might not entice you to visit a second time; and the warm welcome from the old priest will be completely forgotten."
We assured him that ingratitude was not one of our sins. The delightful evening he had given us would be remembered for ever; we truly declared it a privilege and a pleasure to know him; a sorrow to say farewell.
We assured him that being ungrateful was not one of our faults. We would always remember the wonderful evening he had given us; we genuinely stated it was a privilege and a pleasure to know him; it was sad to say goodbye.
"It is a word I never utter," quickly returned the canon. "With me it is ever au revoir; if not in this world then in the next. And we have now a bond of sympathy between us in this poor creature whom I am going to save and rescue whether she will or no. She is our joint protégée; I shall write and keep you posted up in her welfare. Be sure that if any power can possibly reclaim her, she is saved. Au revoir—let us leave it at this. Heaven be with you—and peace."
"It’s a word I never say," the canon replied quickly. "For me, it’s always au revoir; if not in this life, then the next. We now share a bond of sympathy for this poor soul I'm going to save, whether she likes it or not. She’s our joint protégée; I’ll write and keep you updated on her well-being. Rest assured, if there’s any way to bring her back, she’ll be saved. Au revoir—let’s leave it at that. May heaven be with you—and peace."
Full of peace indeed was the night as we passed out into the darkness. The stars seemed to shine down upon the world with a serene benediction. Much of the pain we had felt last night was removed. Surely no chance hand had guided us. The work begun to-night was destined to succeed.[C]
The night was truly peaceful as we stepped out into the darkness. The stars seemed to shine down on the world with a calm blessing. Much of the pain we felt last night was gone. It was clear that it was not random chance that had led us here. The work we started tonight was meant to succeed.[C]
Before turning in, we went once more round to our favourite spot. It was our last look by starlight upon the deep, dark flowing river, the wonderful old bridge, the faint outlines of El Pilar rising beyond. To-night all was shadowy and indistinct; a dream vision; and the only sound to be heard was the swirling of the waters through the seven arches of St. Peter's bridge.
Before going to bed, we took one last trip to our favorite spot. It was our final view under the stars of the deep, dark river, the beautiful old bridge, and the faint shapes of El Pilar rising in the distance. Tonight, everything was shadowy and unclear; it felt like a dream. The only sound was the water swirling through the seven arches of St. Peter's bridge.
The next morning we left Zaragoza by an early train for Tarragona: a long roundabout journey. Again we had to pass through Lerida, where we had twenty minutes to wait. As chance would have it, our landlord was on the platform, speeding parting guests. We went up to him and drew him apart.
The next morning, we took an early train out of Zaragoza to Tarragona: it was a long, roundabout trip. We had to go through Lerida again, where we had a twenty-minute layover. As luck would have it, our landlord was on the platform, seeing off some departing guests. We approached him and pulled him aside.
"Tell us," we said; "what about the dragging of the well? Has it been done?"
"Tell us," we said; "what about the dragging of the well? Has it been done?"
Our late host threw up his hands. "Oh, señor, I shiver and shake at the very thought of it. I had it done the very day after you left. And what do you think came up?"
Our late host threw up his hands. "Oh, sir, I tremble at just the thought of it. I had it done the day after you left. And what do you think happened?"
"Two skeletons?"
"Two skeletons?"
"And the skeletons?"
"And the skeletons?"
"Not a vestige, señor; not a single bone. I told you the well communicated with the river, and the river with the sea. They must have floated out, and probably are now reposing in the Panama Canal."
"Not a trace, sir; not a single bone. I told you the well connects to the river, and the river connects to the sea. They must have floated away and are probably resting in the Panama Canal now."
"But why the Panama Canal?"
"But why the Panama Canal?"
"Everything bad must drift there, señor. I lost a large sum in the wretched affair."
"All the bad stuff has to end up there, sir. I lost a lot of money in that terrible situation."
"And have you seen no ghost since we left?"
"And have you not seen any ghost since we left?"
"No ghost, señor, and no mysterious sounds. All the same we have had a domestic drama."
"No ghost, sir, and no strange sounds. Still, we've had a domestic drama."
"The Dragon?"
"The Dragon?"
"Exactly, señor. Your penetration is wonderful. As she was leaning over her wash-tub, the waiter came behind and ducked her head in the soapsuds. Her mouth—you know her mouth—was wide open, and she swallowed a great gulp of soapy water; upon which, presto! quick as lightning, she up with her washing-pin and hit him on the head. Such a crash! Down went the waiter, and the Dragon was stooping over him with wet locks like a dripping mermaid, gloating and mouthing upon the ruin."
"Exactly, sir. Your insight is impressive. As she was leaning over her wash tub, the waiter came up from behind and dunked her head in the soapy water. Her mouth—you know her mouth—was wide open, and she swallowed a big gulp of soapy water; then, just like that, she grabbed her washing pin and smacked him on the head. What a crash! The waiter went down, and the Dragon was leaning over him with wet hair like a dripping mermaid, reveling in the chaos."
"And the waiter?"
"And the server?"
"In the hospital, señor, with a broken head. That is why I am here. I have to come to the station myself, and be my own porter, and see my guests off. Servants are the bane of one's life. Like the flies, they were invented for our torment. But, señor, these troubles are nothing compared with the relief of finding that the skeletons had cleared out to sea."
"In the hospital, sir, with a bad head injury. That’s why I’m here. I have to go to the station myself, be my own porter, and see my guests off. Servants are a constant hassle. Like flies, they were made to annoy us. But, sir, these problems are nothing compared to the relief of discovering that the skeletons have vanished out to sea."
Our train came up and we went our way, leaving Lerida behind us with its fine outlines, and the landlord to the difficult task of managing his womenkind.
Our train arrived, and we continued on our journey, leaving Lerida behind with its beautiful skyline, and the landlord to the challenging job of dealing with his women.
So far we had travelled on the line before, but now branched off towards Tarragona. We did not again see Manresa, but even a comparative approach to its neighbourhood brought all the splendid and imposing outlines, the blood-red river, vividly before us. Once more we saw Mons Serratus with its jagged, fantastic peaks: lived through our haunted night in the Hospederia; again Salvador the monk and his wonderful music took possession of our spirit and Serratus itself appeared enveloped in harmony and romance. We were glad not to pass through the station, where possibly Sebastien would have been on the watch for passengers; and we should have left a heart-broken expression behind us at the very thought of our not staying a couple of days to see Manresa under sunshine.
So far, we had traveled along the same route before, but now we veered off towards Tarragona. We didn’t see Manresa again, but just getting close to its surroundings brought all the amazing and dramatic shapes, along with the blood-red river, vividly back to our minds. Once again, we saw Mons Serratus with its sharp, fantastical peaks: we relived our haunted night at the Hospederia; once more, Salvador the monk and his incredible music filled our souls, and Serratus itself seemed wrapped in harmony and romance. We were happy to avoid the station, where Sebastien might have been waiting for passengers; just the thought of leaving a heartbroken look behind us at the idea of not spending a couple of days enjoying Manresa in the sunshine was enough to trouble us.
The day was wearing on to evening as we approached Tarragona with its matchless coast scene. The blue waters of the Mediterranean stretched far and wide, and the harbour reposed upon them like a sleeping crescent. As the sun dipped in the west, the waters flashed out its declining rays, reflected the gorgeous colouring of the sky. The train landed us in the lower town. We had to reach the upper town, and the rickety old omnibus rolled and struggled up the steep streets, finally depositing us at the Fonda de Paris.
The day was moving into evening as we got closer to Tarragona with its unmatched coastal view. The blue Mediterranean waters spread out as far as the eye could see, with the harbor lying on them like a sleeping crescent. As the sun set in the west, the water sparkled with its fading rays, reflecting the beautiful colors of the sky. The train dropped us off in the lower town. We needed to get to the upper town, and the old, shaky bus rolled and struggled up the steep streets, eventually dropping us off at the Fonda de Paris.
We found the inn quite civilised. The landlord was half Italian and spoke several languages. On the first night of our arrival the cook must have been in a very amiable mood, for he sent up an excellent dinner. But to H. C.'s sorrow and surprise the after dinners were a lamentable falling-off. The cook had been crossed in love, received notice to quit, or his art failed him: everything was below par. On the evening of our arrival, the evil had not fallen.
We found the inn to be quite nice. The landlord was half Italian and spoke several languages. On the first night of our arrival, the cook must have been in a really good mood because he sent up an amazing dinner. But to H. C.'s dismay and surprise, the dinners afterward were sadly disappointing. The cook had either experienced a heartbreak, been given notice to leave, or his skills just weren't up to par: everything was below standard. On the evening we arrived, things hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.
The hotel, like many of the Spanish inns was large and rambling. Our landlord conducted us to excellent rooms facing the road, and from the balcony the scene was enchanting. Before us was an old Roman tower. To our right, far down, 700 feet below our present level, we caught sight of the sleeping Mediterranean.
The hotel, like many Spanish inns, was spacious and spread out. Our landlord showed us to great rooms facing the road, and from the balcony, the view was stunning. In front of us stood an ancient Roman tower. To our right, far below at 700 feet, we glimpsed the calm Mediterranean.
It was not quite so pleasant to find ourselves surrounded by the military element; barracks to right and left of us; sentries in slippers patrolling up and down; raw recruits, looking as little like soldiers as anything to be conceived; constant snatches of bugle-calling, which seemed to end at midnight and begin again at four in the morning. So far, all was unrest. But we soon found that the charms of Tarragona soared far above all small and secondary considerations.
It wasn't exactly enjoyable to be surrounded by the military; there were barracks on either side of us, guards in slippers walking back and forth, and new recruits who looked nothing like real soldiers. We were constantly interrupted by bugle calls that seemed to stop at midnight and start again at four in the morning. Up to that point, everything felt unsettled. But we quickly realized that the attractions of Tarragona far outweighed all these minor inconveniences.
Down the long passage behind our rooms we came to the garden of the hotel. It was after dinner and pale twilight reigned. In the centre of the garden a splendid spreading palm outlined itself against the evening sky, in which shone a large, liquid, solitary star. The garden was surrounded by a white wall, and the scene was quite eastern. Far down was the wonderful coast-line and crescent harbour. Of late we had had only rivers, and this broad expanse of sea brought new life to the spirit.
Down the long hallway behind our rooms, we reached the hotel's garden. It was after dinner, and a soft twilight filled the air. In the center of the garden, a beautiful palm tree stood out against the evening sky, where a bright, shimmering star shone alone. The garden was enclosed by a white wall, giving it an exotic vibe. In the distance, the stunning coastline and crescent harbor came into view. Recently, we had only seen rivers, and this vast stretch of ocean brought a fresh energy to our spirits.
Returning indoors, we found the inn haunted, but not by spirits of the dead.
Returning indoors, we discovered that the inn was haunted, but not by the spirits of the dead.
The ghost was unmistakably flesh and blood. The first time we caught sight of him—it was a masculine ghost, therefore doubly uninteresting—he was cautiously putting his head into our rooms and taking a look round. The said rooms were raised above the rest on that floor by steps that led to our own quarters only. Thus the ghost was clearly trespassing. He neither looked confused nor apologised as he took his slow departure. All his time seemed spent in prowling about the passages in a spirit of curiosity or unrest. Often we found him on our premises on suddenly coming in, and once or twice, when quietly writing, on looking up were startled by an evil-looking countenance intruding itself at the open door, and as quickly withdrawing on finding the room occupied.
The ghost was clearly a real person. The first time we saw him—it was a male ghost, which made him even less interesting—he was carefully peering into our rooms and checking things out. Those rooms were raised above the rest of the floor by stairs that only led to our area. So, the ghost was definitely trespassing. He didn’t seem confused or sorry as he slowly left. Instead, he spent his time wandering the hallways out of curiosity or restlessness. We often found him on our property when we came in unexpectedly, and a couple of times, while we were quietly writing, we were shocked to see an eerie face suddenly appear at the open door, only for him to quickly pull back when he realized the room was occupied.
We never discovered the mystery. Whether the ghost was a little out of its mind, whether it was its peculiar way of taking exercise, or whether it suffered from kleptomania and had a passion for collecting sticks and umbrellas, nothing of this was ever learned. We only knew that the ghost looked like a broken-down dissenting parson, that it dressed in sable garments, and went about with a pale face and large black eyes that seemed to glow with hidden fire suggestive of madness, and long, straight, black hair plastered down each side of its face; a curiously unpleasant object to encounter at every trick and turn of the gloomy corridors.
We never figured out the mystery. Whether the ghost was just a bit off, whether it had a strange way of exercising, or whether it struggled with kleptomania and had a weird obsession with collecting sticks and umbrellas, we never learned. We only knew that the ghost looked like a worn-out dissenting pastor, dressed in dark clothes, and wandered around with a pale face and large black eyes that seemed to burn with a hidden madness, and long, straight, black hair slicked down on either side of its face; it was a strangely unsettling thing to run into in every twist and turn of the dark corridors.
Tarragona possesses two distinct elements, both in an eminent degree. The town, especially the lower town, is mean and common-place. Ascending beyond a certain point, you come upon everything refined and beautiful. It stands on a hill which gradually rises to some seven or eight hundred feet above the sea-level. At the highest point of all is its mediæval cathedral, surpassing most of the cathedrals of Spain or elsewhere—one of those wonders of architecture that visit us in our dreams, but are seldom actually found. It does not, however, stand out far and wide in magnificent outlines, like Manresa or Lerida. Only a close inspection reveals its charms.
Tarragona has two very different aspects, both quite notable. The town, especially the lower part, is unremarkable and ordinary. As you climb higher, you encounter everything that is elegant and beautiful. It sits on a hill that gradually rises to about seven or eight hundred feet above sea level. At the very top is its medieval cathedral, which surpasses most of the cathedrals in Spain and beyond—one of those architectural wonders that we dream about but rarely see in real life. However, it doesn’t stand out in bold outlines like Manresa or Lerida. Its beauty can only be appreciated upon close inspection.
The upper town is surrounded by walls ancient and imposing. Within their boundaries are many Roman and Christian remains, such as few places still possess, making of Tarragona a dream of the past crowded with interest. Outside the walls the views are splendid and extensive. Looking towards the ever-changing sea, the coast-line is magnificent. Point after point juts out; hill after hill rises towards the East. Far down at one's feet lies the little harbour, encircling all the craft that seek its shelter: steamers from Barcelona with their daily freights, steamers from Norway and Sweden laden with scented pinewood, a whole fleet of picturesque fishing boats. Inland, the country is a succession of rich green pastures and sunny vineyards, whilst on the sloping hills afar off reposes many a town and village.
The upper town is surrounded by ancient, impressive walls. Inside, there are many Roman and Christian remains that few places still have, making Tarragona a fascinating snapshot of the past. Outside the walls, the views are stunning and expansive. Looking out at the ever-changing sea, the coastline is breathtaking. Point after point juts out, and hill after hill rises towards the East. Down below lies the small harbor, cradling all the boats that seek its shelter: ferries from Barcelona with their daily cargo, ferries from Norway and Sweden loaded with fragrant pine wood, and a whole fleet of charming fishing boats. Inland, the landscape is a series of lush green pastures and sunny vineyards, while on the distant sloping hills sit many towns and villages.
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 Träumerei—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.
Tarragona at night—Cathedral—Moonlight vision—Dream-like fabric—Empty streets—A ghostly figure approaches—Quilp or Quasimodo?—Redeeming traits—Pale, spiritual face—Open sesame—Moving closer to the apparition—Questions and answers—Invitation accepted—Prisoners—The Shadow—Under the cold moonlight—Enter the cathedral—Spacious interior—Gloom and silence—Fantastic effects—Mystery solved—Strange happenings—No inspiration—Why Quasimodo turned night into day—Strange moonlit scene—Soft, sweet sounds—Schumann's Träumerei—Spellbound—The magician—Witching hour—Cathedral ghosts—An eternity of music—Changing moods—Returning to reality—Quasimodo's bliss—Traveling moonbeams—Night wears on—Sky filled with music—Lost from view—Dreams haunted by Quasimodo—New day.
THAT first night we went out into the darkness, when details were lost in outlines. We passed the barracks where bugling seemed to be in full play. A narrow street to the right led to a short flight of steps, above which rose the west front of the cathedral. As far as we could see, the porches were deep and beautiful. But it was the south and east sides that presented the most marvellous outlines. Even the darkness could not hide their beauty. And presently, when the moon rose and her pale silvery light shone full upon the grey walls and gleamed upon the Gothic windows and ancient tower, it turned to a dream-fabric.
THAT first night we ventured into the darkness, where details faded into shadows. We passed the barracks, where the bugling sounded lively. A narrow street to the right led to a short set of steps, above which loomed the west front of the cathedral. As far as we could see, the porches were deep and stunning. But it was the south and east sides that offered the most incredible silhouettes. Even the darkness couldn’t conceal their beauty. Soon, when the moon rose and her pale silver light illuminated the gray walls and shimmered on the Gothic windows and ancient tower, it transformed into a fabric of dreams.
SOUTH-WEST OUTSIDE OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA.
The cathedral clock struck eleven. As the last stroke vibrated upon the air, we saw a shadowy form approaching. It was not yet the ghostly hour, therefore it must be flesh and blood, to be boldly challenged. Was the mysterious being that haunted our corridors prowling these precincts in search of relics? No; as the form approached we saw that it was short and slender; almost diaphanous, almost deformed. The head seemed enormous in comparison with the body; legs and arms were unusually long. Yet even in the moonlight we noticed that something pale and spiritual about the face redeemed its ugliness. We thought of Quilp, of Quasimodo, all the grotesques we had ever heard of, but he only resembled these at a distance; we soon found that he was far better than they.
The cathedral clock struck eleven. As the last chime echoed in the air, we saw a shadowy figure approaching. It wasn't quite the ghostly hour yet, so it had to be flesh and blood, ready to be faced. Was the mysterious presence that haunted our halls searching these grounds for artifacts? No; as the figure drew nearer, we realized it was short and slender; almost transparent, almost deformed. The head looked huge compared to the body; the arms and legs were unusually long. Yet even in the moonlight, there was something pale and ethereal about the face that made it less ugly. We thought of Quilp, of Quasimodo, all the grotesque characters we had ever heard of, but he only resembled those from a distance; we soon discovered he was much better than they were.
This apparition was followed by a lean, lanky youth who seemed to be shod in india-rubber, so silent his footsteps. He towered above Quasimodo, whom he followed as a shadow follows its substance. We happened to be standing near a small gate in the south railings, and up to this gate came Quasimodo, inserted a magic key into the lock and swung it open. What did it mean? Were they, this moonlight night, going into the interior? What a weird experience; what an opportunity not to be lost! The apparition must be won over.
This ghost was followed by a tall, skinny guy who seemed to move on rubber soles, his footsteps completely silent. He loomed over Quasimodo, trailing him like a shadow follows its source. We happened to be standing by a small gate in the southern railings, and Quasimodo approached this gate, put a special key into the lock, and swung it open. What did it mean? Were they headed inside on this moonlit night? What a strange experience; what an opportunity that shouldn't be missed! The ghost needed to be convinced.
"Are you entering the cathedral?" we asked as they passed in and half closed the gate. To our relief a very earthly voice responded in matter-of-fact tones.
"Are you going into the cathedral?" we asked as they walked in and partially closed the gate. To our relief, a very down-to-earth voice replied in a straightforward manner.
"Yes," it replied. "Do you want to enter also?"
"Yes," it replied. "Do you want to come in too?"
It needed no further invitation. We passed through, and the gate was closed and locked. As we heard the sharp click and Quasimodo pocketed the key, we felt ourselves prisoners. All the possible and impossible stories we had ever heard of midnight murders and mysterious disappearances flashed through the brain. But the die was cast and we must follow. The enigma which even at the instant puzzled us was the motive for this midnight visit. We could think of none.
It didn’t take any more persuading. We walked through, and the gate was shut and locked. When we heard the sharp click and Quasimodo put the key in his pocket, we felt like prisoners. All the stories we’d ever heard about midnight murders and mysterious disappearances raced through our minds. But the decision was made, and we had to go on. The mystery that puzzled us even at that moment was why we were visiting at midnight. We couldn’t think of a single reason.
We stood for a moment in the space between the railings and the building. Repairs were going on; it had been turned into a stonemason's yard. The cold moonlight fell upon heavy blocks of marble lying about. There was an erection that looked for all the world like a gibbet, and we almost expected to see a ghostly skeleton dangling from its cross-beam.
We stood for a moment in the space between the railings and the building. Repairs were underway; it had been transformed into a stonemason's yard. The cold moonlight shone on heavy blocks of marble scattered around. There was a structure that looked just like a gallows, and we almost expected to see a ghostly skeleton hanging from its crossbeam.
Quasimodo moved on and opened a small south door. He entered and we waited whilst he took a lantern from the hands of the Shadow. It was lighted in a moment, and we found it to be a powerful electric lamp. Then we too passed in, and the door closed upon us. If we were to be murdered, it would not be in utter darkness. The lantern was brilliant, and threw around its ghostly lights and shadows. We are compelled to repeat the adjective, for everything was ghostly and weird.
Quasimodo moved on and opened a small south door. He walked in, and we waited as he took a lantern from the Shadow's hands. It was lit in an instant, and we discovered it was a powerful electric lamp. Then we stepped inside too, and the door shut behind us. If we were about to be killed, it wouldn’t be in total darkness. The lantern was bright and cast eerie lights and shadows around us. We have to emphasize that adjective because everything felt ghostly and strange.
The vast interior was lost in profoundest silence and gloom. No single light could reach the depths and spaces, but round about us the lantern lighted up the outlines of aisles and arches and pillars.
The huge interior was enveloped in deep silence and darkness. No single light could penetrate the depths and spaces, but our lantern illuminated the shapes of the aisles, arches, and pillars around us.
The effect was inexpressibly solemn. There seemed no limit to the space. We paced the aisles and thought them endless. Our footsteps awoke ghostly echoes. As far as could be discerned, we were surrounded by the loveliest, most refined outlines. Gothic aisles and arches were dimly visible. And still the Shadow followed Quasimodo, and still his footsteps made no sound.
The effect was incredibly serious. There seemed to be no end to the space. We walked the aisles and felt they went on forever. Our footsteps stirred up ghostly echoes. As far as we could see, we were surrounded by the most beautiful, refined shapes. Gothic aisles and arches were faintly visible. And still the Shadow trailed Quasimodo, and still his footsteps made no sound.
Quasimodo walked in silence for a time, evidently enjoying our own silent delight and experience. His long arms and legs, his large head, his long-drawn, backward shadow, all suggested gnome-land. He swung the lantern about as though charmed and allured by all the fantastic effects it produced.
Quasimodo walked quietly for a while, clearly relishing our shared silent joy and experience. His long arms and legs, his big head, and his elongated shadow all gave off a gnome-like vibe. He swung the lantern around as if he were mesmerized by all the amazing effects it created.
At last we felt we must break the silence.
At last, we felt we had to break the silence.
"Why are you here?" we said. "May we ask? It seems so strange to be walking with you in this midnight space and darkness."
"Why are you here?" we asked. "Can we know? It feels so weird to be walking with you in this midnight space and darkness."
"Can you not guess?" he returned. "What object could I have in coming here at this dark hour? Look."
"Can’t you guess?" he replied. "What reason would I have for coming here at this late hour? Look."
Then we noticed for the first time that the Shadow carried a music-book. The enigma was solved. Quasimodo had come to practise.
Then we noticed for the first time that the Shadow had a music book. The mystery was solved. Quasimodo had come to practice.
EAST END OF CATHEDRAL, SHOWING NORMAN APSE: TARRAGONA.
"No," replied Quasimodo; "I have no inspiration. I possess the souls of others, I have no soul of my own. It is given to me to interpret the thoughts of all musicians with a wonderful interpretation, but not a single thought of my own do I possess. Not a single line can I extemporise. I am like a man to whom has been given all the feelings, all the aspirations, all the fire of the poet, and from whom is withheld the gift of language. But I am content. All the thoughts of the great masters are mine, my very own, and I am grateful for the power. It is a gift. As a rule I need no music. All is stamped on my brain in undying characters. You shall hear. This is a book of Bach's Fugues that I scarcely need; and this quiet and devoted creature is my organ-blower. He is deaf and dumb, which explains his silence."
"No," Quasimodo replied, "I have no inspiration. I carry the souls of others; I have no soul of my own. I'm meant to interpret the thoughts of all musicians with a wonderful interpretation, but I don't have a single thought of my own. I can't come up with even a single line. I'm like a person who has been given all the feelings, all the dreams, all the passion of a poet, but is denied the gift of language. Yet, I am content. All the thoughts of the great masters are mine, truly mine, and I'm thankful for this gift of power. Usually, I don’t need any music. Everything is imprinted on my mind in everlasting letters. You'll hear. This is a book of Bach's Fugues that I hardly need, and this quiet and devoted person here is my organ-blower. He's deaf and mute, which explains his silence."
"But you have not told us your reason for turning night into day," we remarked. "Everything about you is so weird and unusual that we cannot help our curiosity. You must not think it impertinence."
"But you haven't shared why you turn night into day," we said. "Everything about you is so strange and different that we can't help but be curious. Please don't think we're being rude."
"True," replied Quasimodo. "It must indeed seem strange to you that I come here now, yet the reason is simple enough. I teach all day long, for I have to work for my living. Yet I cannot live without occasionally pouring out my soul in music; and as I have no time but the night, I come here now rather than not at all. I was not here last night or the night before; I shall not be here again any night this week. I have to work not only for my own living, but for a wife and two lovely children. You start. You wonder that any woman could have married this grotesque creature—much more a beautiful woman. You do not wonder more than I do. I tell my wife that she married me for my music, not for myself. The music charmed and bewitched her; threw a glamour over her eyes and judgment and taste. She laughs in reply. We have been married twelve years now, and she still seems the happiest of women, most devoted of wives. Heaven be praised, there is nothing grotesque in our lovely children. They might have come from paradise. But now I will go and play, and you shall listen. You have chosen to enter here, and here you must remain until I let you out again. I will leave you my lantern and you may wander where you will."
"True," Quasimodo replied. "It must seem strange to you that I'm here now, but the reason is simple. I work all day to earn a living. But I can't get by without pouring my soul into music occasionally, and since I only have time at night, I come here now instead of not at all. I wasn't here last night or the night before; I won’t be back any night this week. I have to work not just for myself, but for a wife and two beautiful kids. You look surprised. You wonder how any woman could marry this grotesque creature—especially a beautiful one. Honestly, I wonder too. I tell my wife she married me for my music, not for who I am. The music enchanted her, creating a spell over her eyes, judgment, and taste. She laughs at that. We've been married for twelve years, and she still seems like the happiest woman and the most devoted wife. Thank goodness, there’s nothing grotesque about our lovely children. They look like they came from paradise. But now, I’m going to play, and you’re going to listen. You chose to come in here, and now you have to stay until I let you out again. I'll leave you my lantern, and you can wander wherever you want."
With that he placed his lamp in our hand, and lighting a small wax candle which he produced from his pocket, departed down the long, dark, solemn, solitary aisle, followed by his silent Shadow. We soon lost them in the gloom, and nothing but the distant sound of Quasimodo's footsteps told us we were not alone. Even this sound ceased, and for a time absolute silence reigned.
With that, he handed us his lamp and lit a small wax candle that he took from his pocket, then walked away down the long, dark, serious, lonely aisle, followed by his silent Shadow. We quickly lost sight of them in the darkness, and the only thing that reminded us we weren’t alone was the distant sound of Quasimodo's footsteps. Eventually, even that sound stopped, and for a while, there was complete silence.
Presently a far-off glimmer showed where the organ-loft was placed. Quasimodo had lighted the candles and taken his seat. We turned off the light of our lantern. The moonlight was playing upon the windows, and the pale rays streamed across the aisles upon pillars and arches. Never was a more weird, more telling and effective scene.
Presently, a distant light appeared where the organ loft was situated. Quasimodo had lit the candles and taken his place. We switched off the light of our lantern. Moonlight danced on the windows, and the soft rays flowed across the aisles onto the pillars and arches. Never was there a more eerie, more expressive, and impactful scene.
We sat down on the steps of one of the chapels. The whole ghostly building, shrouded in gloom and mystery and moonbeams, stood before us in all its solidity, all its grandeur and magnificence. Intense silence reigned. We could hear the beating of our hearts, feel the quickening of our pulses.
We sat down on the steps of one of the chapels. The entire eerie building, wrapped in darkness and mystery and moonlight, stood before us in all its solidity, grandeur, and magnificence. A deep silence surrounded us. We could hear our hearts pounding and feel our pulses racing.
Then through the silence there stole the softest, sweetest sounds. Quasimodo was interpreting the thoughts of others. He had chosen that soothing, flowing, exquisite Träumerei of Schumann's, and rendered it as never rendered before. The whole melody was hushed and subdued. Nothing seemed to rise above a whisper. All the aisles and arches were full of exquisite vibrations. Quasimodo appeared to linger upon every note as though he loved it and could not part with it. One note melted into another. The sense of rhythm was perfect.
Then, through the silence, the softest, sweetest sounds filled the air. Quasimodo was expressing the thoughts of others. He had chosen Schumann's soothing, flowing, exquisite "Träumerei" and played it like never before. The entire melody was quiet and restrained. Nothing seemed to rise above a whisper. All the aisles and arches were filled with beautiful vibrations. Quasimodo lingered on every note as if he loved it and couldn’t let it go. One note blended into another. The sense of rhythm was perfect.
We listened spellbound to the end. Never had the simple, beautiful melody so held all our senses captive. It ceased, and again for a moment the whole vast interior was steeped in profound silence; the moonbeams streaming their pale light through the windows possessed the building.
We listened, captivated, until the very end. Never had such a simple, beautiful melody captured all our senses like this. It came to an end, and once again, the entire expansive space was enveloped in deep silence; the moonlight poured through the windows, claiming the building.
Then a different spirit held Quasimodo. Our dream changed. Louder stops were pulled out, and he plunged into a vigorous fugue of Bach's. Again we had never heard it so played. Every note fell clear and distinct. The music seemed gifted with words suggesting wild thoughts and emotions. What Quasimodo had said was true. The souls of the dead-and-gone masters possessed him. He was their true interpreter. The fugue came to an end. Again a moment's silence and again a change in our dream.
Then a different vibe took over Quasimodo. Our dream shifted. He played with more intensity, diving into a powerful fugue by Bach. Once again, we'd never heard it performed like this. Every note rang out clear and sharp. The music felt like it had words, evoking wild thoughts and feelings. What Quasimodo had said was right. The spirits of the great composers were within him. He was their true voice. The fugue wrapped up. There was a moment of silence again, and once more our dream changed.
INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA.
This time it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. More fitting time and place could never have existed. The pulses thrilled as we listened. Never had music seemed so perfect. Beethoven himself would have declared the rendering beyond his own conception. Quasimodo was a magician. His body might be grotesque, his mind was angelic. Be his wife never so beautiful, he never so grotesque, she could not fail to love that soul and spirit. He was worthy, and she was wise.
This time it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. More fitting time and place could never have existed. The beats excited us as we listened. Never had music seemed so perfect. Beethoven himself would have said the performance was beyond his own imagination. Quasimodo was a magician. His body might be grotesque, but his mind was angelic. No matter how beautiful his wife was or how grotesque he appeared, she couldn't help but love that soul and spirit. He was worthy, and she was wise.
Again the soft sweet strains went trolling through aisles and arches, all their exquisite melancholy cadence fully rendered. And presently it changed to the louder, more passionate strains, suggestive more of storm and tempest than serene moonlight. It ceased; and one thing gave place to another; Quasimodo's moods seemed as wild and eccentric as they were uncertain but ever charming. For two whole hours he kept us spell-bound. We never thought of the night; of the passing of time; of the necessity for rest. We were in a new world. The moonbeams travelled onwards and downwards.
Again, the soft, sweet music flowed through the aisles and arches, perfectly capturing its beautiful, melancholic tone. Then it shifted to louder, more passionate melodies, evoking images of storms and tempests rather than calm moonlight. It stopped, and one emotion replaced another; Quasimodo's moods were as wild and unpredictable as they were captivating. For two full hours, he held us in a trance. We didn’t think about the night, the passing time, or the need for rest. We were in a new world. The moonlight moved onward and downward.
Midnight struck. Twelve slow strokes fell upon the air. The ghosts came out to listen; it was their hour. We were persuaded that the aisles and arches were full of them. We saw faint shadows thrown upon the moonbeams, as they passed to and fro. It is useless to say ghosts do not throw shadows: that night we distinctly saw them. The wonderful moonlit building seemed full of sighs and subdued sobbings. H. C. declared it was nothing but the vibrations of the organ: we knew better. The ghosts were sighing and sobbing at the wonderful music. There could not be a more ghostly time or place; and they would not often have such harmonies to listen to.
Midnight struck. Twelve slow chimes echoed through the air. The ghosts came out to listen; it was their time. We believed that the aisles and arches were packed with them. We saw faint shadows moving across the moonlight as they drifted back and forth. It's pointless to say ghosts don't cast shadows: that night, we clearly saw them. The magnificent moonlit building was filled with sighs and muffled cries. H. C. insisted it was just the vibrations of the organ; we knew better. The ghosts were sighing and weeping at the beautiful music. There couldn’t be a more haunted moment or place, and they wouldn’t often have such harmonies to listen to.
The moments passed. One o'clock struck; solitary, melancholy sound; more suggestive of ghosts and death and the long journey we must all take before we become ghosts ourselves, than the twelve drawn-out strokes of midnight which bear each other company.
The moments went by. One o'clock rang; a lonely, sad sound; more reminiscent of ghosts and death and the long journey we all must take before we become ghosts ourselves, than the twelve slow chimes of midnight which accompany one another.
Into those two hours Quasimodo seemed to have crowded an eternity of music. Every vein, from the mournful to the triumphant, from the faintest whisper to a crashing torrent, possessed him. He passed into Wagner, and the sweetest strains from Lohengrin, the most impassioned from Tannhäuser, thrilled the darkness. He slided into Handel's airs, and with the aid of a wonderful voix céleste, that loveliest of melodies, I know that my Redeemer liveth, stole through the moonlit aisles with such pathos that our eyes wept involuntary tears, and the Divine drama of nearly two thousand years ago passed in detail before our mental vision.
In those two hours, Quasimodo seemed to pack an eternity of music. Every emotion, from sorrowful to triumphant, from the softest whisper to a raging torrent, consumed him. He moved into Wagner, and the most beautiful melodies from Lohengrin, the most passionate from Tannhäuser, thrilled the darkness. He transitioned into Handel's tunes, and with the help of a wonderful heavenly voice, the loveliest of melodies, I know that my Redeemer liveth, echoed through the moonlit aisles with such emotion that our eyes filled with involuntary tears, and the Divine drama of nearly two thousand years ago unfolded before our minds.
Quasimodo seemed to have power to raise emotion, to play upon every nerve, and he appeared to delight in using that power.
Quasimodo seemed to have the ability to stir emotions, to touch every nerve, and he seemed to enjoy wielding that ability.
He went on in all his varying moods, until again there came a pause, and once more Schumann's Träumerei in soft, sweet strains went stealing through the aisles. With this he had begun, with this he would end: as one who had taken a long journey, and would bring us safely back to haven.
He continued through all his different moods, until there was another pause, and once again Schumann's Träumerei softly filled the air with its sweet melodies. This was how he had started, and this was how he would finish: like someone who had gone on a long journey and would safely guide us back to shelter.
A journey indeed; a flight into fairyland; spiritual realms where nothing earthly can enter.
A journey for sure; a trip into a magical world; spiritual realms where nothing from the earth can go.
It came to an end: and we had to return to earth. Quasimodo had poured out his soul and was satisfied. No wonder he could not live without it. Such a gift must find expression, or the spirit would die. The lights went out in the distant organ-loft, and by the help of his taper Quasimodo groped his way down the winding stair, followed by his silent Shadow. We turned on the lamp, and its light guided him to us. He sat down beside us on the steps.
It came to an end, and we had to return to earth. Quasimodo had poured out his soul and felt fulfilled. No wonder he couldn't live without it. Such a gift needs an outlet, or the spirit would wither away. The lights went out in the distant organ loft, and with the help of his candle, Quasimodo felt his way down the winding stairs, followed by his silent Shadow. We turned on the lamp, and its light guided him to us. He sat down beside us on the steps.
"Well," he said, "have you enjoyed my music? Have they kept you spell-bound, all the thoughts of the great masters of the past? Did you think there was so much in them? Have I given you new ideas, revealed unsuspected beauties? Have the hours passed as moments? Oh, the divine gift of melody to man, which brings us nearest to heaven! How could we live without it?"
"Well," he said, "did you enjoy my music? Did it captivate you, the thoughts of the great masters from the past? Did you realize there was so much in them? Have I given you new ideas, uncovered unexpected beauties? Did the hours fly by like moments? Oh, the amazing gift of melody to humanity, which brings us closest to heaven! How could we live without it?"
He had played himself into rapture. He was intoxicated with the influence of all the melody to which he had given such amazing expression. It was a language more powerful than words, more beautiful than poetry, more soul-satisfying than love itself. What a strange contradiction had nature here been guilty of—this grotesque, almost deformed exterior united to such loveliness of mind and spirit.
He had lost himself in joy. He was overwhelmed by the impact of all the music he had expressed so beautifully. It was a language more powerful than words, more beautiful than poetry, and more fulfilling than love itself. Nature had created a bizarre contradiction here—this oddly shaped, almost deformed exterior paired with such beauty of mind and spirit.
Cloisters: Tarragona.
But time was passing. We could not indulge for ever in these dreams, perfect though they were. The change in the moonbeams warned us that the night was growing old. The ghosts would soon depart to the land of shadows. Yet the building was so weird and mysterious, the outlines were so marvellous, that it was difficult to break the spell. It had to be done. The grey dawn must not find us here. All our romance, all our charm of music would evaporate before the cold creeping upwards of daybreak.
But time was passing. We couldn’t keep getting lost in these dreams, no matter how perfect they were. The change in the moonlight reminded us that the night was getting old. The ghosts would soon head back to the land of shadows. Yet the building was so strange and mysterious, the shapes so incredible, that it was hard to break the spell. It had to happen. We couldn’t let the grey dawn find us here. All our romance, all the magic of the music would disappear before the cold light of day broke.
So we rose from the steps, and Quasimodo rose too, and his Shadow took up its customary position.
So we got up from the steps, and Quasimodo got up too, and his Shadow took its usual place.
We still held the lamp. As we went down the long aisles we flashed it to and fro. Lights and shadows mingled with the moonbeams, and all the fantastic forms we awoke were only reflections from ghostland. At the south doorway Quasimodo inserted the key; the door opened and we passed out into the night.
We still held the lamp. As we walked down the long aisles, we flashed it back and forth. Lights and shadows mixed with the moonlight, and all the strange shapes we brought to life were just reflections from the spirit world. At the south doorway, Quasimodo inserted the key; the door opened, and we stepped out into the night.
The moon and the stars had travelled far; the sky itself seemed full of all the music and melody we had listened to. Quasimodo locked the door and joined us, followed by his Shadow. But once outside the iron gate the Shadow bade him good-night by a silent gesture in which we were included, and rapidly and silently, like the shadow he was, glided away and was soon lost to sight.
The moon and the stars had traveled a long way; the sky felt full of all the music and melodies we had heard. Quasimodo locked the door and joined us, followed by his Shadow. But once outside the iron gate, the Shadow silently waved him goodnight in a way that included us, and quickly and quietly, like the shadow he was, he slipped away and soon disappeared from view.
We stood looking at the cathedral, all its wonderful outlines showing up clearly in the pale pure moonlight. Silence and solitude now reigned within and without. Then we turned away, and Quasimodo accompanied us as far as the bottom of the steps. There he bade us farewell and we never met him again.
We stood gazing at the cathedral, all its beautiful outlines visible in the soft, bright moonlight. Silence and solitude surrounded us both inside and out. Then we turned away, and Quasimodo walked with us to the bottom of the steps. There, he said goodbye, and we never saw him again.
The incident passed almost as a dream. We sometimes ask ourselves whether Quasimodo was really flesh and blood, or an angel that for a short time had visited the earth in the form of man. But he was no spirit. We watched his quaint shape as he went down the narrow street, flashing his light. Towards the end he looked back and turned the lamp full upon us, as though by way of final benediction. Another turn and he had passed out of sight.
The incident felt almost dreamlike. We sometimes wonder if Quasimodo was really human, or just an angel who briefly visited Earth in human form. But he wasn't a ghost. We saw his unusual figure as he walked down the narrow street, shining his light. Towards the end, he looked back and pointed the lamp directly at us, as if giving a final blessing. With one more turn, he was gone from view.
The street had not the glimmer of a light or the ghost of a sound. Our own broad thoroughfare was in darkness. The Roman tower seemed wrapped in the silence and mystery of the centuries. From the end of the road we looked over the cliff at the sea sleeping in all its expanse, bathed in moonlight. In the harbour one caught the outlines of the vessels, and from one of them came the bark of a dog baying at the moon. It was one of those perfect nights, still, clear and calm, only to be found in these latitudes.
The street was completely dark, with no light or sounds at all. Our wide avenue was shrouded in darkness. The Roman tower seemed enveloped in the silence and mystery of centuries. From the end of the road, we looked over the cliff at the sea, which lay peacefully under the moonlight. In the harbor, the shapes of the boats were visible, and from one of them, we could hear a dog barking at the moon. It was one of those perfect nights—still, clear, and calm—only found in this part of the world.
The cathedral clock had long struck two, when we finally turned towards the hotel. What if the night-porter failed us, as he had failed in Lerida? But he was more cunning. He was not there, indeed, but he had left the door ajar, and the gas slightly turned on at the foot of the staircase.
The cathedral clock had already struck two when we finally headed towards the hotel. What if the night porter let us down like he had in Lerida? But he was smarter this time. He wasn't there, but he had left the door open a bit and had left the gas on low at the bottom of the staircase.
We made all fast and sought our rooms. With open windows, even from here we could hear the faint plash and beating of the ripples upon the shore—the slight ebb-and-flow movement of this tideless sea. Our dreams that night were haunted by Quasimodo. We had left the world for realms where no limit was, and divine harmonies for ever filled the air. Some hours later this harmony suddenly resolved itself into a bugle call, and we woke to a new day.
We got everything settled and headed to our rooms. With the windows open, we could even hear the soft sound of the waves hitting the shore—the gentle ebb and flow of this endless sea. That night, our dreams were filled with Quasimodo. We had escaped to a place without limits, where heavenly music filled the air. A few hours later, this music suddenly transformed into a bugle call, and we woke to a new day.
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—Views 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—Señor 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 Cæsar—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.
Charms of Tarragona—Roman remnants—Massive ruins—Augustus closes the Temple of Janus—Great history—House of Pontius Pilate—Views from the walls—Sailboats with white sails—Life like paradise—City walls—Cathedral outlines—Vibrant marketplace—Notable exterior—Dreamy atmosphere—West doorways—Interior impact—In the cloisters—Proud sacristan—A man of taste and knowledge—Happy with our enthusiasm—Significant concession—Touching the soul—Señor Ancora—Human or angelic?—In the cloister garden—Sacristan's personal troubles—Quiet church figure—Sorrowful story—Church of San Pablo—Challenge accepted—Future talent—Unique artwork—Roman aqueduct—A modern Caesar—Memories—Fertile land—Where the finest wines are produced—Aqueduct—El puente del diablo—Steep heights—Isolated valley—H. C. sentimental—Rosalie and lovely Costello—Romantic scene—Conflict-prone Reus—Leaders of the world—Our driver acts as referee—Fight avoided—People of Reus—Whatever is, is wrong—Driver's philosophy—Dream of the centuries.
ONLY the broad daylight could discover all the charms of Tarragona: the beauty of its situation, the extent of its ancient remains. The very perfect walls, fine in tone, bore distinct Roman traces. Below them, on a level with the shore, were other traces of a Roman amphitheatre. There were also Cyclopean remains, dating from prehistoric times. Tarragona was a great Roman station when the brothers Publius and Cneidos Scipio occupied it. Augustus raised it to the dignity of a capital: and twenty-six years B.C., after his Cantabrian campaign, he here issued his decree closing the Temple of Janus—open until then for seven hundred years.
ONLY the bright daylight could reveal all the charms of Tarragona: the beauty of its location, the extent of its ancient ruins. The perfectly preserved walls, majestic in tone, showed clear Roman influences. Beneath them, at the level of the shore, lay remnants of a Roman amphitheater. There were also Cyclopean remains from prehistoric times. Tarragona was a significant Roman outpost when the brothers Publius and Cneidos Scipio took it over. Augustus elevated it to the status of a capital: and twenty-six years BCE, after his campaign in Cantabria, he issued his decree here to close the Temple of Janus— which had been open for seven hundred years.
Tarragona was already a large and flourishing city with over a million of inhabitants. It was rich and highly favoured, and its chief people considered themselves lords of the world. Many temples were erected, one of them to the honour of Augustus, making him a god whilst still living. There are fragments in the cloister museum said to have belonged to this temple, which was repaired by Adrian.
Tarragona was already a large and thriving city with over a million residents. It was wealthy and highly esteemed, and its prominent citizens regarded themselves as the rulers of the world. Many temples were built, including one in honor of Augustus, deifying him while he was still alive. There are fragments in the cloister museum that are said to have belonged to this temple, which was restored by Adrian.
On our upward way near the Roman tower we passed the still wonderful house of Pontius Pilate, who was claimed by the Tarragonese as a fellow-townsman. It is said to have been also the palace of Augustus, and the lower portion bears traces of an existence before the Romans. To-day it is a prison, and as some of its walls are twenty feet thick the prisoners have small chances of escape. Few spots in Spain are more interesting, or so completely carry you back to the early centuries. On its south wall is an entrance to a short passage leading to the Cyclopean doorway, communicating by a subterranean passage with the comparatively modern Puerta del Rosario. To the east of this gateway we soon reach the ramparts, just above a ruined fort, and near the modern battery of San Fernando. From these ramparts you have the finest view of Tarragona and its surroundings.
On our way up near the Roman tower, we passed the still impressive house of Pontius Pilate, who the people of Tarragona claimed as one of their own. It's also said to have been the palace of Augustus, and the lower part shows signs of having existed before the Romans. Today, it’s a prison, and since some of its walls are twenty feet thick, the prisoners have little chance of escaping. Few places in Spain are more interesting or so effectively transport you back to the early centuries. On its south wall, there's an entrance to a short passage that leads to the Cyclopean doorway, which connects via a subterranean passage to the relatively modern Puerta del Rosario. To the east of this gateway, we quickly reach the ramparts, just above a ruined fort and near the modern battery of San Fernando. From these ramparts, you get the best view of Tarragona and its surroundings.
On one side stretch far and wide the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Lateen-rigged feluccas, with white sails set, are wafted to and fro by the gentle breeze. Life on board seems a paradise of luxurious ease and indolence. Nothing marks the passing hours but the slow progress of the sun. The sky is as intensely blue as the sea, and the air seems full of light. You are dazzled by so much brilliance. Distant objects stand out in clear detail. The wide undulating plain stretches far away to the left, broken by towns and villages, the famous castle of Altafulla in the distance. Below the town lies the aqueduct, one of the most perfect Roman remains in Spain.
On one side, the vast blue waters of the Mediterranean stretch out endlessly. Lateen-rigged feluccas, their white sails unfurled, drift back and forth in the gentle breeze. Life on board feels like a paradise of comfort and relaxation. The only thing marking the passage of time is the slow journey of the sun. The sky is as intensely blue as the sea, and the air is filled with light. You're dazzled by all this brilliance. Distant objects stand out clearly. The wide, rolling plain extends far to the left, dotted with towns and villages, including the famous castle of Altafulla in the distance. Below the town is the aqueduct, one of the best-preserved Roman structures in Spain.
At our feet are the city walls, enclosing all the wonderful antiquities, and above the picturesque roofs of the houses rise the matchless outlines of the cathedral.
At our feet are the city walls, surrounding all the amazing artifacts, and above the charming roofs of the houses rise the stunning silhouettes of the cathedral.
To this same cathedral we made our way this morning, passing through the market-place lively with stalls, buyers and sellers; Spanish men and women picturesque in their national costumes: a modern human picture side by side with outlines of the highest antiquity.
To this same cathedral, we headed this morning, strolling through the busy marketplace filled with stalls, buyers, and sellers; Spanish men and women looking vibrant in their traditional outfits: a contemporary scene juxtaposed with figures from ancient times.
Passing through an archway we found ourselves in the Cathedral Square, dazzled by the splendour of the vision. Here the market had overflowed, and the market-women, full of life and colouring and animation, sat in front of their fruit and flower-stalls. One and all tempted us to buy, and rare were the wares they sold. Again the new and the ancient blended together; for beyond the women rose those marvellous outlines, sharply pencilled against the brilliant blue sky: magnificent contrast of colouring, wherein everything was in strong light and shadow.
Passing through an archway, we found ourselves in Cathedral Square, dazzled by the stunning view. The market had spilled over, and the market women, full of life and energy, sat in front of their fruit and flower stalls. They all tried to tempt us to buy, and their goods were truly exceptional. Once more, the new and the old came together; for beyond the women, those amazing outlines rose sharply against the bright blue sky: a magnificent contrast of color, where everything was in strong light and shadow.
Our strange experience of last night was still full upon us. We had hardly recovered from the dream state into which the marvellous music of Quasimodo had plunged us with strange mesmeric influence.
Our bizarre experience from last night was still fresh in our minds. We had barely come out of the dreamlike state that Quasimodo's incredible music had put us in with its captivating, mesmerizing effect.
The beauty of the night, the pure pale moonlight effect, had not prepared us for the splendours of to-day: so effective, lovely and diversified a cathedral: the most remarkable exterior we had yet found in Spain. The whole square with its surrounding houses is a dream. The church dates from the eleventh century. Above the round apse of the choir at the east end—probably the oldest part of the building—rose outline upon outline, all bearing the refining mark of age. Much of it appeared never to have been touched or restored. On the south side was a tower, of which the lower part was Romanesque, the remainder fourteenth century and octagonal. Apart from the east end most of the church is transitional. The roofs are covered with pantiles, but they are not the original covering, and are not quite in harmony with the rest of the work.
The beauty of the night, the soft pale moonlight, hadn’t prepared us for today’s splendor: a cathedral that’s stunning, lovely, and diverse. It has the most remarkable exterior we've seen in Spain. The entire square and its surrounding buildings feel like a dream. The church dates back to the eleventh century. Above the round apse of the choir at the east end—likely the oldest part of the structure—rise layer upon layer, all showing the graceful touch of age. Much of it seems to have never been touched or restored. On the south side, there’s a tower, with the lower part being Romanesque and the upper part from the fourteenth century and octagonal. Besides the east end, most of the church is transitional. The roofs are covered with pantiles, but they aren’t the original covering and don’t quite match the rest of the structure.
The west doorways are very fine. Those that open to the aisles are of the earliest date; the central and more important is fourteenth century, deeply recessed, with a massive buttress on each side. This doorway rises to a triangle, above which are many statues of the apostles in Gothic niches. Above the Romanesque side doors are rose windows with rare and delicate tracery, and the south door has a finely carved relief of the Entry into Jerusalem.
The west doorways are really impressive. The ones that lead to the aisles are the oldest; the main one is from the fourteenth century, set back deeply, with a large support on each side. This doorway has a triangular shape, and above it are many statues of the apostles in Gothic niches. Above the Romanesque side doors are rose windows with intricate and delicate designs, and the south door features a beautifully carved relief of the Entry into Jerusalem.
The internal effect was most impressive. Few cathedrals are more solidly built, yet few display greater ornamentation. The columns are splendid, their richly-carved capitals redeeming the somewhat stern severity of the pure transition work. The piers are very massive, and the eye is at once arrested by the early-pointed clerestory and unusually large bays. The view of the interior of the transept, above which rises the octagonal lantern with its narrow pointed lights is especially striking. A little of the coloured glass is very brilliant and sixteenth century, but the greater part is modern. The chancel is pure Romanesque, the chapels are chiefly fourteenth century. In the baptistery the font is a Roman sarcophagus found in the palace of Augustus.
The inside is incredibly impressive. Few cathedrals are built as solidly, yet few are as ornate. The columns are beautiful, with their intricately carved tops softening the somewhat strict look of the simple transitional style. The piers are very heavy, and your attention is immediately drawn to the early-pointed clerestory and the unusually large bays. The view of the transept's interior, topped by the octagonal lantern with its narrow pointed lights, is particularly striking. Some of the colored glass is vibrant and dates back to the sixteenth century, but most of it is modern. The chancel is genuinely Romanesque, while the chapels are mostly from the fourteenth century. In the baptistery, the font is a Roman sarcophagus discovered in the palace of Augustus.
But the cloisters are the gem of the cathedral. Here again was an architectural dream, grand in design, of noblest proportions: six splendid bays on each side, each bay enclosing three round arches. These are divided by coupled shafts of white marble, decorated with dog-tooth mouldings. Above them two large circles are pierced in the wall, some retaining the original interlacing work of extreme beauty and delicacy, and of Moorish origin.
But the cloisters are the highlight of the cathedral. Once again, we have an architectural dream, grand in design and magnificent in scale: six beautiful bays on each side, with each bay containing three round arches. These are separated by paired columns made of white marble, adorned with dog-tooth moldings. Above them, two large circles are cut into the wall, with some still showing the original interlacing patterns of stunning beauty and delicacy that come from Moorish influence.
Many of the capitals are quaintly carved, with humorous subjects: one of them, for instance, representing a procession of rats carrying a cat to her burial. The cat shams death, and the too-confident rats omit to bind her. Presently the tables turn: the cat comes to life, springs upon the rats and devours them.
Many of the capitals are charmingly carved, featuring funny subjects: one of them, for example, shows a parade of rats carrying a cat to her burial. The cat pretends to be dead, and the overly confident rats forget to tie her up. Soon, the tables turn: the cat comes back to life, jumps on the rats, and eats them.
The verger or sacristan was very proud of these capitals, and of the whole cathedral: full of energy and enthusiasm: understood every detail, delighted to linger at every turn. He seemed intelligent and educated, and declared he was only happy when gazing upon his beloved aisles and arches. He begged us to give him an English lesson in architectural terms, which he soon accomplished. Dressed in his purple gown, he looked as imposing as any of the priests in their vestments, and more intelligent than many.
The verger or sacristan was very proud of these capitals and the entire cathedral. Full of energy and enthusiasm, he understood every detail and loved to pause at every turn. He seemed smart and educated, and said he was only happy when admiring his beloved aisles and arches. He asked us for an English lesson on architectural terms, which he quickly learned. Wearing his purple gown, he looked as impressive as any of the priests in their vestments, and smarter than many.
Enchanted to find our enthusiasm equal to his own, he left the cloister doorway unlocked, so that we might enter at any moment. This was a great concession, for in Spain they keep their cloisters under constant lock and key, partly for the sake of the fee usually given: a mercenary consideration quite beneath our sacristan. He talked and exhibited out of pure love for his work.
Enchanted to find our excitement matching his own, he left the cloister doorway unlocked so we could enter whenever we wanted. This was a big deal because in Spain, they usually keep their cloisters locked up tight, partly to collect the fees that are typically charged—a money-focused reason completely beneath our sacristan. He talked and showed things purely out of love for his work.
"The cathedral is my hobby and happiness," he said, "and I would rather die than leave it. I know the history of every stone and pillar by heart, could sketch every minute detail from memory. In those glorious aisles, these matchless cloisters, I feel in paradise. I love to come here when the church is closed and sit and study and contemplate. Born in a better sphere, I should have become an architect. All these outlines appeal to my soul, just as music appeals to Señor Ancora."
"The cathedral is my passion and joy," he said, "and I’d rather die than leave it. I know the history of every stone and pillar by heart, and I could sketch every little detail from memory. In those beautiful aisles and unmatched cloisters, I feel like I'm in paradise. I love coming here when the church is closed to sit, study, and reflect. If I were born into a better situation, I would have become an architect. All these shapes resonate with my soul, just like music resonates with Señor Ancora."
Cloisters: Tarragona.
"Is he your wonderful midnight player?"
"Is he your amazing midnight musician?"
"We were with him last night, and spent more than two hours in the cathedral listening to his wonderful music."
"We were with him last night and spent over two hours in the cathedral enjoying his amazing music."
"It is hard to believe. Never will he admit any one to his midnight vagaries, as I call them. I do not know how you won him over to let you in; but he seems to guess things by intuition. Something must have told him that you had a soul for music, and he could not find it in his heart to refuse you."
"It’s hard to believe. He’ll never let anyone in on his late-night whims, as I call them. I don’t know how you managed to get him to let you in, but he seems to know things instinctively. Something must have told him that you have a passion for music, and he couldn’t find it in himself to turn you away."
"A curious, grotesque man, who almost gives one the impression of being supernatural," we observed.
"A weird, almost supernatural man," we noted.
"We all think he is bordering upon it," returned the sacristan; "half man, half angel. Curious and almost deformed as he looks, he is the envy and admiration of the whole town, has the most beautiful wife and loveliest children. He came here twenty years ago, a pale, slight, ethereal youth of eighteen, looking as though he had dropped from the stars, or some far-off paradise. People still wonder whether he did so or not.—Look señor," pointing upwards. "Did you ever see such outlines, such a vision of beauty? Is it not the very spot for such a soul as Señor Ancora's?"
"We all think he's on the edge," replied the sacristan; "half man, half angel. Strange and almost deformed as he looks, he's the envy and admiration of the entire town, with the most beautiful wife and lovely children. He came here twenty years ago, a pale, slender, ethereal kid of eighteen, looking like he dropped from the stars or some distant paradise. People still wonder if he really did. —Look, sir," he said, pointing up. "Have you ever seen such shapes, such a vision of beauty? Isn't it the perfect place for a soul like Señor Ancora's?"
We were standing in the cloister garden, where orange trees and graceful shrubs grew in wild profusion and exquisite contrast. In the centre of the garden a fountain threw up its spray and plashed with cool musical sound. Surrounding us were the wonderful cloister bays with their round arches resting on the white marble columns, all enclosed in an outer pointed arch. Above them rose the cathedral against the deep blue sky. Outline above outline; Romanesque and Gothic; the lantern crowning the whole. The shadows of the marble columns upon the ancient cloister pavement were sharply defined.
We were standing in the cloister garden, where orange trees and beautiful shrubs grew in wild abundance and striking contrast. In the center of the garden, a fountain sprayed water and made a refreshing, musical sound. Surrounding us were the amazing cloister bays with their round arches supported by white marble columns, all enclosed by an outer pointed arch. Above them loomed the cathedral against the deep blue sky. Layers upon layers; Romanesque and Gothic; the lantern topping it all off. The shadows of the marble columns on the old cloister pavement were clearly defined.
"No wonder you love it," we said to the sacristan. "Rather we wonder you do not apply for permission to live in the chapter-house, and take up your abode here altogether."
"No wonder you love it," we told the sacristan. "In fact, we wonder why you don't ask for permission to live in the chapter-house and make this your permanent home."
"Ah, señor, like Ancora, I also have my domestic ties: a wife and children to think about. But, alas, my wife has no soul, and cannot even understand my love for the cathedral. That indeed ought to have been my wife, and I should never have married commonplace flesh and blood. Here I have been day after day for thirty years, in constant attendance, and I grow to love it more and more, and daily discover fresh beauties. There are no cloisters in the world like these. There is no vision on earth to be compared with this, as we stand here and look upwards and around. None."
"Ah, sir, like Ancora, I also have my family ties: a wife and kids to think about. But, unfortunately, my wife has no spirit and can't even grasp my love for the cathedral. It should have been my wife who embodies that, and I should never have married ordinary flesh and blood. I have spent day after day here for thirty years, and I grow to love it more each day, discovering new beauties all the time. There are no cloisters in the world like these. There is no sight on earth that compares to this as we stand here, looking up and around. None."
As we stood listening to the sacristan's enthusiasm, a pale, refined, grave-looking ecclesiastic passed out of the beautiful doorway leading from the church, and with silent footstep walked through the cloister to the chapter-house. He was dressed in a violet silk robe or cassock, over which was a white lace alb. As he went by he bowed to us with great gravity, but said not a word. There was a sorrowful, subdued look upon the clear-cut features, the large grey eyes.
As we listened to the sacristan's excitement, a pale, elegant, serious-looking clergyman walked out of the beautiful doorway from the church and silently made his way through the cloister to the chapter-house. He wore a violet silk robe or cassock, layered with a white lace alb. As he passed, he bowed to us solemnly but didn’t say a word. There was a sad, subdued expression on his sharp features and large grey eyes.
"That is one of our canons," said the sacristan, after he had disappeared into the chapter-house; "the one I like best. He too loves this wonderful building."
"That's one of our canons," said the sacristan, after he had gone into the chapter-house; "the one I like the most. He also loves this amazing building."
"He is sad-looking. One could almost imagine he had mistaken his vocation, or gone through some great sorrow in life."
"He looks sad. One might almost think he chose the wrong path in life or has experienced some deep sorrow."
"You are right, señor: right in both instances. He was a man of noble family, never intended for the church. Engaged to a lovely lady to whom he was devoted, she died the very day before they were to have been married. He remained inconsolable, and at last took orders. At one time he had an idea of becoming a monk; but he is very clever, and was persuaded to take up a more active life in the church. As you saw him now, so he always is; grave, subdued, gentle and kindly. No one goes to him for help in vain. Here he is venerated."
"You’re right, sir: right in both cases. He came from a noble family, never meant for the church. He was engaged to a beautiful woman he adored, but she died the day before their wedding. He was heartbroken and eventually decided to join the clergy. At one point, he thought about becoming a monk, but he’s very clever and was convinced to pursue a more active role in the church. Just like you see him now, he’s always serious, calm, gentle, and kind. No one who seeks his help leaves empty-handed. Here, he is respected."
We felt drawn towards this refined ecclesiastic and wished to know him, but no opportunity presented itself. The cloisters seemed to gain an added charm by his presence. His dress and appearance exactly suited them, giving them an additional touch of picturesque romance and human interest. The whole scene inspired us with a strange affection for Tarragona, and there are few places in Spain we would sooner revisit.
We felt attracted to this refined churchman and wanted to get to know him, but no chance came our way. The cloisters seemed to become even more enchanting with him around. His attire and look matched perfectly, adding a unique touch of picturesque romance and human interest. The entire scene filled us with an unusual fondness for Tarragona, and there are few places in Spain we would prefer to visit again.
A little later, when we were going round the precincts, they seemed suddenly to swarm with a small army of boys. These were turning out of the new seminary, a mongrel building designed on old lines, therefore neither one thing nor the other. We entered, and turning to the left, found ourselves in modern cloisters echoing with the shouts of boys at play: cloisters attractive only from the fact that they enclosed a small, very ancient church—the church of San Pablo—a rare gem in its way; with a square-headed doorway and Romanesque capitals, and a small turret holding the bell, above which was a thin iron cross. It was a lovely building, and lost in admiration we stood gazing. The boys who came round us without the least shyness could not understand it.
A little later, while we were walking around the area, it suddenly felt like we were surrounded by a small army of boys. They were coming out of the new seminary, a mixed-style building that combined old designs but didn’t really fit into any category. We went inside, and turning to the left, we found ourselves in modern cloisters filled with the shouts of kids playing: cloisters that were only appealing because they surrounded a small, very old church—the church of San Pablo—a unique gem in its own right; featuring a square doorway with Romanesque capitals and a small turret with a bell topped by a thin iron cross. It was a beautiful building, and in awe, we stood there staring. The boys who surrounded us without any shyness couldn’t understand our reaction.
"What do you see in it?" asked one of them. "We should like to knock the old barrack down. It takes up our play-room. A wretched old building, neither use nor ornament. But we can't get rid of it. It won't burn; it is so solid that we can't demolish it; and we daren't use dynamite. We have to put up with it."
"What do you see in it?" one of them asked. "We want to tear down that old barrack. It takes up our play area. It’s a miserable old building, useless and unattractive. But we can't get rid of it. It won’t burn; it's so sturdy that we can't tear it down; and we can’t risk using dynamite. We just have to deal with it."
"And you would rather put up with the grapes and the oranges in the market-place?" we suggested.
"And you'd rather deal with the grapes and oranges in the market?" we suggested.
"We should like to put them down, señor. Only try us."
"We'd like to take them down, sir. Just give us a chance."
Having invited the challenge, it had to be accepted: and the whole troop tore off with one consent to drive bargains with the fruit-women. One boy, however, remained behind; a fair, thoughtful lad of about fifteen, with large, dreamy, beautiful brown eyes.
Having welcomed the challenge, it had to be accepted: and the whole group ran off together to negotiate with the fruit vendors. One boy, however, stayed behind; a delicate, reflective young man of about fifteen, with large, dreamy, beautiful brown eyes.
"Why don't you join them, and take your share of the spoil?" we asked him.
"Why don't you join them and take your share of the loot?" we asked him.
"Señor, I would rather study this old chapel than eat all the grapes in Catalonia," he replied. "My father is the sacristan of the cathedral. He loves old buildings too, but not as I do, I think. I have made up my mind to be an architect, and when I can do as I like I will build great churches on such models as these, like the mighty men of old."
"Sir, I'd rather explore this old chapel than eat all the grapes in Catalonia," he said. "My dad is the sacristan of the cathedral. He loves old buildings too, but not as much as I do, I think. I've decided to become an architect, and when I have the chance to do what I want, I'll build great churches modeled after these, like the greats of the past."
So the father's love had descended to the son, and in the latter may possibly some day bear good fruit. The boy looked a genius. We turned away, and he turned with us.
So the father's love had passed down to the son, and one day it might possibly yield positive results. The boy seemed like a genius. We looked away, and he looked away with us.
"What is your name?" we asked him.
"What’s your name?" we asked him.
"Hugo Morales, señor. Will you let me show you my favourite spot, señor," he said; and forthwith led us to a short street of steps, something like the streets of Gerona, ending in a lovely old arched passage, through which one caught a glimpse of ancient houses beyond. Above the archway rose a wonderful old house with an ajimez window of rare beauty, and other Gothic windows with latticed panes and deep mouldings. Then came the overhanging roof covered with pantiles. The tone was perfect. Next to this was a small church with a Norman doorway, crowned by a graceful belfry in which a solitary bell was hung. If not the most ancient, it was certainly the most picturesque bit in all Tarragona.
"Hugo Morales, sir. Can I show you my favorite spot, sir?" he said, and immediately led us to a short street with steps, similar to the streets of Gerona, which ended in a beautiful old arched passage that offered a glimpse of ancient houses beyond. Above the archway stood a stunning old house with a uniquely beautiful ajimez window, along with other Gothic windows featuring latticed panes and deep moldings. Next was the overhanging roof covered with pantiles. The vibe was perfect. Beside this was a small church with a Norman doorway, topped with a graceful belfry that held a single bell. It may not be the oldest, but it was definitely the most picturesque spot in all of Tarragona.
"And you really love it?" we asked this singular boy.
"And you really love it?" we asked this unique boy.
"With all my heart," he answered. "I often come here with my books and do my lessons sitting on that old staircase that you see on the left. The house is empty and no one interferes with me. But I must be off home. A Dios, señor."
"With all my heart," he replied. "I often come here with my books and do my homework sitting on that old staircase you see on the left. The house is empty, and no one bothers me. But I need to head home now. Goodbye, sir."
SAN PABLO: TARRAGONA
.
.
"Good-bye, Hugo. Keep to your ideals and aspirations."
"Goodbye, Hugo. Stay true to your ideals and dreams."
"No fear, señor. I mean to do so."
"No worries, sir. I'm planning to do that."
And away he went, none the less happy for sundry coins that rattled musically in his pocket and would probably be spent in something more lasting than fruit and flowers; whilst we went back to our beloved precincts and studied the outlines of the Middle Ages.
And off he went, none the less happy for the coins that jingled musically in his pocket, which would likely buy something more lasting than just fruit and flowers; while we returned to our cherished surroundings and explored the details of the Middle Ages.
One sunny afternoon we hired a conveyance and started for the Roman Aqueduct. It was the only conveyance of the kind to be found in Tarragona. The owner, who drove us himself, called it a victoria, and seemed proud of it. Large and heavy, it might have dated from the days of the Cæsars. Its proper place undoubtedly was the Museum of Roman Antiquities to which we had just paid a visit; and so perhaps there was something à propos in the idea of its conveying us to a Roman aqueduct. Our driver was dressed in a smock frock, and in the high seat in front of us looked perched up like a lighthouse upon a rock—or a modern Cæsar in a triumphal progress.
One sunny afternoon, we hired a carriage and set off for the Roman Aqueduct. It was the only one of its kind—a TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0—available in Tarragona. The owner, who drove us himself, called it a victoria and seemed proud of it. Large and heavy, it could have been from the time of the Caesars. Its rightful place was probably the Museum of Roman Antiquities, which we had just visited; so maybe it made sense for it to take us to a Roman aqueduct. Our driver was dressed in a smock, and from his high seat in front of us, he looked like a lighthouse on a rock—or a modern Caesar on a triumphal march.
We rattled through the streets, and soon found ourselves on the broad white road that in time, if we persevered, would take us to Lerida the chivalrous and true. Not the least intention had we of paying that interesting old town a second visit, but the very fact of knowing that our faces were set that way, brought our late experiences vividly before us.
We bounced through the streets and soon found ourselves on the wide, white road that, if we kept at it, would eventually lead us to the noble and genuine Lerida. We had no intention of visiting that fascinating old town again, but just the knowledge that we were headed in that direction made our recent experiences come back to us vividly.
We wondered how it fared with our much-tried landlord; whether the waiter was yet out of hospital, and he and the Dragon had made up their differences or agreed to differ. Though the well had been dragged, it was possible that the skeletons were still there; perhaps had risen to the surface to refute the old saying that dead men tell no tales. We thought of our polite captain, and almost wished we might come across him in Tarragona. He would be sure to know our silent but interesting old canon of the violet robe, and would open many doors to us. Above all we wondered how Alphonse fared. By this time his wife would be resting in her grave; and he, poor lonely wayfarer, would haunt the sad precincts of the cemetery, and dream of his early days and of walking through the world with the wife of his youth. No doubt he was right and would soon follow her to the Land o' the Leal, hailing the hour of his release.
We wondered how our long-suffering landlord was doing; whether the waiter had gotten out of the hospital, and if he and the Dragon had patched things up or just agreed to disagree. Even though the well had been searched, it was possible that the skeletons were still there; maybe they had come to the surface to contradict the old saying that dead men tell no tales. We thought about our courteous captain and almost wished we could run into him in Tarragona. He would definitely know our quiet but fascinating old canon in the violet robe and would open many doors for us. Above all, we wondered how Alphonse was holding up. By now, his wife would be resting in her grave, and he, the poor lonely traveler, would haunt the somber grounds of the cemetery, dreaming of his early days and of walking through life with his first love. No doubt he was right and would soon follow her to the Land of the Leal, welcoming the moment of his release.
But all this had nothing to do with our present journey. On each side of the road we found a rich undulating country. We were in the neighbourhood of vineyards, and the wine, when pure, is some of the best that Spain produces. Here and there stood a picturesque farm-house, with whitewashed walls and green venetians, and heaps of yellow pumpkins, cantaloupe melons and strings of red peppers dangling from the balconies: the usual thing in Spain and Italy and the countries of the South. On a hillside, an occasional village slept in the sunshine; a quiet little place, apparently without inhabitants or any reason for existence.
But all of this had nothing to do with our current trip. On either side of the road, we saw a lush, rolling landscape. We were near vineyards, and the wine, when it's pure, is some of the best that Spain makes. Here and there was a charming farmhouse with whitewashed walls and green shutters, surrounded by heaps of yellow pumpkins, cantaloupe, and strings of red peppers hanging from the balconies—typical sights in Spain, Italy, and the countries of the South. On a hillside, an occasional village basked in the sunlight; a peaceful little place, seemingly empty and without any reason to be there.
A cozy corner in Tarragona.
Presently we caught sight of the wonderful aqueduct built by the Romans so many centuries ago, yet still almost perfect. In the days of the ancients it brought the water to the city for a distance of twenty miles. Those were the days when the Tarragonese called themselves lords of the earth; when Augustus reigned in his palace and the amphitheatre was the scene of wild sports, and temples existed to the heathen gods. The portion of the aqueduct visible from the road was as it were a gigantic bridge with two tiers of arches. It had all the tone of the centuries, all the solidity which had kept it standing firm as a rock. Nearly one hundred feet high and eight hundred feet long, it spanned a green and lonely valley or ravine covered with heather. The people call it el puente del diablo, and may be forgiven for thinking that more than human hands helped to perfect the work.
Right now, we noticed the amazing aqueduct built by the Romans so many centuries ago, and it's still almost perfect. Back in ancient times, it brought water to the city from a distance of twenty miles. Those were the days when the Tarragonese considered themselves rulers of the earth; when Augustus ruled from his palace and the amphitheater hosted wild sports, and temples were dedicated to pagan gods. The section of the aqueduct visible from the road looked like a massive bridge with two tiers of arches. It had the weight of centuries behind it and the sturdiness that had kept it standing strong like a rock. Nearly one hundred feet high and eight hundred feet long, it spanned a green and desolate valley or ravine covered in heather. The locals call it el puente del diablo, and it’s easy to see why they might think that more than just human hands were involved in its creation.
We went to the topmost height and walked over the giddy stoneway to the very centre. There we sat down and felt ourselves masters of the world. Wild flowers grew in the cracks and crevices, and ferns and fronds, and H. C. stretched over the yawning gulf for one almost out of reach, until we gave him up for lost and began to compose his epitaph. But he plucked his flower, and after looking at it with a sort of tender reverence, placed it carefully in his pocket-book.
We climbed to the highest point and strolled across the dizzying path to the very center. There we sat and felt like we were on top of the world. Wildflowers sprouted in the cracks and crevices, along with ferns and fronds, and H. C. reached out over the vast drop for one that was nearly out of reach, until we thought he was lost and started to write his epitaph. But he grabbed his flower, and after studying it with a kind of gentle reverence, he carefully tucked it into his pocket.
"Who is that for?" we asked, for there was no mistaking his soft expression.
"Who is that for?" we asked, because it was clear from his gentle expression.
"The fair Costello. That exquisite vision that we saw in the opera-house at Gerona. The landlord gave me her full name and address before we left. I am thinking of proposing to her. Her presence haunts me still."
"The beautiful Costello. That stunning sight we saw at the opera house in Gerona. The landlord gave me her full name and address before we left. I'm considering proposing to her. Her presence still lingers in my mind."
We knew how much this was worth; how long it would last.
We knew how valuable this was and how long it would last.
"You would bestow it more worthily on Rosalie. There are many fair Costellos in the world—there can be only one Rosalie."
"You should give it more appropriately to Rosalie. There are many beautiful Costellos in the world—there can only be one Rosalie."
Roman Aqueduct, near Tarragona.
We were undoubtedly in a situation favourable to romance. The scene was magnificent. Surrounding us was a wide stretch of undulating country. The land was rich and cultivated; towns and villages reposed on the hill-sides. Far off to the right the smoke of busy Valls ascended, and through the gentle haze we traced the outlines of its fine old church. Following the long white road before us, the eye at length rested on the blue smoke of quarrelsome, disaffected Reus, which prospers in spite of its Republican tendencies. Here more distinctly we traced the fine tower of the old church of San Pedro, in which Fortuny the painter lies buried. Distant hills bounded the horizon, shutting out the world beyond.
We were definitely in a great spot for romance. The scene was stunning. Around us was a vast expanse of rolling countryside. The land was fertile and well-tended; towns and villages rested on the hillsides. Far off to the right, the smoke from bustling Valls rose, and through the gentle haze, we could make out the outlines of its beautiful old church. Following the long white road in front of us, our eyes eventually landed on the blue smoke of the feisty, discontented Reus, which thrives despite its Republican leanings. Here, we could clearly see the elegant tower of the old church of San Pedro, where the painter Fortuny is buried. Distant hills framed the horizon, blocking out the world beyond.
But there was no more interesting monument than the aqueduct on which we stood. Its rich tone contrasted wonderfully with the subdued green of the ravine, the deep shades of the heather, so full of charm and repose to the eye tired with wandering over the glaring country and straining after distant outlines. We stayed long, enjoying our breezy elevation; going back in imagination to the early centuries of mighty deeds—those Romans who were in truth masters of the world. At last, feeling that our driver's patience was probably exhausted, and treading carefully over the granite passage of the viaduct, we made our way to the prosy level of mankind.
But there was no more fascinating landmark than the aqueduct we were standing on. Its rich color contrasted beautifully with the muted green of the ravine and the deep shades of the heather, which were so appealing and calming to the eye tired from wandering over the harsh landscape and straining to see distant outlines. We lingered for a while, enjoying the refreshing altitude and imagining the early centuries of great deeds—those Romans who were truly the masters of the world. Finally, sensing that our driver’s patience was likely wearing thin, we carefully made our way across the granite surface of the viaduct and descended to the mundane level of humanity.
The driver had drawn under the shade of some trees, and was holding a levée. Half a dozen other drivers were grouped round him, and the bullock-carts with their patient animals were waiting their pleasure, one behind another. They were all laying down the law with any amount of gesture and loud tones; all more or less angry, each convinced that he was in the right.
The driver had pulled under the shade of some trees and was holding a meeting. Half a dozen other drivers were gathered around him, and the bullock carts with their patient animals were lined up behind one another, waiting for their turn. They were all arguing with plenty of gestures and loud voices, each more or less angry, convinced that they were right.
Our coachman, as owner of a superior conveyance and a man of substance, was evidently acting as a sort of judge or umpire, and just as we came up was delivering his weighty opinion. But it appeared to be the case of the old fable again, and in trying to propitiate all he pleased none. A pitched battle seemed averted by our arrival, which put an end to the discussion. As strangers and foreigners were objects of interest, we had to run the gauntlet of their scrutiny. But they were civil; and curiosity satisfied, mounted their heavy waggons and set off down the road towards Reus at break-neck speed, raising more dust and noise than a hundred pieces of artillery.
Our driver, being the owner of a nice carriage and a well-to-do guy, was clearly acting like a kind of judge or referee, and just as we arrived, he was giving his important opinion. But it seemed to be just like the old fable again; in trying to please everyone, he pleased no one. A serious fight seemed to be avoided with our arrival, which ended the argument. As newcomers and outsiders, we were objects of their curiosity and had to face their scrutiny. However, they were polite; and once their curiosity was satisfied, they hopped onto their heavy wagons and took off down the road toward Reus at breakneck speed, kicking up more dust and noise than a hundred cannons.
"It is always the same," he observed. "These men of Reus are the most revolutionary, most disaffected in all Catalonia. They always have a grievance. Whatever is, is wrong. If it isn't political, it's social. If it's not taxes, it's the price of wheat. Their life is one perpetual contention, and every now and then they break out into open revolt. Only the other day an old man of Kens, a distant connection, on his death-bed declared to me that he had made all his miseries, and if he had his time to come over again, would make the best of the world and look on the bright side of things. Just what every one ought to do. Enjoy the sunshine, and let the shadows look after themselves."
"It’s always the same," he said. "These guys from Reus are the most rebellious and discontented in all of Catalonia. They always have something to complain about. Whatever exists is wrong. If it’s not political, it’s social. If it’s not taxes, it’s the price of wheat. Their lives are one constant argument, and every now and then, they launch into open rebellion. Just the other day, an old man from Kens, a distant relative, told me on his deathbed that he created all his own problems, and if he could live his life over, he would make the best of things and focus on the positive. Just what everyone should do. Enjoy the sunshine and let the shadows take care of themselves."
So our driver was a philosopher after all, and had more in him than we had imagined. With Cæsar's opportunities he might have proved another Cæsar. Whipping up his horses, he began his return journey up the long white road.
So our driver was a philosopher after all, and had more to him than we had imagined. With Cæsar's opportunities, he might have become another Cæsar. Accelerating his horses, he started his return journey along the long white road.
Making way, the outlines of Tarragona came into view, bathed in the glow of the declining sun. The effect was gorgeous; and we fell into a dream of the centuries gone by, when the Romans marched up that very same road with their conquering armies, overlooked the very same sea that now stretched to right and left, blue and flashing, and made themselves aqueducts. In this vision of the past we saw them building their mighty monuments, looking about for fresh worlds to conquer; and we heard the famous decree of Augustus closing the Temple of Janus as a sign that quiet reigned upon the earth and the Star of Bethlehem was rising in the East—divine signal and fitting moment for the coming of the Prince of Peace.
Making our way, the outlines of Tarragona appeared, glowing in the light of the setting sun. The scene was stunning; we drifted into a dream of centuries past, when the Romans marched along that same road with their victorious armies, gazing at the same sea that now stretched on both sides, bright blue and sparkling, while building their aqueducts. In this glimpse of history, we imagined them constructing their grand monuments, searching for new worlds to conquer; and we heard the famous decree of Augustus closing the Temple of Janus as a sign that peace prevailed on earth and the Star of Bethlehem was rising in the East—divine signal and perfect moment for the arrival of the Prince of Peace.
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.
Our ever-present host—A curious mix of nations—Francisco—His enthusiasm makes a difference—French lessons—English bias—Landlord’s complaint—Days of beautiful Provence—Francisco plans to be on time—Presidio—Tomb of the Scipios—Fishing for sardines—Early visit to the cathedral—Even earlier sacristan—Francisco's joy—Freshness of the early morning—Reus—Bark worse than bite—Where headaches come from—A bad deed—Valley of the Francoli—Moorish ruins—Montblanch—The beautiful hills of Spain—Espluga—Francisco up to the challenge—Besieged—Donkeys versus carriage—Interesting old town—Decline—Unique woman—Loretta's companion—Strange tale—Unintentional charm—What happened one Sunday evening—Caro—"The right man never came"—Now he comes—How she got engaged—Simple transportation—Making the best of it—Wine-pressers—Loving cup—Ambrosia of the gods—Fair trade—Bumpy ride—Scene of Loretta's adventures.
OUR landlord was a curious mixture of three nations: French, Spanish and Italian. He was small, dark and wiry, and seemed to possess the power of being in half a dozen places at once, yet was never in a hurry. One moment you would hear his voice in the bureau, the next in the kitchen, and two moments afterwards you might behold his head stretched out of a second-floor window watching the omnibus as it turned the corner on its way from the station: watching and wondering how many passengers it brought him. If he did not succeed, it should not be for want of effort; but he had been there long, and apparently did succeed, flourish and prosper. He was a very attentive host, anxious that we should see and appreciate all the marvels of Tarragona. Having lost his wife, the hotel had to be managed single-handed. One son, a boy of fifteen, was being trained to succeed him. He also spoke French, Spanish and Italian admirably, and his ambition now was to go to England to learn English. So far he resembled our Gerona guide José, but the one had grown to manhood, the other was a stripling, though a bright and interesting lad.
Our landlord was an interesting mix of three cultures: French, Spanish, and Italian. He was short, dark, and wiry, and had the uncanny ability to be in multiple places at once, yet he was never rushed. One moment you'd hear him in the office, the next in the kitchen, and a moment later, you might see his head poking out of a second-floor window, watching the bus as it turned the corner on its way from the station, curious about how many passengers it would bring him. If he didn't succeed, it wasn't for lack of trying; he had been around long enough and seemed to be thriving and doing well. He was a very attentive host, eager for us to see and appreciate all the wonders of Tarragona. After losing his wife, he had to run the hotel by himself. His son, a fifteen-year-old, was being prepared to take over. He also spoke French, Spanish, and Italian excellently, and his current ambition was to go to England to learn English. So far, he was similar to our Gerona guide José, but while one had grown into a man, the other was still a young, bright, and interesting kid.
"You have not been to Poblet," our host remarked one morning, as he waited upon us at our early breakfast in the salle à manger. A great condescension on his part; everyone else was left to the tender mercies of the waiter who was more or less a barbarian.
"You haven't been to Poblet," our host said one morning while serving us breakfast in the dining room. It was quite a generous gesture on his part; everyone else had to deal with the waiter, who was pretty rough around the edges.
"No," we replied; "but we were even now debating the possibility of going there this morning."
"No," we replied, "but we were just discussing the possibility of going there this morning."
"It is quite possible, señor. You could not have a better day. The weather is perfect. The train starts in an hour, and the omnibus shall take you down. I will pack you a substantial luncheon, for you can get nothing there. My son shall accompany you to carry the basket."
"It’s totally possible, sir. You couldn’t ask for a better day. The weather is great. The train leaves in an hour, and the bus will take you down. I’ll pack you a nice lunch because you won’t find anything there. My son will go with you to carry the basket."
The boy, who happened to be standing near his father, grew elated.
The boy, who was standing near his dad, became excited.
"Oh, señor, say yes," he cried. "A day at Poblet will be splendid. I shall have a whole holiday, besides getting off my French lesson this afternoon."
"Oh, sir, please say yes," he exclaimed. "A day at Poblet will be amazing. I’ll get a whole day off, plus I won’t have to go to my French lesson this afternoon."
"You shall talk French to us, Francisco, which will be better than a lesson. We decide to go. Pack an excellent luncheon for three, not forgetting a bottle of H. C.'s favourite Laffitte."
"You should speak French with us, Francisco; it’ll be better than a lesson. We’ve decided to go. Pack a great lunch for three, and don’t forget a bottle of H. C.'s favorite Laffitte."
"Of which I have an excellent vintage," replied our host, who seemed equal to any emergency. "Frisco, take care that you are ready."
"Of which I have a great selection," replied our host, who appeared ready for anything. "Frisco, make sure you're prepared."
"No fear about that," replied the boy, whose eyes sparkled with anticipation. And he went off to put on his best Sunday suit. The landlord on his part bustled off to the kitchen, where we heard him giving orders to the uncertain chef. Presently he returned.
"No worries about that," replied the boy, his eyes shining with excitement. Then he went off to put on his best Sunday suit. The landlord hurried to the kitchen, where we heard him giving instructions to the unsure chef. Before long, he came back.
"You will allow me to put the smallest suspicion of garlic in your sandwiches," he suggested insinuatingly. "It is the greatest improvement. The English have an objection to it, but it is mere prejudice."
"You'll let me add just a hint of garlic to your sandwiches," he suggested slyly. "It's the best upgrade. The English don’t like it, but that's just a bias."
A prejudice we unfortunately shared, and our host went back lamenting our want of taste.
A bias we sadly had in common, and our host left feeling sorry for our lack of taste.
The little incident brought back vividly days when we sojourned in fair Provence, and from the cottage doors, mingling with the pure air of heaven wafted across the Mediterranean, there came the everlasting perfume of garlic. Hotels, houses, cottages, all seemed full of the terrible odour. The worthy people of Provence, with their dark skins and slow movements, were indefatigable in trying to win us over to their side. It was almost impossible to enter a public conveyance without putting one's head out of window: and stronger than all the impressions made upon us by the charms of Provence, its ripening vineyards, its wines, all the beauties of sea and sky, mountain and valley, were our garlic reminiscences. In Catalonia we had it to a less extent, but it was an evil to be avoided. So our landlord went back depressed to his kitchen to conclude the packing of the hamper.
The small incident reminded me of the days we spent in beautiful Provence. From the cottage doors, mixed with the fresh Mediterranean air, came the constant smell of garlic. Hotels, houses, and cottages all seemed filled with that awful odor. The friendly people of Provence, with their dark skin and slow way of moving, were relentless in trying to persuade us to join their side. It was nearly impossible to ride on public transport without sticking your head out the window. And stronger than all the lovely impressions we had from Provence—its lush vineyards, its wines, and the stunning views of the sea, sky, mountains, and valleys—were our memories of garlic. In Catalonia, we experienced it to a lesser degree, but it was still a scent to be avoided. So, our landlord went back to his kitchen, feeling down as he finished packing the basket.
Francisco appeared in his Sunday's best long before the omnibus. At least half a dozen times he came up to our rooms to remind us that it would only rush round at the last moment and would not wait. Going off for a month's holiday could not have excited him more. With an agony of apprehension he saw us walk to the end of the road and look down upon the blue sea that stretched around in all its beauty and repose. Already there were white-winged feluccas gliding upon its surface, their lateen sails spread out, enjoying the cool of the morning.
Francisco showed up in his best clothes long before the bus arrived. He came to our rooms at least six times to remind us that it would only speed by at the last moment and wouldn’t wait for us. Leaving for a month-long vacation couldn't have thrilled him more. With a sense of dread, he watched us walk to the end of the street and gaze at the beautiful, calm blue sea all around us. There were already white-winged boats gliding on the water, their sails out, enjoying the cool morning air.
The cliff was almost perpendicular. To our left a sentry paced to and fro, to overlook the Presidio, a large convict establishment below us on a level with the sea. If any convict had attempted to escape—a very improbable event—he would quickly have been marked by the lynx-eyed sentry, who was relieved every two hours.
The cliff was nearly straight up and down. To our left, a guard walked back and forth, keeping an eye on the Presidio, a big prison down at sea level. If any inmate had tried to escape—which was highly unlikely—he would have been spotted right away by the sharp-eyed guard, who got replaced every two hours.
Side by side with the Presidio were the remains of the old Roman amphitheatre, dating back to the days of the city walls, the house of Pontius Pilate, and all the vestiges of the past. Close to us rose the old Roman Tower, from which very possibly Augustus had looked many a time upon the undulating hills and far-stretching sea, feeling himself monarch of all he surveyed.
Side by side with the Presidio were the remains of the old Roman amphitheater, dating back to the time of the city walls, the house of Pontius Pilate, and all the remnants of the past. Close to us stood the old Roman Tower, from which Augustus had likely gazed many times upon the rolling hills and vast sea, feeling like the ruler of everything he saw.
But long years before, the Phœnicians—that enterprising people of Tyre and Sidon, of whom so little is known, yet who seem to have possessed the earth—had made a maritime station of Tarragona. What it actually was in those days can never be told; no archives contain their record; but in beauty and favour of situation the centuries have brought no change.
But many years ago, the Phoenicians—those resourceful people from Tyre and Sidon, about whom we know so little, yet who seem to have dominated the earth—established a maritime station in Tarragona. What it was actually like back then can never be revealed; no records exist to tell their story; but in terms of beauty and location, the centuries have brought no change.
The scene on which we looked that morning linked us to the past. Four miles to the east, under the shadow of the hills, and within sight of the quiet bays, reposed the Roman tomb of the Scipios, who, in conjunction with Augustus, had so much to do with the making of Tarragona. It is a square monument thirty feet high, built of stone, guarded by two sculptured figures, with an inscription blotted out long ages ago. A lovely spot for the long sleep that comes to all. The hills are pine-clad, the bays sheltered; the blue sea sleeps in the sunshine; no sound disturbs but the plashing of the water that does not rise and fall as other seas that have their tides. Fishermen live in the neighbourhood, and you may see them setting their nets or fishing from the shore for sardines; with this exception the little place shows no sign of life and is rarely trodden by the foot of strangers.
The scene we saw that morning connected us to the past. Four miles to the east, beneath the hills and overlooking the tranquil bays, lay the Roman tomb of the Scipios, who, along with Augustus, played a significant role in the development of Tarragona. It's a square monument, thirty feet tall, made of stone and flanked by two sculpted figures, though the inscription has long faded away. It’s a beautiful place for the eternal rest that comes to everyone. The hills are covered in pine trees, the bays are sheltered; the blue sea rests under the sunshine; the only sound is the gentle splashing of water that doesn’t rise and fall like other seas with tides. Local fishermen can be seen setting their nets or casting lines from the shore for sardines; apart from that, the little area shows no signs of life and is seldom visited by strangers.
We felt its influence as we waited for the omnibus. There, at least, to our right was something neither Augustus nor the Scipios had ever seen—the small harbour with its friendly arms outstretched, embracing all the shipping that comes to Tarragona. The east pier was partly built with the stones of the old Roman amphitheatre, a certain desecration that took place about the year 1500. A crowd of fishing vessels is almost always at rest in the harbour, and larger vessels trading in wine and oil.
We felt its influence as we waited for the bus. There, at least, to our right was something neither Augustus nor the Scipios had ever seen—the small harbor with its welcoming arms open wide, embracing all the ships that come to Tarragona. The east pier was partly constructed with stones from the old Roman amphitheater, a certain desecration that happened around the year 1500. A crowd of fishing boats is almost always resting in the harbor, along with larger vessels trading in wine and oil.
We were not allowed to look upon all this unmolested. Francisco constantly came to and fro to remind us that time was passing. At last we turned at the sound of rumbling wheels; the omnibus came up. Our host had neatly packed a luncheon-basket, and away rolled the machine through the prosy streets. We had turned our back upon all the wonders of Tarragona.
We weren't allowed to watch all this without interruption. Francisco kept coming back and forth to remind us that time was moving on. Finally, we turned at the sound of rumbling wheels; the bus arrived. Our host had packed a lunch basket neatly, and off the vehicle went through the dull streets. We had turned our backs on all the amazing sights of Tarragona.
It required no slight courage to abandon our beloved cathedral for one whole day. True, before breakfast we had gone up and looked upon the magic outlines: that marvellous mixture of Romanesque and Gothic that here blend together in strange harmony. Early as it was we had found the sacristan, and he, in full measure of delight, had taken us through the quiet aisles and arches, twice beautiful and impressive in their solitude, and thrown wide the door of the matchless cloisters. They were lovelier than ever in the repose that accompanies the early morning light. But neither light nor darkness, morning nor evening, could abate the enthusiasm of the sacristan.
It took a lot of courage to leave our beloved cathedral for an entire day. True, before breakfast we had gone up and looked at the stunning outlines: that amazing mix of Romanesque and Gothic that blend together in a unique harmony. Even though it was early, we found the sacristan, who was eagerly ready to show us through the quiet aisles and arches, which were twice as beautiful and impressive in their solitude, and had opened the door to the unmatched cloisters. They were more beautiful than ever in the calm of the early morning light. But neither the light nor darkness, morning nor evening, could dampen the enthusiasm of the sacristan.
All this was left behind as we rattled down the steep streets. The station was on a level with the sea, and in front of it stretched the harbour with all its shipping. The train was in waiting, and to Francisco's evident pride and enjoyment we were soon whirling away in a first-class compartment. He had never travelled in anything beyond a second.
All of this was left behind as we bumped down the steep streets. The station was at sea level, and in front of it lay the harbor with all its ships. The train was ready, and to Francisco's obvious pride and enjoyment, we were soon zooming away in a first-class compartment. He had never traveled in anything better than a second-class one.
The freshness of early morning was still upon everything, and our interesting journey lay through scenery rich and varied. Before reaching Reus, the train crossed the river, then came to an anchor. We found the station crowded with country people going to a neighbouring fair. The town rose in modern outlines, above which towered the hexagonal steeple of San Pedro. It was evidently a bustling, prosperous town with manufacturing signs about it. Everything seemed in direct opposition to Tarragona. The one ancient and stately, with its historic and cathedral atmosphere in strong evidence; the other given over to manual work. The one quiet and conservative, the other quarrelsome and republican. It was from Reus that our carters with a grievance had come the day we visited the aqueduct: and back to Reus they had all gone to continue their warfare.
The freshness of early morning still lingered, and our exciting journey passed through diverse and rich scenery. Before reaching Reus, the train crossed the river and then came to a stop. We found the station packed with locals heading to a nearby fair. The town rose with modern structures, topped by the hexagonal steeple of San Pedro. It was clearly a lively, thriving town with signs of manufacturing all around. Everything felt like a stark contrast to Tarragona. One was ancient and dignified, with a prominent historic and cathedral atmosphere; the other was focused on manual labor. One was quiet and traditional, while the other was bustling and rebellious. It was from Reus that our disgruntled carters had come the day we visited the aqueduct, and they all returned to Reus to continue their struggles.
We recognised two of them on the platform, on their way to the fairs. They also recognised us and touched their large round hats with a broad smile plainly meant to intimate that their bark was worse than their bite.
We recognized two of them on the platform, heading to the fairs. They also recognized us and tipped their big round hats with a wide smile obviously meant to suggest that their bark was worse than their bite.
It is in Reus that many of the French imitation wines are made and sent over the world, passing for Mâcon, Chablis and Sauterne. Much imitation champagne and many headaches come from here. Enormous wine-cellars, in point of size worthy of Madrid or Barcelona, groan with their manufactured stores. Reus has many branches of industry and might be a happy community if it would subdue its revolutionary discontent. It has yet to redeem its terrible murder of the monks of Poblet in 1835.
It’s in Reus where a lot of the French imitation wines are produced and shipped around the world, pretending to be Mâcon, Chablis, and Sauternes. A lot of imitation champagne and plenty of headaches come from here. Enormous wine cellars, big enough to rival those in Madrid or Barcelona, are packed with their manufactured stock. Reus has many industries and could be a thriving community if it could control its revolutionary discontent. It still has to come to terms with the terrible murder of the Poblet monks in 1835.
To-day, however, the crowd in the station were bent on pleasure or business and the warring element was put aside to a more convenient season. They scrambled into the train, and away we went up the lovely Valley of the Francoli as far as Alcober: a favourite settlement of the Moors, where many Moorish remains are still visible. The fine Romanesque church was once a mosque, so that it is full of the traditions of the past. Onwards through lonely, somewhat barren country to Montblanch; another old town apparently falling into ruin, with picturesque walls, towers and gates. Onwards again under the very shadow of the Sierra de Prades, rising in clear undulating outlines against the blue sky; a stately, magnificent chain of hills. Where indeed do we find such beautiful and graceful hills as in Spain?
Today, however, the crowd at the station was focused on enjoying themselves or doing business, setting aside any conflicts for a later time. They rushed into the train, and off we went up the beautiful Valley of the Francoli all the way to Alcober, a favorite settlement of the Moors, where many Moorish remnants are still visible. The impressive Romanesque church was once a mosque, so it’s rich with history. We continued through lonely, somewhat barren land to Montblanch; another old town seemingly falling into disrepair, with picturesque walls, towers, and gates. We pressed on again beneath the imposing Sierra de Prades, rising in smooth, clear contours against the blue sky; a grand, magnificent chain of hills. Where else can we find such beautiful and graceful hills as in Spain?
Finally Espluga, the station for Poblet. Here Francisco alighted at express speed, basket in hand. We followed more leisurely, trembling for the Laffitte, but the boy was equal to the occasion. In spite of enthusiasm, he had an old head upon his young shoulders, and even now would have been almost equal to managing the hotel single-handed.
Finally, Espluga, the station for Poblet. Here, Francisco jumped off quickly, basket in hand. We got off at a more relaxed pace, anxious about the Laffitte, but the boy handled it well. Despite his excitement, he was mature for his age and could have almost managed the hotel by himself even now.
No sooner out than we were besieged by a man and a woman; the latter begging us to take her donkeys, the former praising his comfortable carriage. Discretion and the carriage won the day. A long donkey-ride over a rough country did not sound enticing. As it turned out we chose badly.
No sooner were we out than we were approached by a man and a woman; the woman pleading with us to take her donkeys, while the man praised his comfy carriage. Discretion and the carriage won the day. A long donkey ride over a rough area didn't sound appealing. In the end, we made a bad choice.
Poblet was some miles from Espluga, and we had to pass through the town on our way to the said carriage. It had been taken on trust, neither carriage nor donkeys being at the station.
Poblet was a few miles from Espluga, and we had to go through the town to get to the carriage. It had been arranged on trust, with neither the carriage nor the donkeys available at the station.
The town lies at the foot of a towering hill. From the station you cross over a picturesque stone bridge dark with age, spanning the rushing river. Standing on the bridge you look down upon a romantic ravine and valley, through which the river winds its course. On the further side you enter the town: a primitive out-of-the-world spot, as though it had made no progress in the last hundred years. The people correspond with their surroundings. The streets were narrow and irregular, and the virtue of cleanliness was nowhere conspicuous. Our landlord had well said that if we did not take our luncheon with us, we should take it with Duke Humphrey.
The town sits at the base of a tall hill. From the station, you cross a beautiful old stone bridge that’s darkened by time, stretching over the rushing river. Standing on the bridge, you can see a charming ravine and valley where the river flows. On the other side, you enter the town: a simple, remote place, as if it hasn’t changed in the last hundred years. The people reflect their surroundings. The streets are narrow and winding, and cleanliness is clearly lacking. Our landlord had rightly noted that if we didn’t bring our lunch with us, we would be having it with Duke Humphrey.
Nevertheless, there was that in Espluga which redeemed some of its disadvantages. Groups of houses with picturesque roofs and latticed windows: houses built without any attempt at beauty, yet beautiful because they belonged to a long-past age when men knew nothing of ugliness and bad taste. No one had thought it worth while to pull down these old nooks and remains and rebuild greater, or even adorn them with fresh paint. Consequently we saw them arrayed in all their early charm. It seemed a very sleepy town, with little life and energy. People plied their quiet trades. Everything was apparently dying of inanition.
Nevertheless, there was something about Espluga that made up for some of its drawbacks. Groups of houses with charming roofs and window grilles: homes built without any effort to be beautiful, yet beautiful because they came from a time long ago when people didn’t know about ugliness and bad taste. No one had bothered to tear down these old corners and remnants and replace them or even spruce them up with fresh paint. As a result, we saw them in all their original charm. It felt like a very quiet town, lacking energy and activity. People went about their calm work. Everything seemed to be slowly fading away.
Our donkey-woman was an exception: comely and wonderfully good-tempered, with a surprising amount of energy. Not having succeeded in hiring her donkeys, she was not to be altogether outdone by the carriage-man, and insisted upon accompanying us through the town, to carry the basket and show us the way. The man had disappeared to make ready.
Our donkey-woman was different: attractive and really good-natured, with a surprising amount of energy. Since she hadn’t managed to hire out her donkeys, she wasn’t going to let the carriage driver outdo her, so she insisted on joining us through the town to carry the basket and show us the way. The man had gone to get things ready.
"You have made a mistake, señor, in not taking my donkeys. They are beautiful creatures; six grey animals, as gentle as sheep. As for the carriage he praises, I pity you. The road is fearfully rough. When you reach Poblet, you will have no breath left in your body. All your bones will be broken."
"You've made a mistake, sir, by not taking my donkeys. They're beautiful animals; six grey ones, as gentle as sheep. As for the carriage you’re praising, I feel sorry for you. The road is incredibly rough. When you get to Poblet, you’ll be out of breath. You’ll have broken bones."
This sounded alarming; but we discounted something for disappointed ambition.
This sounded concerning, but we dismissed it as a reaction to unfulfilled ambitions.
"Are these donkeys all your living?" we asked, already feeling a certain regret that we had employed the man and not the woman.
"Are these donkeys your entire livelihood?" we asked, already feeling a bit of regret that we had hired the man and not the woman.
"Not quite, señor. And then, you know, we live upon very little. You would be surprised if I told you how few sous a day have sufficed me. Hitherto I have lived at home with my mother and sisters, who do washing. We have had that to fall back upon when my donkeys are not hired. It is lucky for me, since few people come at this time of the year: very few at any time compared with what you would imagine. The world doesn't know the beauties of Poblet. It languishes in solitude. You will see when you get there. My beautiful donkeys!" she continued. "I love them, and they love me. I have some strange power over all animals. They seem to know that I wish them well. The very birds perch upon my shoulders as I go along, if I stop and call to them."
"Not quite, sir. And you know, we get by on very little. You'd be surprised at how few coins a day have been enough for me. Until now, I've lived at home with my mother and sisters, who do laundry. We've relied on that when my donkeys aren't hired out. It's fortunate for me since not many people come this time of year—very few compared to what you might think. The world doesn't appreciate the beauty of Poblet. It suffers in solitude. You'll see when you get there. My beautiful donkeys!" she continued. "I love them, and they love me. I have some strange power over all animals. They seem to know that I wish them well. The very birds land on my shoulders as I walk along if I stop and call to them."
"Where have you learned your charm?" we asked, much interested in the woman. The loud voice of the station had disappeared, and she now talked in gentle tones.
"Where did you learn your charm?" we asked, really interested in the woman. The loud voice from the station had faded away, and she was now speaking in soft tones.
"Charm, señor? I never thought of it in that light. If it is a charm, it was born with me. It is nothing I have learned or tried to cultivate, for it comes naturally."
"Charm, sir? I never saw it that way. If it is charm, I was born with it. It's not something I've learned or tried to develop, because it comes naturally."
"Can you transfer the power to others?" asked H. C. "Really," he added in an aside, "if this woman were in a higher station of life I could quite fall in love with her. She must be made up of sympathy and mesmerism. What a mistake it was to hire that wretched scarecrow of a driver. Don't you think we might take the woman as a conductor and so combine the two?"
"Can you pass the power to other people?" asked H. C. "Honestly," he added in a side comment, "if this woman had a higher status, I could really fall for her. She seems to be all about empathy and charm. What a mistake it was to hire that miserable excuse for a driver. Don’t you think we could use this woman as a guide and combine the two?"
We ignored the question.
We ignored the question.
"No, señor," replied the woman of strange gifts; "I cannot give my power to anyone. But why do you call it a power? It is merely an instinct on the part of the animals, who know I wish them well and would take them all to my heart, poor dumb, patient, much-tried creatures. Shall I tell you how I came to keep donkeys? It was not my own idea. I did not go to them: they came to me. It is ten years ago now, when I was eighteen. I went out one Sunday evening in August all by myself. We had had a quarrel at home. My mother wanted me to marry a man I hated, because he was well-to-do. I said I would never marry him if there was not another man in the world. My sisters were all angry, and said that with one well married they would soon all get husbands. I was the youngest. At last I burst into tears, and told them they might all have him, but I never would. And with that, between rage and crying, I went off by myself out into the quiet country. I took the road to Poblet, and wandered on without thinking.
"No, sir," replied the woman with unique gifts; "I can’t give my abilities to anyone. But why do you call it a gift? It’s just an instinct of the animals, who sense that I care for them and would take them all into my heart, poor silent, patient, and heavily burdened creatures. Should I tell you how I ended up with donkeys? It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t approach them: they came to me. This was ten years ago, when I was eighteen. One Sunday evening in August, I went out alone. We had a fight at home. My mom wanted me to marry a man I despised because he was wealthy. I told her I would never marry him if he were the only man on Earth. My sisters were all upset and said that once one of us got married, the rest would follow suit. I was the youngest. Finally, I burst into tears and said they could have him, but I wouldn’t. And with that, caught between anger and tears, I went off on my own into the peaceful countryside. I took the road to Poblet and wandered without thinking."
"At last I came in sight of Poblet, and felt it was time to turn back. I had recovered my calmness, for I reflected as I went along that they could not make me marry the man, and that their vexation was perhaps natural. We were poor and struggling: he was rich compared with us. Well, señor, just as I turned I saw a beautiful grey donkey with a black cross on its back coming towards me across the plain. I thought it singular, for it was all alone, and I had never seen a donkey alone there before. There was something strange-looking about it. Evidently it has strayed, I thought, and must just stray back again. But with my love for animals I could not help stopping and watching. It came straight up to me, and put its nose into my hand, just as if it knew me. 'Where have you come from?' I said, patting its head. 'Your owner will be anxious. You must go straight home.' But there it stood, and there I stood; and for at least five minutes we never moved.
"Finally, I spotted Poblet and realized it was time to turn back. I had regained my composure, thinking as I walked that they couldn't force me to marry him, and their frustration was maybe understandable. We were poor and struggling, while he was comparatively wealthy. Well, sir, just as I turned around, I saw a beautiful gray donkey with a black cross on its back coming toward me across the plain. I found it odd since it was all alone, and I'd never seen a donkey by itself there before. It looked a bit unusual. I thought it must have strayed and would probably wander back. But with my love for animals, I couldn't help stopping to watch. It walked right up to me and nudged my hand with its nose, almost as if it recognized me. 'Where did you come from?' I asked, petting its head. 'Your owner will be worried. You need to head home.' But there it stood, and I stood there as well; for at least five minutes, we didn't move."
"Then I felt it was ridiculous, and set off home. Will you believe, señor, that the animal followed me like a dog. I could not get rid of it. When I arrived home the donkey arrived with me. What could I do? There was an empty stable next door, and I put it in there, thinking it would be claimed and perhaps I should get a small reward. The animal went in just as if the stable had been always its home. As I was leaving, it turned and looked at me, and said as plainly as possible, 'I hope you are not going to let me starve.' I went in and told them what had happened. 'It must be your lover who has taken the form of a donkey,' laughed my eldest sister. 'He knows you are fond of animals, Loretta, and has arranged this plan with the devil to make you like him.' 'I should soon prove the greater donkey of the two, if I allowed myself to marry him,' I retorted."
"Then I thought it was silly and headed home. Can you believe, sir, that the donkey followed me like a dog? I couldn't shake it off. When I got home, the donkey came with me. What was I supposed to do? There was an empty stable next door, so I put it in there, thinking someone would claim it and maybe I'd get a small reward. The donkey walked in like it had always belonged there. As I was leaving, it turned and looked at me and said as clearly as it could, 'I hope you’re not going to let me starve.' I went inside and told them what happened. 'It must be your admirer who has taken the form of a donkey,' laughed my oldest sister. 'He knows you love animals, Loretta, and he made this deal with the devil to win your affection.' 'I’d just end up being the bigger fool if I married him,' I shot back."
"Was the donkey never claimed, Loretta?"
"Was the donkey never picked up, Loretta?"
"Señor, you shall hear. To sum up the story, the donkey never was claimed. We made every inquiry; we did all we could to find the owner; it was in vain; he never turned up, and to this day the donkey remains mine. People said he was a supernatural donkey, but of course I know better. The next thing was, how to make him earn his living, for I was determined never to part with him. Then the idea came to me to convey people to Poblet. The story got known, and sometimes at the station there would be quite a fight for Caro, as I called him. There is still. It gave me a start, and now in that very stable I have six beautiful donkeys that could not be equalled. And they all love me, and answer to their names, and come when I call them. Whichever I call comes; the others don't stir."
"Sir, you will hear me out. To sum it up, the donkey was never claimed. We made every effort to find the owner; we did everything we could, but it was pointless; he never showed up, and to this day, the donkey is mine. People said he was a magical donkey, but of course, I know better. The next challenge was figuring out how to make him earn his keep, since I was determined never to let him go. Then I got the idea to transport people to Poblet. The news spread, and sometimes at the station, there would be quite a scramble for Caro, as I named him. There still is. It surprised me, and now in that same stable, I have six beautiful donkeys that are unmatched. They all love me, respond to their names, and come when I call them. Whoever I call comes; the others don’t move."
It was a singular but by no means impossible story. As H. C. had said, there was a certain mesmeric influence about the woman to which the sensitive animal world might very probably respond.
It was a unique but definitely not impossible story. As H. C. had said, there was a certain mesmerizing quality about the woman that the sensitive animal world would likely respond to.
"And your lover? You did not take compassion upon him?"
"And what about your lover? You didn't have any compassion for him?"
"No, señor," laughed the woman, with a decided shake of the head; "but one of my sisters did; the eldest, who had been the most angry with me. And for the first six years they led a regular cat-and-dog life. Then he tumbled over the bridge into the river and was nearly drowned. He was saved, but his leg was broken and had to be taken off, and after that somehow his temper improved. My sister laughs and says she loves him better with his one leg than ever she did when he had two. She is welcome to him."
"No, sir," the woman laughed, shaking her head firmly. "But one of my sisters did; the oldest, who was the most upset with me. For the first six years, they had a really tumultuous relationship. Then he fell off the bridge into the river and almost drowned. He was rescued, but his leg was broken and had to be amputated, and after that, somehow his mood got better. My sister laughs and says she loves him more with his one leg than she ever did when he had two. She's welcome to him."
"But you," we observed, feeling the question a delicate one, "why have you never married? By your own confession you are twenty-eight."
"But you," we noticed, sensing the question was a touchy one, "why have you never gotten married? By your own admission, you're twenty-eight."
The woman laughed and blushed. "The right man never came, señor, and I was in no hurry. I was quite happy as I was. Five men in this town asked me to marry them. I did not care for any of them. 'Will you love my donkeys?' I said to each. Not one of them said Yes; so I said No to all But now I have said Yes at last. And there he goes," she added.
The woman laughed and blushed. "The right guy never showed up, sir, and I wasn’t in any rush. I was pretty happy as I was. Five guys in this town proposed to me. I didn’t like any of them. 'Will you love my donkeys?' I asked each one. Not a single one said Yes; so I said No to all of them. But now I’ve finally said Yes. And there he goes," she added.
A tall strong man with a plain but amiable and honest face crossed the road, and catching sight of the donkey-woman sent her a beaming nod and went on his way.
A tall, strong man with a simple but friendly and genuine face crossed the road, and upon seeing the donkey-woman, gave her a bright nod and continued on his way.
"You have chosen well, Loretta. He will make you a good husband."
"You made a great choice, Loretta. He'll be a good husband for you."
"I think so," returned the woman, and evidently her heart was in the matter. "When I asked Lorenzo if he would love my donkeys, he said: Yes, a dozen if I had them. So I took him to the stables, and called Caro, and it came and put its nose into his hand just as it had done to me that very first evening at Poblet. 'You're the man for me,' I said: and that was our betrothal."
"I think so," replied the woman, clearly invested in the conversation. "When I asked Lorenzo if he would love my donkeys, he said: Yes, he’d take a dozen if I had them. So I took him to the stables, called for Caro, and it came over and put its nose in his hand just like it did to me that very first evening at Poblet. 'You're the one for me,' I said; and that was our engagement."
"And suppose Caro had turned his back upon him?" we inquired. Loretta blushed.
"And what if Caro had just turned his back on him?" we asked. Loretta blushed.
"Señor, I should have been angry with Caro: and I should have had compassion upon Lorenzo. But Caro had too much sense, and knew Lorenzo was to be its master. He is a carpenter, señor, and has a good trade. There is your carriage already waiting."
"Sir, I should have been mad at Caro, and I should have felt sorry for Lorenzo. But Caro was too smart and knew that Lorenzo would be in charge. He's a carpenter, sir, and he has a decent trade. Your carriage is already waiting."
En route to Poblet.
"Ah, Loretta, you should have told us this story before. We should not have refused your donkeys. It would be an honour to ride the wise and gentle Caro."
"Ah, Loretta, you should have shared this story with us earlier. We shouldn't have turned down your donkeys. It would be an honor to ride the wise and gentle Caro."
"Another time, señor. You will be coming again, then you shall have Caro, though twenty others fought for him. No one comes to Poblet once without coming a second time. You will see."
"Another time, sir. You’ll be coming back, and then you’ll get Caro, even though twenty others wanted him. No one visits Poblet once without returning a second time. You’ll see."
As Loretta had said, the carriage was waiting. The carriage, save the mark! If we had regretted the donkeys before seeing it, what did we do now? It was nothing but a country cart covered with a white tarpaulin, and a door behind about a foot square, through which we had to scramble to find ourselves buried in the interior. The whole concern was only fit for a museum of antiquities, like the Tarragona victoria. But the thing was done, and we had to make the best of it.
As Loretta had said, the carriage was waiting. The carriage, can you believe it? If we had regretted the donkeys before seeing it, what were we feeling now? It was nothing more than a country cart covered with a white tarp, and a door at the back barely a foot square, through which we had to squeeze ourselves to get inside. The whole thing was only suitable for a museum of old artifacts, like the Tarragona victoria. But it was done, and we had to make the best of it.
Passing through the streets, we came upon more men pressing out the grapes. It was a much larger affair than that of Lerida, and the juice poured out in a rich red stream. Four strong men were at work.
Passing through the streets, we came across more guys pressing the grapes. It was a much bigger operation than that in Lerida, and the juice flowed out in a deep red stream. Four strong guys were doing the work.
We stopped the cart, struggled out of what Francisco called the cat-hole, and watched the process. It was a case of mutual interest. The men had their heads bound round with handkerchiefs. The thoroughfare was the end of the town, wide and cleanly. Altogether this was an improvement upon the Lerida wine-press, and when these men offered us of the juice in a clean goblet, we did not refuse them. This attention to strangers was evidently a peace-offering; a token of goodwill; and the loving-cup was cool, refreshing and delicious. Such must have been the true nectar of the gods.
We stopped the cart, climbed out of what Francisco called the cat-hole, and watched the process. It was a case of shared interest. The men had their heads wrapped in handkerchiefs. The road was at the edge of town, wide and clean. Overall, this was an improvement over the Lerida wine-press, and when these men offered us the juice in a clean goblet, we didn’t turn them down. This kindness toward strangers was obviously a peace offering; a sign of goodwill; and the loving cup was cool, refreshing, and delicious. It must have been the true nectar of the gods.
"Almost equal to Laffitte," said H. C. "I don't know that I ever tasted anything more poet-inspiring. Let us drink to the health and happiness of the fair Loretta. Lorenzo is a lucky man."
"Almost equal to Laffitte," said H. C. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything more inspiring. Let's raise a glass to the health and happiness of the lovely Loretta. Lorenzo is a lucky guy."
With some genuine tobacco and a few cigars such as they had never seen or heard of, the men thought they had made an excellent exchange. We left them as happy as the gods on Olympus.
With some real tobacco and a few cigars that they had never seen or heard of, the men believed they had made a fantastic trade. We left them as happy as the gods on Olympus.
Soon after this we found ourselves in the open country. The roads were of the roughest: hard and dry, now all stones, now all ruts: some of the ruts a foot deep, into which the cart would sink to an angle of forty-five degrees. There were no springs to the cart; never had been any. It was stiff and unyielding, and evidently dated from the stone age. We did not even attempt to keep our seats, but flew about like ninepins.
Soon after this, we found ourselves in the countryside. The roads were really rough: hard and dry, sometimes all stones, other times all ruts, with some of the ruts a foot deep, causing the cart to tilt at a forty-five-degree angle. There were no springs on the cart; there had never been any. It was stiff and unyielding, clearly an ancient relic. We didn't even try to stay in our seats; we were bouncing around like bowling pins.
But the luncheon-basket was in comparative repose. How Francisco managed we never knew; habit is second nature; he neither lost his seat nor let go the basket. Never in roughest seas had we been so tossed about. The next day we were black and blue, and for a week after felt as though we had been beaten with rods.
But the lunch basket was relatively at rest. We never found out how Francisco managed it; habits become second nature; he neither lost his seat nor let go of the basket. Never before had we been tossed around so much, even in the roughest seas. The next day we were bruised and sore, and for a week afterward, it felt like we had been beaten with sticks.
At last after what seemed an interminable drive, but was really only some three miles, we turned from the main road and the common—evidently the scene of Loretta's donkey adventure—into a narrow, shabby avenue of trees. At the end appeared the outer gateway of the monastery, where we were too thankful to dispense with the cart and its driver.
At last, after what felt like a never-ending drive, which was actually only about three miles, we turned off the main road and the field—clearly the spot of Loretta's donkey adventure—into a narrow, run-down tree-lined street. At the end, we saw the outer gate of the monastery, where we were more than happy to leave the cart and its driver behind.
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 worse—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.
A dream world—Ruins—Chapel of St. George—Archways and Gothic windows—Atmosphere of the Middle Ages—Convent doorway—A call but no answer—The door finally opens—A comfortable-looking woman—Quick wit—Confusion intensified—The true story—Francisco brutally honest—The guardian takes the worst hit—Picturesque decay—Gothic cloisters—Visions of beauty—Rare wilderness—King Martin the Humble—Wild celebrations—When the monks enjoyed Malvoisie—Simple grandeur of the church—Philip Duke of Wharton—Cistercian monastery—The history of Poblet the monk—Monastery becomes famous—Tombs of the kings of Aragon—The guardian is doubtful—Paradise or wilderness—Monks hold all the power—Escorial of Aragon—The great traveler—Things changing for the worse—Supporting the royal power—Time goes on—Decline—Attacked and destroyed—Enraged mob—Imaginary treasures—Evil act—Massacre—Ruined monastery—Blood-red sunset—Superstition—End of 1835.
ONCE within the gateway we were in a dream-world; a world of the past; a world of ruins, but ruins rich and rare.
ONCE we entered the gateway, we found ourselves in a dream world; a world of the past; a world of ruins, but ruins that were rich and rare.
From the outer gateway a long avenue of trees and buildings led to the monastery. Far down you looked upon a second gateway with a wonderful view of receding arches and outlines. Between the two gateways on the left were the workshops of the artisans of the days gone by, now closed and desolate. Just before reaching the second gateway, on the right, we found the small fifteenth-century chapel of St. George, with the original stone altar and groined and vaulted roof. On the left within the gateway was an ancient hospital and chapel, both crumbling into picturesque decay: and on higher ground, the palace of the bishops, where they lived and ruled in the days of their glory.
From the outer gate, a long line of trees and buildings led to the monastery. Farther down, you could see a second gate with a stunning view of the archways and outlines fading into the distance. Between the two gates on the left were the workshops of artisans from long ago, now closed and abandoned. Just before reaching the second gate, on the right, we came across the small 15th-century chapel of St. George, featuring the original stone altar and a groined vaulted ceiling. On the left inside the gate was an old hospital and chapel, both crumbling beautifully into decay; and on higher ground was the bishops' palace, where they lived and ruled in their glory days.
Exquisite outlines of crumbling archways and Gothic windows surrounded us. Over all was a wonderful tone of age, soft and mellow. Towers and steeples rose in clear outlines against the sky, outlines still perfect and substantial. But the outer buildings, which had been palatial dwellings, were mere empty shells overgrown with weeds, given over to the bats and the owls. A wonderful bit of moulding or fragment of an archway, Roman or Gothic as might happen, showed the beauty and magnificence of what had once been, and would still exist but for the barbarities of man. Some of the outer walls might have defied a millennium of years. It was a dead world of surpassing beauty and refinement: a series of crumbling arches and moss-grown fragments of gigantic walls. We had it all to ourselves; the perfect repose was unbroken; no restless forms and loud voices intruded; no jarring element broke the spell of the centuries. We were in the very atmosphere of the Middle Ages. In days gone by the monastery must have been of regal splendour, as it was unlimited in power.
Exquisite outlines of crumbling archways and Gothic windows surrounded us. A wonderful sense of age, soft and mellow, filled the air. Towers and steeples rose sharply against the sky, their outlines still perfect and solid. But the outer buildings, once grand residences, were now just empty shells overgrown with weeds, abandoned to bats and owls. A beautiful piece of molding or a fragment of an archway, whether Roman or Gothic, revealed the beauty and magnificence of what had once existed, and still could, if not for humanity's destructive acts. Some of the outer walls seemed like they could withstand a millennium. It was a dead world of incredible beauty and elegance: a series of crumbling arches and moss-covered remnants of massive walls. We had it all to ourselves; the perfect tranquility was unbroken; no restless figures or loud voices disturbed us; no harsh element shattered the spell of the centuries. We were in the very atmosphere of the Middle Ages. In the past, the monastery must have been incredibly splendid, as it held immense power.
At last we reached the convent doorway and a bell went echoing through the silence. No one responded, and we began to fear that perhaps the custodian had gone off like our night porter in Lerida, taking the keys with him. A second summons produced echoing footsteps, and the door was opened by a comfortable looking woman, who was neither a ruin nor a fragment nor specially antique.
At last, we arrived at the convent entrance, and a bell rang out through the quiet. No one answered, and we started to worry that the custodian had left, like our night porter in Lerida, taking the keys with him. A second call brought the sound of footsteps, and the door was opened by a woman who looked quite comfortable, neither worn out nor old-fashioned.
"Excuse me for keeping you waiting," she said. "I am not the guardian, only his humble wife. In fact he calls me his chattel. I object to the term. We did not expect any one here to-day, and he has just gone out to do a little commission."
"Sorry for keeping you waiting," she said. "I'm not the guardian, just his humble wife. In fact, he calls me his property. I dislike that term. We didn't expect anyone here today, and he just stepped out to take care of a small errand."
But we discovered that this was a stretch of the imagination. In reality the old man, seized with a fit of laziness, was only then dressing. He appeared on the scene almost at once, somewhat to his spouse's confusion. But she made the best of it, and patting her capacious apron and stiffening her neck, walked off with a proud step and a jaunty air to her special quarters.
But we realized that this was quite a stretch. In reality, the old man, hit by a wave of laziness, was just then getting dressed. He showed up almost immediately, which surprised his wife a bit. But she handled it well, adjusting her large apron and straightening her neck, and walked away with a confident stride and a cheerful attitude to her own space.
"We have had no one here for a fortnight," said the guardian. "I began to think we might advertise ourselves as closed for the winter season, like the seaside casinos. Quite worn out with doing nothing, I thought I might as well spend the morning in bed for a change. Of course just as an umbrella brings sunshine, so my staying in bed brought visitors."
"We haven’t had anyone here for two weeks," said the guardian. "I started to think we might as well advertise ourselves as closed for the winter, like the beach casinos. Completely exhausted from doing nothing, I figured I might as well spend the morning in bed for a change. Of course, just like how an umbrella brings out the sun, staying in bed brought in visitors."
"But your wife said that you had gone out to do a commission," cried Francisco, with all a boy's direct statement of the truth.
"But your wife said you went out to do a job," cried Francisco, with the straightforward honesty of a boy.
"Did she indeed now," replied the old guardian calmly. "That was over-zeal on her part; done with a good motive, but still wrong. I shall have to chastise her."
"Did she really?" replied the old guardian calmly. "That was a bit too much on her part; she meant well, but it was still wrong. I'll have to scold her."
"How shall you do it?" asked Francisco. "Beat her?"
"How are you planning to do it?" asked Francisco. "Hit her?"
"We don't beat women, young señor," replied the guardian severely. "My chastisement takes the form of admonition."
"We don't hit women, young sir," replied the guardian sternly. "My discipline comes in the form of a warning."
"When I wanted punishing, my father used to beat me with a cane," returned Francisco. "I don't think admonition would have done me any good at all. I don't suppose it will do your wife any good. On the very next occasion she'll tell another white lie. Much better give her a caning and have done with it."
"When I needed to be punished, my dad would hit me with a cane," Francisco replied. "I don’t think talking it out would have helped me at all. I doubt it’ll help your wife either. Next time, she’ll just tell another little lie. It’s way better to give her a good beating and be done with it."
"Did your father ever cane his wife?" asked the old man drily.
"Did your dad ever hit your mom?" the old man asked dryly.
"She would have been much more likely to cane him," returned Francisco emphatically. "Does your wife beat you?"
"She definitely would have been more likely to hit him," Francisco replied strongly. "Does your wife hit you?"
The old man felt he was getting the worst of it; was being driven into a corner by this enfant terrible; and took refuge in silence.
The old man felt he was losing ground; he was being pushed into a corner by this troublemaker; and he sought refuge in silence.
This interesting conversation took place just inside the doorway, where we found ourselves lost in the beauty of the scene. A court with round arches on either side resting on pillars with small capitals. Above them the walls were in their rough, rude state, full of picturesque decay, but here as in many parts of the interior much had been restored. Nevertheless, so much of the original remains that the restoration does not offend. It has been well done. Before us, at the end of the short entrance-court was a large and splendid archway, and beyond we had a distant view of the Gothic cloisters.
This fascinating conversation happened just inside the doorway, where we found ourselves captivated by the beauty of the scene. A courtyard with round arches on both sides resting on pillars with small capitals. Above them, the walls were in their rough, unrefined state, filled with picturesque decay, but here, as in many parts of the interior, much had been restored. Still, so much of the original remains that the restoration is not off-putting. It has been done well. In front of us, at the end of the short entrance courtyard, was a large and impressive archway, and beyond that, we had a distant view of the Gothic cloisters.
POBLET CLOISTERS ENTRANCE.
The interior was so immense, the passages were so intricate, we could never have found our way without the custodian. Nothing could be lovelier than the half-ruined cloisters. The large exquisite windows were of rich pointed work, seven bays on each side, pillars and tracery either almost all gone, or partly restored. In one corner of the quadrangle was a hexagon glorieta enclosing the fountain that in days gone by supplied monks and bishops with water. Weeds and shrubs and stunted trees grew about it; a rare wilderness. Above rose the outlines of battlemented walls; of ruined pointed windows, lovely in decay; of crumbling stairways, rich mouldings and pointed roofs. The cloister passages opened to enormous rooms. On the east side was the chapter-house, supported by four exquisite pillars, from which sprang the groining of the roof; the doors and windows were specially graceful and refined; the floor was paved with monumental stones of the dead-and-gone abbots, many of the inscriptions effaced by time.
The interior was so vast, the corridors so complicated, we could have never navigated it without the caretaker. Nothing was more beautiful than the partially ruined cloisters. The large, stunning windows featured intricate pointed designs, with seven bays on each side; the pillars and tracery were either mostly gone or partially restored. In one corner of the quadrangle was a hexagonal gazebo surrounding a fountain that once provided water to monks and bishops. Weeds, shrubs, and stunted trees grew around it, creating a rare wilderness. Above, the outlines of fortified walls rose, with ruined pointed windows that were lovely in their decay, crumbling stairways, rich moldings, and pointed roofs. The cloister corridors led to enormous rooms. On the east side was the chapter house, supported by four beautiful pillars from which the roof's groining sprang; the doors and windows were particularly graceful and refined; the floor was paved with monumental stones commemorating long-gone abbots, many of the inscriptions worn away by time.
Near this was the large refectory with pillars and pointed vault. Up the staircase, which still remains, we passed to the palace del Rey Martin; King Martin the Humble as he was called; and large and baronial in days gone by the palace must have been, its very aspect transporting one to feudal times. Below the palace were enormous vaults where the wine was once stored: great vats and channels, and a whole series of processes to which the wine was subjected. Those must have been bacchanalian days, and supplies never failed. All the rooms—the Chocolateria, where the abbots took their chocolate, the Novitiate, of enormous dimensions, the Library, the room of the Archives, the room that contained the rich monastery treasure, another that had nothing but rare MSS., some of which are scattered but many more destroyed—all these rooms seemed countless, and each had its special charm and atmosphere.
Next to this was the large dining hall with pillars and a vaulted ceiling. We went up the staircase, which is still there, to the palace of King Martin; he was known as Martin the Humble. The palace must have been grand and impressive in its time, its very look taking you back to the feudal era. Beneath the palace were massive vaults where wine was once stored: huge vats, channels, and a whole series of processes involved in making the wine. Those must have been festive days, and supplies were abundant. All the rooms—the Chocolateria, where the abbots enjoyed their chocolate, the enormous Novitiate, the Library, the Archives room, the one that held the monastery's valuable treasures, and another filled only with rare manuscripts, some of which are scattered but many more are lost—all these rooms felt endless, and each had its own unique charm and atmosphere.
It was impossible to enter the refectory with its vaulted roof lost in the semi-obscurity which reigned, without conjuring up a vision of monks and abbots who in past centuries feasted here and quaffed each other in draughts of rich Malvoisie. In the palace del Rey Martin, we imagined all the regal pomp and splendour in which the king delighted. In the wine vaults we beheld the wine running in deep red streams, traced it to the refectory table, and noticed the rapidity with which it disappeared before the worthy abbots. In the vaults it passed through every stage, from the crushing of the grape to the final storing in barrels.
It was impossible to enter the dining hall with its vaulted ceiling lost in the dim light without imagining a scene of monks and abbots who had feasted here in centuries past, enjoying cups of rich Malvoisie. In the palace of King Martin, we envisioned all the royal splendor and grandeur that the king took pleasure in. In the wine cellars, we saw the wine flowing in deep red streams, tracing it to the dining table, and noting how quickly it disappeared before the esteemed abbots. In the cellars, it went through every stage, from crushing the grapes to the final storage in barrels.
On one side of the cloisters was the partly restored church, high and wide, with a magnificent nave of seven fine bays, so slightly pointed as to be almost Romanesque. We were lost in wonder at the size of the building, its simple grandeur, even as a partial ruin. Open to it from the north side is the great sacristy, saddest room of all. For here we find a solitary tombstone on which is inscribed the name of Philip Duke of Wharton, who came over to the monastery, a lonely exile, and died at the age of thirty-two, without friend or servant to soothe his last moments, knowing little or nothing of the language of the monks who surrounded him. Most melancholy of stories.
On one side of the cloisters stood the partially restored church, tall and wide, featuring an impressive nave with seven elegant bays, so slightly pointed that it was almost Romanesque. We were amazed by the size of the building and its simple grandeur, even in its partially ruined state. Connected to it from the north side is the large sacristy, the saddest room of all. Here lies a solitary tombstone engraved with the name of Philip Duke of Wharton, who came to the monastery as a lonely exile and died at the age of thirty-two, without a friend or servant to comfort him in his final moments, knowing little or nothing of the language of the monks surrounding him. It's the most melancholic of stories.
In the church, on each side of the high altar were remains of once splendid tombs. They are now defaced, and the effigies have altogether disappeared. Here was once the tomb of Jayme el Conquistador, which we had looked upon that very morning with our amiable sacristan on the left of the Coro in Tarragona cathedral. Its ancient resting-place in the great monastery church is now an empty space.
In the church, on either side of the high altar, were remnants of what used to be magnificent tombs. They are now damaged, and the figures have completely vanished. Here was once the tomb of Jayme el Conquistador, which we had seen that very morning with our friendly sacristan to the left of the choir in Tarragona cathedral. Its old resting place in the large monastery church is now just an empty space.
The aisle behind the high altar contains five chapels, and behind these outside the church lies the cemetery of the monks, a beautiful and ideal spot with long rows of round arches one beyond another, so that you seem to be looking into vistas of countless pillars. Above the arches and pillars are walls of amazing thickness, with windows and projections, all ending in moss-grown, crumbling outlines. Below, small mounds and tombstones mark the resting-place of the dead. Here they sleep forgotten; no sign or sound penetrates from the outer world, and those who visit them are comparatively few.
The aisle behind the main altar has five chapels, and beyond them, outside the church, is the monks' cemetery, a lovely and peaceful spot with long rows of round arches stretching on and on, making it feel like you're gazing into endless rows of pillars. Above the arches and pillars, there are impressively thick walls with windows and projections, all ending in moss-covered, crumbling edges. Below, small mounds and tombstones indicate where the dead are laid to rest. Here, they rest in peace, forgotten; no signs or sounds from the outside world break the silence, and the visitors are few and far between.
The whole monastery is nothing but an accumulation of crumbling walls still strong and majestic, of church and cloister, of palace and palatial courts, of refined Gothic windows with broken tracery, of ancient stairways and flying arches. Over all was the exquisite tone of age.
The entire monastery is just a mix of crumbling walls that remain strong and impressive, featuring a church and cloister, a palace and grand courtyards, elegantly designed Gothic windows with shattered details, and old stairways and soaring arches. Everything has the beautiful vibe of age.
It was originally a Cistercian monastery, dating from the middle of the twelfth century. Its abbots were bishops, who lived in great pomp and almost unlimited wealth and power. "Which they used according to their lights," said our custodian; "sometimes wisely, sometimes wastefully. I should like to have been cellarman to the old abbots in the days when the vaults were full of wine and a few quarts a day more or less were never missed."
It was originally a Cistercian monastery, built in the mid-twelfth century. Its abbots were bishops who lived in great prestige and nearly unlimited wealth and power. "Which they used as best they could," said our custodian; "sometimes wisely, sometimes carelessly. I would have loved to be the cellar manager for the old abbots when the storage rooms were full of wine and a few extra quarts a day never went unnoticed."
"Is there any legend connected with its origin?"
"Is there any story related to its origin?"
"Indeed, yes, señor. When was there ever an old institution in Spain without its legend? As the señor knows and sees, the monastery dates back to the year 1150. But long before that, in the days of the Moors, a hermit named Poblet took refuge here that he might pray in peace. An emir found him one day, captured him and put him into prison. Angels came three times over and broke his chains. The emir grew frightened, repented, set the hermit at liberty, and gave him all the surrounding territory in this fertile valley of La Conca de Barbera. In 1140 the body of Poblet was miraculously discovered. It was nothing but a heap of bones, and so I suppose they were labelled, or how could they have identified them—but I don't know about that. The bones of course became sacred and had to be duly honoured. So Ramon Berenguer IV. built the convent of El Santo; the bones were interred under the high altar, and the king gave enormous grants to the clergy. The place grew celebrated above all others in Catalonia; it become a sort of Escorial, and here the kings of Aragon for a long time were buried."
"Absolutely, yes, sir. When has there ever been an old institution in Spain without its legend? As you know, the monastery dates back to the year 1150. But long before that, during the days of the Moors, a hermit named Poblet took refuge here to pray in peace. One day, an emir found him, captured him, and threw him into prison. Angels came three times and broke his chains. The emir grew frightened, repented, released the hermit, and gave him all the surrounding land in this fertile valley of La Conca de Barbera. In 1140, Poblet's body was miraculously discovered. It was just a pile of bones, so I guess they were labeled, or how else would they have identified them—but I'm not sure about that. The bones, of course, became sacred and had to be honored properly. So Ramon Berenguer IV built the convent of El Santo; the bones were buried under the high altar, and the king made huge donations to the clergy. The place became more famous than any other in Catalonia; it turned into a sort of Escorial, and here the kings of Aragon were buried for a long time."
"And the bones of the hermit—where are they?"
"And where are the bones of the hermit?"
"Nobody knows," replied the guardian, shaking his head wisely. "They may pretend, but nobody knows. Is it likely? And what does it matter for a few human bones? Just as if they could work miracles or do any good. A poor old hermit, with all our weaknesses upon him!"
"Nobody knows," said the guardian, shaking his head knowingly. "They might act like they do, but nobody really knows. Is it even possible? And why does it matter for a few human bones? As if they could perform miracles or make any difference. Just a poor old hermit, carrying all our weaknesses!"
"Then you don't believe the legend?"
"Then you don't believe the story?"
"Not I, señor. I believe much more in the jovial times the old abbots indulged in. At least we have a capacious refectory and inexhaustible wine vaults to prove what fine banquets they had in the Middle Ages. We have come down to poor times, in my opinion. The world in general seems very much what this monastery is—a patched-up ruin."
"Not me, sir. I believe a lot more in the lively times that the old abbots enjoyed. At least we have a spacious dining hall and endless wine cellars to show what great feasts they had in the Middle Ages. I think we've fallen on hard times. The world, in general, feels a lot like this monastery—a shabby relic."
"If the world were only half as beautiful," said H. C., "we should spend our years in a dream."
"If the world were only half as beautiful," said H. C., "we would spend our years dreaming."
"It would not be my sort of dream, señor," returned the old guardian drily. "I have been here for twenty years, and confess I would give all the ruins in the world for a good and gay back street in Madrid or Barcelona. To you, señor, who probably come from the great cities of the world and mix with gay crowds—well, I dare say you think this paradise. To me it is a dreary wilderness."
"It wouldn’t be my kind of dream, sir," the old guardian replied dryly. "I’ve been here for twenty years, and I admit I would trade all the ruins in the world for a lively little street in Madrid or Barcelona. To you, sir, who probably come from the big cities and mingle with cheerful crowds—well, I imagine you think this is paradise. To me, it feels like a dismal wilderness."
It was not to be expected that the old custodian would appreciate all the beauty and refinement, all the ecclesiastical, regal and historical atmosphere that surrounded it with a special halo. And perhaps twenty years' contemplation of the outlines would have made many a better man long for a change of scene. Custom stales and familiarity breeds contempt. But not twice twenty years could have made us unmindful of the singular beauty of Poblet.
It was unlikely that the old custodian would fully appreciate all the beauty and elegance, all the church-like, royal, and historical atmosphere that surrounded it with a unique charm. And maybe twenty years of looking at the outlines would have made many a better person crave a change of scenery. Routine gets boring, and familiarity breeds contempt. But even after twice twenty years, we couldn't ignore the remarkable beauty of Poblet.
Monks' Burial Ground: Poblet.
We had got round to the lovely cloisters again, and Francisco declared it was time to display the luncheon-basket. So there, in the silent cloisters, surrounded by all the tone and atmosphere and outlines of the early centuries, we spread our feast.
We had made our way back to the beautiful cloisters, and Francisco insisted it was time to unpack the lunch basket. So there, in the quiet cloisters, surrounded by the ambiance and details of the early centuries, we laid out our meal.
The old guardian was equal to the occasion and produced table and chairs. Those he placed in the quadrangle, under the blue skies. The lovely glorieta was on one side of us; on the other, by looking through the broken tracery down the silent passage, we caught the outlines of the great church; a wonderful view and vision.
The old guardian rose to the challenge and brought out a table and chairs. He set them up in the courtyard, under the blue sky. The beautiful gazebo was on one side of us; on the other, by looking through the broken stonework down the quiet passage, we saw the silhouette of the large church; a stunning view and sight.
Our host, better than his orders, had packed up two bottles of wine, and H. C. in the largeness of his heart presented the guardian with a brimming bumper of choice Laffitte, that nearly half emptied one of the bottles. Like a true courtier, he bowed and drank to our health and happiness, and when the wine had disappeared, patted his fine rotundity with affectionate appreciation.
Our host, going above and beyond, had packed two bottles of wine, and H. C., feeling generous, poured the guardian a full glass of fine Laffitte, which nearly half emptied one of the bottles. Like a true gentleman, he bowed and raised his glass to toast our health and happiness, and when the wine was gone, he patted his well-rounded belly with a sense of pleased satisfaction.
"Señor," he cried, "this is better than anything I ever tasted. A bottle of this a day would reconcile me even to the solitude of Poblet. Surely the old abbots never had anything equal to this—even when they drank Malvoisie. It has set the blood coursing through my veins as I have not felt it for twenty years. For such as this some people would sell their souls."
"Sir," he exclaimed, "this is better than anything I’ve ever tasted. A bottle of this a day would make me even okay with the solitude of Poblet. Surely the old abbots never had anything like this—even when they drank Malvoisie. It has made my blood rush like I haven’t felt in twenty years. Some people would sell their souls for something like this."
The excellent fumes must have penetrated even to the guardian's private rooms, for at this moment, with an air of great innocence, the wife appeared upon the scene. Francisco declared she had heard the cork drawn and arrived for a share of good things. With true gallantry, but a sinking at the heart for the diminishing Laffitte, H. C. poured out another bumper and offered it to the lady, whose proportions matched her husband's. It was accepted with a reverence, and if appreciation were a reward for the empty bottle, H. C. had his to the full. Then the comfortable pair retired to the cloister passage, where the guardian had his own table and chairs and display of photographs, and there they sat down and contemplated life under Laffitte influence. Judging by their expressions they were in the enjoyment of infinite beatitudes.
The lovely aroma must have reached even the guardian's private quarters, because at that moment, looking very innocent, the wife made her entrance. Francisco said she had heard the cork pop and came in for a taste of the good stuff. With true gallantry, but feeling a pang in his heart for the dwindling Laffitte, H. C. poured another generous glass and offered it to the lady, whose figure matched her husband's. She accepted it with gratitude, and if appreciation was a reward for the empty bottle, H. C. received it abundantly. The cozy couple then moved to the cloister passage, where the guardian had his own table, chairs, and a display of photographs, and there they sat down, savoring life under the influence of Laffitte. Judging by their expressions, they were experiencing pure bliss.
POBLET RUINS.
It was a calm, quiet, delicious hour, far removed from the world. For the moment we were back in the centuries, picturing scenes of the past. Days when Poblet rose from small things to great; when its abbots became mitred; when they could ask nothing of the kings of Aragon that was not immediately granted. The kings delighted to honour them. Wealth flowed into the treasury; power multiplied. At last they ruled as despots. The kings built them a palace within the hallowed precincts. Side by side dwelt humble monk and crowned head. Humble? Where the regal will clashed with the monkish, the king went on his knees and gave way. It became the Escorial of Aragon, a thousand times more beautiful and perfect than that other Escorial reposing on the hill-slopes of Castile. Here it pleased the kings to be buried, and close to the monks' cemetery reposed the dead who had held the sceptre. No special tomb or carved sarcophagus marked their rank. In death all should be equal. Or if there were tombs decorated with gold and enriched with sculpture, they were placed in the great church. What more indeed could they want than these wonderful arcades reposing under the pure skies of heaven.
It was a calm, quiet, wonderful hour, far removed from the world. For a moment, we were taken back in time, imagining scenes from the past. Days when Poblet grew from small beginnings to great heights; when its abbots became mitred; when they could ask anything of the kings of Aragon and have it granted immediately. The kings loved to honor them. Wealth poured into the treasury; power multiplied. Eventually, they ruled as tyrants. The kings built them a palace within the sacred grounds. Living side by side were humble monks and crowned heads. Humble? Where the royal will clashed with the monk's, the king knelt and yielded. It became the Escorial of Aragon, a thousand times more beautiful and perfect than that other Escorial resting on the slopes of Castile. Here, the kings chose to be buried, and near the monks' cemetery lay the dead who had held the scepter. No special tomb or carved sarcophagus marked their status. In death, everyone should be equal. Or if there were tombs adorned with gold and filled with sculptures, they were placed in the grand church. What more indeed could they want than these amazing arcades resting under the clear skies of heaven.
But the monks grew stiff-necked and proud; waxed rich and powerful, grasping and avaricious. Since kings bowed down to them, they were the excellent of the earth. Humility fled away. They were paving the road to their own downfall. At last they would only admit those of highest rank into their community. Of course they upheld the kingly power whilst trying to make it subservient to themselves. The throne was their stronghold: Republicanism meant confiscation. The revolutions of the world have attacked the religious orders before all else with hatred and violence.
But the monks became stubborn and arrogant; they grew rich and powerful, greedy and selfish. Since kings submitted to them, they considered themselves the elite of society. Humility disappeared. They were setting themselves up for their own downfall. Eventually, they would only allow those of the highest status to join their community. Naturally, they supported royal authority while trying to make it work for their own benefit. The throne was their fortress: Republicanism meant losing their possessions. The revolutions of the world have always targeted religious orders first with hatred and violence.
Time rolled on. Ferdinand VII. died, and in the War of Succession they became politically unpopular. Socially they had long been disliked for their oppression of the peasantry; but strong and rich, the feeling had to be cherished in silence. The monks were Carlists to the backbone.
Time passed. Ferdinand VII died, and during the War of Succession, they became politically unpopular. Socially, they had long been disliked for their oppression of the peasantry; but being strong and wealthy, that resentment had to be kept quiet. The monks were hardcore Carlists.
At length, in the year, 1835, Poblet was attacked by the peasantry, who came down like a furious avalanche upon the building that for its beauty should have been held twice sacred.
At last, in 1835, Poblet was attacked by the peasants, who descended like a raging avalanche on the building that, because of its beauty, should have been considered twice sacred.
By this time, too, a change for the better had come over the monks. Much wealth and influence had gone from them; they were quietly doing good. But the traditions of the past are slow in dying. The mob believed the monastery was a vast treasure-house; untold riches lay buried in fictitious graves, hidden in tombs and hollow pillars. It was now that the men of Reus proved capable of fiendish acts of excitement. The monks were driven from their refuge and many were cruelly massacred. The pent-up fury of ages was let loose like a torrent. No power could stay the thirst for so-called revenge. It was their hour; a short-lived hour; but how much was accomplished! The monastery was ruined. The mob, infuriated at finding no heaps of gold, no hidden treasures, tore down pillars, defaced monuments, desecrated the church, left the beautiful traceried windows in ruins, and then set fire to the building.
By this time, a positive change had taken place among the monks. They had lost much of their wealth and influence; they were now quietly doing good deeds. However, the traditions of the past die hard. The crowd believed the monastery was a huge treasure trove; unimaginable riches were buried in fake graves, hidden in tombs and hollow pillars. It was at this moment that the people of Reus showed their capacity for horrific acts. The monks were forced out of their sanctuary and many were brutally killed. The long-suppressed anger of the ages erupted like a flood. No force could stop the desire for so-called revenge. It was their moment; a brief moment; but what a lot was achieved! The monastery was destroyed. The mob, enraged at finding no piles of gold, no hidden treasures, tore down pillars, defaced monuments, vandalized the church, left the beautiful stained-glass windows in ruins, and then set fire to the building.
The sun had risen on as fair and peaceful a scene as earth could show; it set on the saddest of devastations. Yet, thanks to the solid masonry, much escaped. For the monks it was lamentation and mourning and woe. It has been recorded that the sun went down in a deep-red ball, reflection of the blood of the martyred monks. But the people are superstitious. We have seen it ourselves sink over the Spanish plains also a fiery-red ball, intense and glowing, when the world was at peace. Yet, it must have been a special sunset on that memorable day of 1835, for it is recorded that long after the sun disappeared clouds shot to and fro in the sky like swords of flame. But this, too, we have gazed upon in days of peace and quietness.
The sun rose over a scene as beautiful and peaceful as the Earth could offer; it set over the saddest of wreckage. Yet, thanks to the solid stonework, much was preserved. For the monks, it was a time of sorrow, mourning, and grief. It has been noted that the sun set in a deep-red sphere, reflecting the blood of the martyred monks. But people are superstitious. We have seen it ourselves sink over the Spanish plains as a fiery-red sphere, intense and glowing, when the world was at peace. Still, it must have been a special sunset on that memorable day in 1835 because it's recorded that long after the sun disappeared, clouds moved across the sky like swords of flame. But this, too, we have witnessed in times of peace and tranquility.
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.
Day visions—Everything passes—End of the celebration—Francisco collects the leftovers—Ghosts of the past—Outside the monastery—Oasis in a desert—After the harvest—Francisco gathers—Guilty conscience—Custom of the region—Dessert—Basic watering spot—Heading to the fair—Groans and cries—Wise animal—Source of sorrows—Rage and anger—Donkey listens and understands—A tough life—Washing as a luxury—Charity given—Abandoned settlement—Charming interior—Back to the monastery—Unfair comparisons—A promise—Goodbye to Poblet—Troubled sea again—Suffering driver—Atonement for sins—Earns paradise—Wine-pressers again—Rich reserves—Good samaritans—Charming old town—Past prosperity—Lorenzo—Marriage made in heaven—House checked—On the bridge—At the station—Kind offer—Glorious sunset—Loretta's farewell—"What will it be?"—Fleeting moments—As the train leaves.
ALL this passed before us as a vision whilst we sat in those wonderful cloisters. We imagined the scene in all its ancient glory. We saw monks pacing to and fro in their picturesque Benedictine dress. The proud step of a mitred abbot echoed as it passed onwards in pomp and ceremony and disappeared up the staircase to the palace of King Martin the Humble: far more humble and conciliating than the uncrowned kings of Poblet. We heard the monotone of the Miserere ascending through the dim aisles of the great church, the monks bowing their heads in mock humility. We saw Martin the Humble take the throne-seat to the right of the altar as though he felt himself least of all the assembled. And we saw that solitary death-bed of Wharton the self-banished whilst yet in his youth, and marvelled what silent, secret sorrow had bid him flee the world. Everything had passed away; kings and monks, wealth and power, and to-day the silence of death reigns in Poblet.
ALL this unfolded before us like a vision while we sat in those beautiful cloisters. We imagined the scene in all its ancient splendor. We saw monks walking back and forth in their distinctive Benedictine robes. The proud step of a mitred abbot echoed as he moved onward with pomp and ceremony, disappearing up the staircase to the palace of King Martin the Humble—far more humble and accommodating than the uncrowned kings of Poblet. We heard the monotonous Miserere rising through the dim aisles of the grand church, the monks bowing their heads in feigned humility. We saw Martin the Humble take the throne-seat to the right of the altar, as if he considered himself the least among the gathered. And we saw that lonely deathbed of Wharton the self-exiled, even in his youth, and wondered what silent, hidden sorrow had driven him to escape the world. Everything has faded away; kings and monks, wealth and power, and today the silence of death reigns in Poblet.
Cloisters of Poblet.
When our modest feast was over, and H. C. had tried for the third time to extract a final drop of Laffitte from the second empty bottle, we left Francisco to gather up the fragments, and without the custodian—who was now taking a refreshing sleep after his appreciated bumper—wandered about the ruins as we would, realising all their beauty and influence, all the true spirit of the past that overshadowed them. Every room and court was filled with a crowd of cowled monks and mitred abbots. Up crumbling and picturesque' stairways we saw a shadowy procession ascending; the ghostly face of Martin the Humble looked down upon us from the exquisite windows of his palace, shorn of nearly all their tracery.
When our modest feast was over, and H. C. had tried for the third time to squeeze out a final drop of Laffitte from the second empty bottle, we left Francisco to pick up the scraps, and without the custodian—who was now enjoying a refreshing nap after his appreciated drink—we strolled around the ruins at our leisure, taking in their beauty and significance, and feeling the true spirit of the past that cast a shadow over them. Every room and courtyard was filled with a crowd of hooded monks and mitred abbots. Up the crumbling and picturesque stairways, we saw a shadowy procession moving upward; the ghostly face of Martin the Humble looked down upon us from the beautiful windows of his palace, stripped of nearly all their intricate designs.
It was difficult to leave it all, but we wanted to see a little of the outer world. Francisco committed his basket to the guardian—now wide awake—and in a few moments we found ourselves outside the great entrance, facing the crumbling dependencies. Beyond the gateway we turned to the left and passed up the valley. It was broad and far-reaching, and the monastery looked in the centre of a great undulating plain. From the slopes of a vineyard on which we sat awhile, it rose like an oasis in a desert, its picturesque outlines clearly marked against the blue sky. An irregular, half-ruined wall enclosed the vast precincts. In the far distance were chains of hills. There was no trace anywhere of a monks' garden, but in their despotic days they probably had all their wants supplied in the shape of tithes. The landscape was bare of trees, yet the rich soil yields abundantly the fruits of the earth. In the vineyard nearly all the grapes had been plucked; but Francisco wandering to and fro found a few bunches and plucked them. Warmed by the sunshine they were luscious and full of sweet flavour. We felt almost guilty of eating stolen fruit.
It was tough to leave it all behind, but we wanted to explore a bit of the outside world. Francisco handed his basket to the now-alert guardian, and in a few moments, we found ourselves outside the grand entrance, looking at the crumbling buildings. Beyond the gate, we took a left and went up the valley. It was wide and expansive, and the monastery stood in the middle of a vast, rolling plain. From the slope of a vineyard where we rested for a while, it looked like an oasis in a desert, its beautiful outlines clearly defined against the blue sky. A mismatched, half-ruined wall surrounded the extensive grounds. In the far distance, there were mountain ranges. There was no sign of a monks' garden anywhere, but back in their dominating days, they probably had all their needs met through tithes. The landscape was devoid of trees, yet the rich soil produced an abundance of crops. In the vineyard, nearly all the grapes had been picked, but Francisco wandered around and found a few bunches to pluck. Warmed by the sun, they were juicy and full of sweetness. We felt almost guilty for eating what felt like stolen fruit.
"Are we not very much like boys robbing an orchard, Francisco?"
"Are we not a lot like boys stealing from an orchard, Francisco?"
"No," laughed the boy, "though I'm afraid if we were that would not stop me. What we are doing is quite allowed. It is the custom of the country. Anyone may take the overlooked bunches in a vineyard just as they may glean in a corn-field. If I had not picked these, they would have withered. The owner, if he came in at this moment, would wish us good appetite and digestion and probably hunt for another bunch or two to present to us. Not a bad dessert after luncheon."
"No," laughed the boy, "but honestly, even if it were, it wouldn’t stop me. What we're doing is totally fine. It’s the way things are done here. Anyone can take the neglected bunches in a vineyard just like they can gather leftover grains in a cornfield. If I hadn’t picked these, they'd just spoil. The owner, if he showed up right now, would wish us a good appetite and digestion and would probably go looking for another bunch or two to give us. Not a bad dessert after lunch."
Higher up the road we found a settlement, where in summer people flock to the hotels to drink the waters and enjoy the country. To-day all was closed for the approaching winter. A few years ago the place had no existence beyond a few scattered farm cottages with latticed windows and thatched roofs, surrounded by small orchards. These still exist. The place looked light and primitive, as though life might here pass very pleasantly. It was too far from the monastery to intrude upon its solitude, and the whole settlement seemed deserted. Not a creature crossed our path until on the down-hill road on the other side we came upon an old woman struggling with an obstinate donkey. Approaching, we heard groans and lamentations: now the animal was threatened, now implored. He was equally indifferent to both appeals. Looking very sagacious, his ears working to and fro and his feet well planted upon the ground, as wide apart as possible, he would not budge an inch.
Higher up the road, we came across a settlement where, in the summer, people flock to the hotels to drink the waters and enjoy the countryside. Today, everything was closed for the approaching winter. A few years ago, the place didn’t exist beyond a few scattered farm cottages with lattice windows and thatched roofs, surrounded by small orchards. Those cottages are still there. The area appeared light and basic, as if life could be quite pleasant here. It was too far from the monastery to disturb its solitude, and the entire settlement seemed deserted. Not a soul crossed our path until we reached the downhill road on the other side, where we encountered an old woman struggling with a stubborn donkey. As we got closer, we heard groans and lamentations; at times, the animal was threatened, and at others, it was pleaded with. He was completely indifferent to both attempts. Looking very wise, with his ears flicking back and forth and his feet firmly planted on the ground, as wide apart as possible, he wouldn’t budge an inch.
The old woman would certainly never see eighty again. She was wrinkled and shrivelled and looked a black object; her old face so tanned by the sun that she might almost pass for a woman of colour. Her black hair was wiry and untidy, and a rusty black gown hung about her in scanty folds. We stopped to inquire the cause of her sorrows.
The old woman would definitely never see eighty again. She was wrinkled and shriveled and looked dark; her weathered face was so tanned by the sun that she could almost be mistaken for a woman of color. Her black hair was frizzy and messy, and a faded black dress draped around her in loose folds. We paused to ask about the reason for her sadness.
"Ah, señor, this wretched animal will one day be the death of me. But no, you wretched brute," suddenly turning to rage and anger, "I will be the death of you. I know that one of these days I shall take a knife to its throat, and there will be an end of it. And there will be an end of me, for I have no other living. All I can do is to go about gathering sticks and begging halfpence from charity. But this miserable donkey is worse than a pig. A pig will go the wrong way, but my donkey won't go at all. Sometimes for an hour together he doesn't move an inch. I have known him keep me a whole afternoon within ten yards of the same spot. I have beaten him till I'm black and blue"—the old woman had evidently got mixed here—"until my arm has ached for a week and I hadn't a breath left in my body; and all he does is to kick up his hind legs and bray in mockery."
"Ah, sir, this miserable animal is going to drive me to my end one day. But no, you awful brute," suddenly filled with rage, "I'm going to be the one to end you. I know that someday I’ll take a knife to its throat, and that'll be that. And that will also mean the end for me, since I have nothing else in my life. All I do is wander around picking up sticks and begging for a few coins from others. But this pathetic donkey is worse than a pig. A pig might go the wrong way, but my donkey won't move at all. Sometimes, he doesn't budge for an entire hour. I’ve had him keep me stuck in the same spot for a whole afternoon, no more than ten yards away. I’ve whipped him until I was bruised"—the old woman had obviously mixed things up here—"until my arm hurt for a week and I could barely breathe; and all he does is kick up his back legs and bray in mockery."
POBLET, FROM THE VINEYARD.
All this time the donkey was switching its tail as though it understood every word that was said and thoroughly appreciated its bad character. And apparently to emphasise the matter, at this moment it suddenly gave a bray so loud, long and à propos that we were convulsed with laughter, in which the old woman joined. The donkey looked round with a ridiculously comical expression upon its face that was evidently put on.
All this time, the donkey was swishing its tail as if it understood every word we said and fully recognized its own naughty behavior. To highlight the moment even more, it suddenly let out a bray that was so loud, so long, and so perfectly timed that we couldn't help but burst into laughter, and the old woman joined in too. The donkey looked around with a comically exaggerated expression on its face that was clearly put on for show.
"Ah, señor, it is all very well to laugh, but I am a poor wretched old woman," said this sable donkey-owner. "I never know one day whether I shall not starve the next. My husband died forty years ago. I have one daughter, but she left me. For twenty years I have not heard of her. Mine has been a hard life."
"Ah, sir, it's easy for you to laugh, but I'm just a poor, miserable old woman," said the black donkey owner. "I never know from one day to the next if I'll end up starving. My husband passed away forty years ago. I have one daughter, but she abandoned me. I haven't heard from her in twenty years. My life has been difficult."
"How often do you wash?" we could not help asking out of curiosity.
"How often do you wash?" we couldn't help but ask out of curiosity.
"Wash, señor?" opening very wide eyes. "I am too poor to buy soap, and water is scarce. And I am so thin that if I washed, my bones would come through the skin. Señor, if you will bestow your charity upon me I promise not to waste it upon soap."
"Wash, sir?" opening his eyes wide. "I'm too broke to buy soap, and water is hard to come by. And I'm so skinny that if I washed, my bones would show through my skin. Sir, if you could help me out, I promise not to waste it on soap."
We were near the river. The clear, sparkling water flowed on its way to the sea. Near the bank were whispering reeds and rushes. We felt sorely tempted to lift the old woman with our stick—she could not have weighed more than a good fat turkey—drop her into the stream, and for once make her acquainted with the luxury of a cold bath. But we reflected that she probably had no change of things, and her death might lie at our door. So we bestowed upon her the charity she asked for and left her. Prayers for our happiness went on until we were out of sight, and up to that point the perverse animal had not moved.
We were by the river. The clear, sparkling water flowed towards the sea. By the bank were whispering reeds and rushes. We were really tempted to lift the old woman with our stick—she must have weighed about as much as a good fat turkey—drop her into the stream, and let her experience the luxury of a cold bath for once. But we thought about how she probably didn’t have a change of clothes, and her death could be on us. So we gave her the charity she asked for and walked away. She continued to pray for our happiness until we were out of sight, and up to that moment, the stubborn woman hadn’t moved at all.
We now turned back on our road, and appeared to have the whole country-side to ourselves. As we passed the thatched cottages every one of them was closed and silent. No blue curling smoke ascended from any of the chimneys.
We turned around on our path and seemed to have the entire countryside to ourselves. As we walked past the thatched cottages, each one of them was locked up and quiet. No blue smoke was rising from any of the chimneys.
"Is it always so quiet and deserted?" we asked Francisco, who had knocked at three or four cottages without success. He was anxious to show us the interiors, which he said were curious: great chimney-corners with the chain hanging down to hold the pot-au-feu that was always going: peat fires that threw their incense upon the air: enormous Spanish settles on which half a dozen people could sit easily and keep warm on winter evenings: wonderful old clocks that ticked in the corner. We saw all this in the fifth cottage. Its inmates had flown, but forgotten to lock the door. The fire was out, and the great iron pot swinging from the chain was cold.
"Is it always this quiet and empty?" we asked Francisco, who had knocked on three or four cottages without any luck. He was eager to show us the interiors, which he said were interesting: big fireplace corners with the chain hanging down to hold the pot-au-feu that was always simmering: peat fires that filled the air with their fragrance: huge Spanish benches where six people could comfortably sit and stay warm on winter nights: amazing old clocks that ticked in the corner. We saw all this in the fifth cottage. Its residents had left, but forgotten to lock the door. The fire was out, and the big iron pot hanging from the chain was cold.
"No, señor. I have often been here and never found everybody away like this. One might fancy them all dead and buried, but they are at the fair, I suppose. The harvest is all in, fruits are all gathered; there is nothing left on the trees"—with a melancholy glance at the orchards—"and for the moment they have nothing to do. So they have gone in a body to amuse themselves and spend their money."
"No, sir. I've been here many times and I've never seen everyone gone like this. You might think they’re all dead and buried, but I guess they’re at the fair. The harvest is all done, the fruits are all picked; there’s nothing left on the trees"—with a sad look at the orchards—"and for now they have nothing else to do. So they’ve all gone together to have some fun and spend their money."
We got back in time to the monastery, and again the woman opened to us.
We returned to the monastery just in time, and once more the woman welcomed us in.
"This time he really has gone off for a commission," she laughed, as the colour mounted to her face at the remembrance of her late transgression. "I really had to make an excuse before," she added. "It might have been one of the directors, and I should not like them to think the old man was getting past his work."
"This time he really has left for a job," she laughed, her cheeks coloring as she remembered her recent slip-up. "I really needed to come up with an excuse before," she added. "It could have been one of the directors, and I wouldn’t want them to think the old guy was losing his touch."
The guardian came up behind us at the moment, a bottle of wine in his hand for their evening meal.
The guardian came up behind us at that moment, holding a bottle of wine for their dinner.
"Ah, señor," shaking his head mournfully, "it is not equal to yours. Until the flavour and recollection of yours have passed away, I shall find this but poor stuff. I must make believe very hard, and fancy myself living in the days of the old monks, drinking Malvoisie."
"Ah, sir," shaking his head sadly, "this isn't anything like yours. Until the taste and memory of yours fade away, I'll find this just weak. I really have to imagine hard and pretend I'm living in the days of the old monks, drinking Malvoisie."
We promised to send him a bottle of Laffitte the very next time any one came over from the hotel, and he declared the anticipation would add five years to his life. We took a last look at the lovely cloisters, and then with a heavy heart turned our backs upon Poblet. Seldom had any visit so charmed us. Never had we seen such ruins; such marvellous outlines and perspectives; never felt more in a world of the past; never so completely realised the bygone life of the monks: all their splendour and power, wealth and luxury, to which the kingly presence gave additional lustre. They were days of pomp and ceremony and despotism; but the surrounding atmosphere of refinement and beauty must have had a softening and religious effect that perhaps kept them from excesses of tyranny and self-indulgence: vices that might have made their name a byword to succeeding ages.
We promised to send him a bottle of Laffitte the next time someone came over from the hotel, and he said that just thinking about it would add five years to his life. We took one last look at the beautiful cloisters and then, with heavy hearts, turned our backs on Poblet. Seldom had any visit enchanted us so much. We had never seen such ruins; such amazing outlines and perspectives; never felt more connected to the past; never so fully realized the former lives of the monks: all their splendor and power, wealth and luxury, which were enhanced by the kingly presence. Those were days of pomp and ceremony and tyranny; but the surrounding atmosphere of refinement and beauty must have had a softening and spiritual effect that likely kept them from the extremes of tyranny and self-indulgence: vices that might have turned their name into a negative reference for future generations.
Our primitive conveyance was in waiting. Once more we found ourselves tossed upon a troubled sea where no waters were. We passed through the plains in which the magic donkey had appeared to Loretta, now empty and gathering tone and depth as the day declined.
Our basic transportation was waiting for us. Once again, we found ourselves tossed on a chaotic sea where there was no water. We moved through the plains where the magical donkey had shown up for Loretta, now empty and taking on tone and depth as the day faded.
Our driver was not communicative. Apparently all his energy had spent itself at the station in claiming our patronage. He now even seemed unhappy, and in spite of the abominable drive he was giving us, we ventured to ask him if the world went well with him.
Our driver wasn't very talkative. It seemed like he had used up all his energy at the station trying to get our business. Now, he even looked unhappy, and despite the terrible drive he was giving us, we dared to ask him if everything was okay with him.
"I can't complain of the world, señor," he returned, in melancholy tones. "I have food enough to eat, but alas cannot eat it. I suffer from frightful toothache. At the last fair I mounted the dentist's waggon; boom went the drum, crash went the trumpets—I thought my head was off. He had pulled out the only sound tooth I possessed. 'Let me try again,' said he. 'No, thank you,' I answered. 'You have given me enough for one day, and if you expect any other payment than my sound tooth you will be disappointed.' Unfortunately, señor, he had more than the tooth, for he had carried away a bit of my jaw with it. Since then I have no comfort in life. The next time the fair comes round I suppose he will have to try again. The priests tell us a good deal about the torments of purgatory, but they can be nothing compared with this toothache. After this I shall expect to go straight to paradise when I die—priest or no priest."
"I can't complain about the world, sir," he replied, in a sad tone. "I have enough food to eat, but unfortunately, I can't eat it. I'm suffering from a terrible toothache. At the last fair, I got into the dentist's wagon; the drum went boom, the trumpets crashed—I thought my head would explode. He pulled out the only healthy tooth I had. 'Let me try again,' he said. 'No, thank you,' I replied. 'You've done enough for one day, and if you expect any payment other than my healthy tooth, you'll be disappointed.' Unfortunately, sir, he had taken more than just the tooth; he also took a piece of my jaw with it. Since then, I've had no comfort in life. The next time the fair comes around, I suppose he'll have to try again. The priests tell us a lot about the torments of purgatory, but they can't compare to this toothache. After this, I expect to go straight to paradise when I die—priest or no priest."
The silence of the unhappy driver was more than accounted for, and we gave him our sympathy.
The unhappy driver was silent, and we showed him our sympathy.
"Thank you, señor," he answered. "It is very good of you. But," comically, "my tooth still aches."
"Thank you, sir," he replied. "That's really kind of you. But," he added jokingly, "my tooth still hurts."
We had reached the outskirts of the little town and dismissed the conveyance, of which we had had more than enough. It rattled through the streets and we followed at leisure. The men at the wine-press were just giving up work. Inside, in large rooms, they showed us wide tubs full of rich red juice, waiting to be made into wine.
We had arrived at the edge of the small town and let go of the transport, which we had enough of. It clattered through the streets while we strolled along. The workers at the wine-press were just finishing up for the day. Inside, in large rooms, they showed us big tubs filled with rich red juice, ready to be turned into wine.
"You have enough here for the whole neighbourhood," we remarked.
"You have enough here for the whole neighborhood," we said.
"It is all ordered, señor, and as much again if we can get it. We are famed for our wine. May we offer you a really good specimen bottle, just to show you its excellence? It would be a most friendly act on your part—and a little return for your splendid tobacco and cigars."
"It’s all arranged, sir, and even more if we can get it. We’re known for our wine. Can we offer you a really good bottle, just to show you how great it is? It would be a nice gesture on your part—and a small way to repay your wonderful tobacco and cigars."
"By all means," cried H. C., before we had time to accept or decline. "We are all as thirsty as fishes—and as hungry as hunters."
"Absolutely," H. C. exclaimed before we could even agree or refuse. "We're all as thirsty as fish—and as hungry as hunters."
"It is last year's wine," said our cellarman, returning with a bottle and drawing the cork. Then he hospitably filled tumblers and with a broad smile upon his face waited our approval. We gave it without reserve. It was excellent.
"It’s last year’s wine," our cellar guy said, coming back with a bottle and popping the cork. He then kindly filled our glasses and, with a big smile on his face, waited for us to give our thumbs up. We did so without hesitation. It was fantastic.
"And as pure as when it was still in the grape," said the man. "Take my word for it, señor, you won't get such stuff as this in Madrid or Barcelona. It goes through your veins and exhilarates you, and if you drank three bottles of it you might feel lively, but you would have no headache."
"And as pure as when it was still in the grape," said the man. "Trust me, sir, you won’t find anything like this in Madrid or Barcelona. It runs through your veins and lifts your spirits, and if you drank three bottles of it, you might feel great, but you wouldn't have a headache."
We owed the wine-presser a debt of gratitude. His invigorating draught was doubly welcome after our late experience, and we went our way feeling there are many good Samaritans in the world.
We owed the wine-maker a debt of thanks. His refreshing drink was especially welcome after our recent experience, and we walked away feeling like there are many good Samaritans in the world.
We had some time to wait in the little town, and made closer acquaintance with its curious old streets: the overhanging eaves and waterspouts that stretched out like grinning gargoyles; the massive walls of many of the houses, and casements with rich mouldings that suggested a bygone day of wealth and prosperity.
We had some time to kill in the small town and got to know its unique old streets better: the overhanging roofs and downspouts that jutted out like grinning gargoyles; the sturdy walls of many of the houses, and windows with elegant moldings that hinted at a long-gone era of wealth and prosperity.
In our wandering we came upon the man Loretta had pointed out as her future husband. He was almost in the very same spot we had last seen him, and his head was now adorned with a white cap. We stopped him.
In our wandering, we came across the guy Loretta had mentioned as her future husband. He was nearly in the exact spot where we last saw him, and he was now wearing a white cap. We stopped him.
"So, Lorenzo, you are going to espouse Loretta."
"So, Lorenzo, you're going to marry Loretta."
POBLET RUINS.
"Thank you, señor," replied Lorenzo, laughing—he seemed made up of good-humour. "I think it promises well. You see we are neither of us children, but old enough to know our own mind. Loretta is twenty-eight, I am thirty-two, and as far as I can make out, we have neither of us cared for anybody before. Our marriage was evidently made in heaven. And then Mr. Caro settled the matter by accepting me as his master."
"Thank you, sir," Lorenzo replied, laughing—he seemed full of good humor. "I think it looks promising. You see, we’re neither of us kids, but old enough to know what we want. Loretta is twenty-eight, I’m thirty-two, and as far as I can tell, neither of us has cared for anyone else before. Our marriage was clearly meant to be. And then Mr. Caro wrapped it up by accepting me as his boss."
"And you love the donkeys, we hear?"
"And we hear that you love the donkeys?"
"I love all animals in general," returned Lorenzo, "and of course Loretta's donkeys in particular. If she could have an additional attraction in my eyes, it is her power over the dumb birds and beasts, which proves the goodness of her soul. I cannot approach her in that respect."
"I love all animals in general," said Lorenzo, "and of course Loretta's donkeys in particular. If there's anything that makes her even more special to me, it’s her ability to connect with the mute birds and animals, which shows the goodness of her soul. I can't compete with that."
"And when are you going to be married?"
"And when are you getting married?"
"Has Loretta not told you that?" said Lorenzo, the colour flushing to his face. "We are to be married to-morrow morning. Everything is ready. Loretta has her wedding-gown, and our rooms have been furnished some time. They are over my workshop, so that I shall be able to hear her singing whilst I am planing and sawing below. Here it is, señor; will you not come in and look at it? I think," a bright light in his eyes, "we shall be very happy. After we are married to-morrow we go to Barcelona for a few days, where I have a prosperous brother who will take us in. Then we come back and settle down to our life. Yes, I think we shall be as happy as the day's long, señor."
"Has Loretta not told you that?" Lorenzo said, his face turning red. "We're getting married tomorrow morning. Everything's ready. Loretta has her wedding dress, and our rooms have been set up for a while now. They're above my workshop, so I’ll be able to hear her singing while I’m working below. Here it is, sir; won't you come in and see it? I think," a bright light in his eyes, "we're going to be very happy. After we get married tomorrow, we’re heading to Barcelona for a few days, where my successful brother will host us. Then we'll come back and settle into our life. Yes, I really think we’ll be as happy as can be, sir."
We had no doubt about it. Happiness in this world is for such as these. Excellent natures, saved from the great cares and responsibilities of those in a higher walk; working for their daily bread, which is abundantly supplied; contented with their lot; knowing nothing of impossible wants and wishes; loving and shedding abroad their love. It is such natures as Loretta's and Lorenzo's that are the truly happy. Their very names harmonized. But they are rare amongst their own class; one might almost say rare in any class; the exception, not the rule. It was good to come upon two such people, and to find that a kindly fate had reserved them for each other.
We had no doubt about it. Happiness in this world is for people like them. Great individuals, free from the heavy worries and responsibilities of those in higher positions; working for their daily bread, which they have plenty of; satisfied with their circumstances; unaware of impossible desires and wishes; loving and sharing their love freely. It's people like Loretta and Lorenzo who are truly happy. Their names even sound good together. But they are rare in their class; you could almost say they are rare in any class; the exception, not the norm. It was wonderful to come across two such people, and to see that a kind fate had brought them together.
We left Lorenzo in his workshop, a strong, manly fellow, using his plane with a skilful hand, and went our way.
We left Lorenzo in his workshop, a strong, tough guy, skillfully using his plane, and continued on our way.
Right and left Loretta was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was arranging things at home for the last time. The last evening in the old nest. She might be contemplating her wedding-gown, lost in thoughts of the past or dreams of the future. But she was not one to look on the sad side of life, or to spend time in melancholy introspection.
Right and left, Loretta was nowhere to be found. Maybe she was tidying up the house for the final time. The last evening in the old place. She could be thinking about her wedding dress, wrapped up in memories of the past or visions of the future. But she wasn’t the type to dwell on the negative or waste time in sad reflection.
From the picturesque old bridge beneath which the river ran its swift course, the scene was wild, picturesque and lonely. With all our loitering we had an hour to wait for the train. At the station we found Loretta, apparently anything but low-spirited. She was accompanied by a well-dressed woman who looked as if the world went well with her. Loretta saw us and came forward.
From the charming old bridge where the river flowed quickly below, the view was wild, beautiful, and lonely. After all our hanging around, we had an hour to wait for the train. At the station, we found Loretta, looking anything but down. She was with a stylishly dressed woman who seemed to be enjoying life. Loretta spotted us and came over.
"Señor, you are back from Poblet. Tell me, did I exaggerate its beauty? Will you not come again, if only to ride the gentle Caro?"
"Sir, you're back from Poblet. Tell me, did I exaggerate its beauty? Won't you come again, even just to ride the gentle Caro?"
"Poblet far surpasses anything we expected from it, Loretta. But why did you not tell us that to-morrow was your wedding-day?"
"Poblet is way beyond anything we expected, Loretta. But why didn’t you tell us that tomorrow was your wedding day?"
"I did not like to," she returned, laughing. "And yet I am too old to be silly about it. How did you find out, señor? Surely the old guardian at Poblet knows nothing? I have not been near him for three weeks."
"I didn't want to," she replied with a laugh. "But I am too old to be acting childish about it. How did you find out, sir? Surely the old guardian at Poblet has no idea? I haven't been near him for three weeks."
"We met Lorenzo, and he told us. Loretta, you are a happy couple. He will make a famous husband, and you a model wife."
"We met Lorenzo, and he told us, 'Loretta, you two are a happy couple. He’ll be a famous husband, and you’ll be a great wife.'"
"Ah, señor, I shall try my best; but sometimes I think I am not good enough for him. He is such a brave man, my Lorenzo."
"Ah, sir, I’ll do my best; but sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough for him. He’s such a courageous man, my Lorenzo."
"Why are you here, Loretta?"
"Why are you here, Loretta?"
"To escort Lorenzo's cousin, señor, who came over to see me to-day for the last time before my wedding. She lives in Tarragona. We have been great friends, and she has long hoped Lorenzo and I would marry."
"To accompany Lorenzo's cousin, sir, who came to see me today for the last time before my wedding. She lives in Tarragona. We have been good friends, and she has long hoped that Lorenzo and I would get married."
She carried in her hand, this cousin of Lorenzo's, a glass water-bottle of rare and exquisite shape. We could not help admiring it in strong terms.
She held in her hand, this cousin of Lorenzo's, a glass water bottle of unique and beautiful design. We couldn't help but admire it enthusiastically.
"It is not to be bought anywhere," she said. "It is old and they do not make them now. Señor, it would give me real pleasure if you would accept it. I do not mean in Spanish fashion, but truly and sincerely."
"It can't be found anywhere," she said. "It's old, and they don't make them anymore. Sir, I would be really happy if you would accept it. I don't mean it in a formal way, but truly and sincerely."
This was very evident, but the gift had to be refused, however kindly offered.
This was very clear, but the gift had to be turned down, no matter how kindly it was offered.
We walked up and down the platform in face of one of the loveliest sunsets ever seen. In spite of its gorgeous colouring there was a great calmness and repose about it. Wonderful tones from crimson to pale opal spread half over the sky. Every moment they changed from beauty to beauty, and lighted up the outlines of the town into something rare and ethereal. We have already said there is no country like Spain for the splendour of its sunsets, and especially in their afterglow. They are truly amongst her glories.
We walked back and forth on the platform in front of one of the most beautiful sunsets we've ever seen. Despite its stunning colors, there was a deep calmness and tranquility about it. Incredible shades from crimson to pale opal filled the sky. Every moment, they shifted from one beauty to another, illuminating the outlines of the town in a way that was rare and ethereal. We've already mentioned that there’s no place like Spain for the beauty of its sunsets, especially in their afterglow. They are truly among its greatest treasures.
At last the train came up and shut out the heavenly vision. Loretta approached and said good-bye.
At last, the train arrived and blocked the beautiful view. Loretta walked over and said goodbye.
"You will come again, señor, and ride Caro. I shall be married then, and both Lorenzo and I will escort you to Poblet. It will delight us to serve you. We will make it a holiday. But do not tarry. Caro is not as young as he was, though I believe donkeys live for ever."
"You will come again, sir, and ride Caro. I’ll be married by then, and both Lorenzo and I will take you to Poblet. It will be our pleasure to serve you. We’ll make it a special occasion. But don’t delay. Caro isn’t as young as he used to be, though I think donkeys live forever."
"Now, Loretta," we said, whilst the train waited, "it is our ambition to send you a wedding-gift. What shall it be?"
"Now, Loretta," we said, as the train waited, "we want to send you a wedding gift. What should it be?"
"Señor, you are too good. What have I done? I could never——"
"Sir, you’re too kind. What have I done? I could never——"
"Loretta, the train may start at any moment."
"Loretta, the train could leave at any time."
"Señor, I have all I could wish for, excepting——" She hesitated.
"Sir, I have everything I could want, except for——" She paused.
"Loretta, the moments are flying."
"Loretta, time is flying."
"Señor, it is too great an object. I have not the courage——"
"Sir, it's too big of a task. I don't have the courage——"
"Loretta, the guard signals. Another moment and you are lost."
"Loretta, the guard signals. One more moment and you'll be lost."
"Well, then, señor, I long for a clock for our mantelpiece. We had made up our minds to wait, and——"
"Well, then, sir, I really want a clock for our mantel. We had decided to wait, and——"
"Loretta, the clock is yours. It shall be pure white. A golden Cupid shall strike the bells. In his other hand he shall hold a glass which turns with the hours, running golden sands. Fare you well, Loretta."
"Loretta, the clock is yours. It will be pure white. A golden Cupid will strike the bells. In his other hand, he will hold a glass that turns with the hours, spilling golden sands. Take care, Loretta."
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.
Charms of Tarragona—Dream of the past—Quasimodo doesn't come—From another world—Host's offer—Francisco heartbroken—A mix of sadness—No more vacations—List of complaints—Beautiful scene—Richness of the South—Hospitalet—Pilgrims of the Middle Ages—Amposta—Center of lost centuries—Historical background—Here, St. Paul worked—Our fellow travelers—Subtle hints—Old priest enters—Draws conclusions—Love's young dream—Impressions and appearances—Not always a priest—Fool's paradise—Youth and old age—Waking up to reality—Driven out of paradise—Was it a judgment?—Calm returns—Judging with mercy—Nameless grave—"Written 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 separate race—Benicarlo—Flourishing vineyards—"If the English only knew"—Eve recognizes priest—"I am that charming daughter"—Lovely cousin engaged—Count Pedro de la Torre—Mutual recognitions—Congratulations—Breaking the news to H. C.—Despair—"To Adam in Hades"—Gallant priest—Saved from temptation.
WITH sorrowful hearts we turned our backs one morning upon Tarragona.
WITH heavy hearts, we turned away from Tarragona one morning.
Though bound for Valencia, Tarragona the delightful possessed charms Valencia could never rival. Not again should we meet with such a cathedral, such cloisters, or even so original and enthusiastic a sacristan. We were leaving all that wonderful historical atmosphere that made this exceptional place a Dream of the Past, and great was our regret.
Though headed to Valencia, Tarragona had delights that Valencia could never match. We wouldn’t encounter another cathedral like that, or such beautiful cloisters, or even a sacristan as original and enthusiastic. We were leaving behind all that incredible historical atmosphere that made this unique place a Dream of the Past, and we felt a deep sense of regret.
We had stood near the tomb of the Scipios and fancied ourselves back in the days when our own era was dawning. Before us the ever-changing yet changeless sea looked just as it must have looked when they, loving it, decided to sleep within sound of its waters. In a last moonlight visit to the cathedral we had waited and listened in hope of hearing Quasimodo's footsteps, seeing his quaint and curious form approaching.
We stood by the tomb of the Scipios, imagining ourselves in the days when our own era was just beginning. The ever-changing yet constant sea looked just as it must have when they, in their love for it, chose to rest within earshot of its waves. During a final moonlit visit to the cathedral, we waited and listened, hoping to hear Quasimodo's footsteps and see his unique and curious figure coming closer.
He never came. No unseen talisman whispered to him our desire. Perhaps it was as well. A second experience is never the same as the first. The subtle charm of the new and the strange, the unexpected, the unprepared, is no longer there. Quasimodo now dwelt in our minds as a being spiritual, intangible, of another world. That he belonged to the highest order in this, is certain. The influence of his music haunted us, haunts us still. In waking and sleeping dreams we live over and over again the weird charm and experience of that wonderful night; see the moonbeams falling in shafts of clear-cut light across pillars and aisles and arches; hear and feel the touch, as of a passing breath, of the ghostly visitants from Shadow-land. All the marvellous music steals into our soul. There can be but one Quasimodo in the world. We doubt if there was ever another at any time endowed with his marvellous faculty. It was pain and grief to feel that we should see and hear him no more.
He never showed up. No invisible token whispered to him our wish. Maybe it’s for the best. A second experience is never the same as the first. The subtle allure of the new and strange, the unexpected, the unprepared, is gone. Quasimodo now existed in our minds as a spiritual being, intangible, from another world. It's clear he belonged to the highest order here. The impact of his music haunted us, and it still does. In our waking and sleeping dreams, we relive the odd charm and experience of that incredible night; we see the moonbeams falling in clear shafts of light across the pillars, aisles, and arches; we hear and feel the touch, like a soft breath, of the ghostly visitors from the Shadow-land. All that marvelous music seeps into our soul. There can be only one Quasimodo in the world. We doubt there’s ever been another person at any time with his extraordinary talent. It was painful and sorrowful to realize we would never see or hear him again.
Our very host added slightly to our reluctant leaving by declaring that if we would only stay another week he would charge us half-price for everything: nay, we should settle our own terms. Francisco was inconsolable, but perhaps a little selfishness was mixed with his sorrow.
Our host made it harder for us to leave by saying that if we stayed another week, he would charge us half-price for everything: in fact, we could set our own terms. Francisco was heartbroken, but maybe a bit of selfishness was mixed in with his sadness.
"No more holidays," he cried. "No more excursions to Poblet; no escape from French lessons. And yet, señor, there are other places besides Poblet, and every one of them would have delighted you. Think of all the lost luncheons; all the first-class compartments that will now be empty. There are lovely excursions, too, by sea." The boy's catalogue of grievances was as long as Don Giovanni's list of transgressions.
"No more holidays," he shouted. "No more trips to Poblet; no way to get out of French lessons. But, sir, there are so many other places besides Poblet, and every one of them would have thrilled you. Think of all the missed lunches; all the first-class compartments that will now sit empty. There are beautiful trips by sea, too." The boy's list of complaints was as long as Don Giovanni's list of misdeeds.
But time the inexorable refused to stand still, and when the final hour struck, the relentless omnibus carried us away.
But time, the unstoppable force, wouldn’t pause, and when the final hour came, the relentless bus took us away.
Francisco accompanied us to the station, having an idea that without his help we should inevitably go wrong. He was a witness to the abominably rude station-master, who in this respect has not his equal in Spain, according to our experience. Finally we moved off.
Francisco went with us to the station, thinking that without his help, we would definitely get lost. He witnessed the incredibly rude station master, who, in our experience, has no equal in Spain. Finally, we set off.
At the moment we felt a distinct mental wrench. Tarragona was indeed over. To our right was the harbour with its little crowd of fishing-boats; out on the sea lovely white-winged feluccas glided to and fro. The whole journey was one of extreme beauty. Very soon we had the sea on our left, and often the train skirted the very waves as they rolled over their golden sands. The coast was broken and diversified, now rising to hills and cliffs, now falling to a level with the shore. Where we passed inland the country was rich and fruitful, showing more and more the luxuriance of the South.
At that moment, we felt a distinct mental shift. Tarragona was really over. To our right was the harbor with its small crowd of fishing boats; out on the sea, beautiful white-winged feluccas glided back and forth. The entire journey was incredibly beautiful. Soon, we had the sea on our left, and often the train hugged the very waves as they crashed onto the golden sands. The coastline was varied and diverse, sometimes rising into hills and cliffs, other times flattening out to meet the shore. Where we traveled inland, the land was rich and fruitful, increasingly showcasing the lushness of the South.
Many of the towns had historical interests or remains to make them remarkable. At Hospitalet we found ourselves on the site of a House of Refuge for pilgrims from Zaragoza who in the Middle Ages were wont to cross the mountains in caravans after visiting the scene of some miraculous pillar or image. Near this we skirted a fishing village, where the train was almost washed by the sea that, blue and flashing, stretched far and wide. The little fleet was moving out of the small harbour as we passed, each followed by its shadow upon the water. Picturesque Amposta was the centre and atmosphere of the lost centuries. It existed long before the Romans, who, on taking it, made it one of their chief stations. Here came Hercules, and after him St. Paul, who did much work and ordained a bishop to carry on his labours. Later came the Moors, when it reached the height of its glory. In 809 Louis le Débonnaire, son of Charlemagne, besieged it, was repulsed, returned in 811 and conquered. The Moors quickly retook it, but the disorganised inhabitants had become nothing better than pirates. So in 1143 the Templars came down upon them, and inspired by the late victory at Almeria, aided by the Italians, conquered in their turn: only to be turned out again the following year by the inevitable Moors.
Many towns had historical significance or remnants that made them stand out. In Hospitalet, we found ourselves at a House of Refuge for pilgrims from Zaragoza who, in the Middle Ages, used to cross the mountains in caravans after visiting a site of miraculous pillars or images. Nearby, we passed a fishing village, where the train almost brushed the sea that, bright and blue, stretched endlessly. The small fleet was leaving the little harbor as we went by, each boat leaving a shadow on the water. Picturesque Amposta captured the essence of long-lost centuries. It existed long before the Romans, who, upon taking it, made it one of their main stations. Hercules visited here, and then St. Paul, who did a lot of work and appointed a bishop to continue his efforts. Later, the Moors arrived, and it reached its peak of glory. In 809, Louis le Débonnaire, son of Charlemagne, laid siege to it but was forced to retreat, only to return in 811 and conquer it. The Moors quickly regained control, but the disorganized locals had become little more than pirates. So, in 1143, the Templars came down on them, inspired by their recent victory at Almeria and aided by the Italians, and managed to conquer the area in their turn—only to be expelled again the following year by the inevitable Moors.
Everywhere the eye rested upon a lovely scene of river, sea and land, intensely blue sky and brilliant sunshine. In our carriage we had a very interesting bride and bridegroom. She seemed to worship the very ground he trod upon, and both were evidently in paradise. At the same time he accepted the worship rather too much as his due—gracefully and graciously, but still distinctly his right. They were in the mood to admire lovely scenery, and undertones of delight were frequent.
Everywhere you looked, there were beautiful views of rivers, the sea, and land, with a deep blue sky and bright sunshine. In our carriage, we had a very interesting bride and groom. She seemed to adore the very ground he walked on, and both were clearly in heaven. At the same time, he accepted that admiration a bit too much as if he deserved it—gracefully and graciously, but still clearly feeling entitled. They were in the mood to appreciate the charming scenery, and they often whispered with delight.
Presently an old priest entered the carriage, sat himself down beside us, and they quickly fell under his eye. He looked on with a smile of amusement at the silent unmistakable worship. We thought he drew his conclusions as one who observes a scene in which he has no part or lot.
Currently, an old priest got into the carriage, sat down next to us, and they quickly fell under his gaze. He watched with a smile of amusement at the silent, unmistakable worship. We figured he was making his observations like someone who is watching a scene where he has no involvement.
"Love's young dream," he said to us under cover of the rattle of the train. "My experience tells me it is only a dream, varying in length according to the constancy of the dreamers. You think I have no right to give an opinion? Then, señor, I should tell you that, like the world in general, you judge by appearances and judge too hastily. That is the difference between impressions and appearances. Of first appearances beware; of first impressions be assured. They have never failed me."
"Love's young dream," he said to us amidst the noise of the train. "My experience tells me it’s just a dream, lasting only as long as the dreamers are committed. You think I have no right to share my opinion? Well, let me tell you, just like most people, you judge based on appearances and do it too quickly. That’s the difference between impressions and appearances. Be cautious of first appearances; be confident in first impressions. They've never let me down."
We agreed with the old priest, but made no remark.
We agreed with the old priest but didn't say anything.
"You think I have no business to judge of these matters?" he continued with a smile; "and you are mistaken. I was not always a priest clad in black robe and beaver hat, separated from the world by the barrier of the Church. In early life I took up law, pleaded, and generally won my cause. Then I pleaded my own cause with a beautiful woman, won her and married her. I, too, dwelt in my fool's paradise; thought the world all sunshine, the hours all golden. I was young and in those days handsome. Never can I reconcile the ugly, grey-headed man one becomes in age, with the charm and elegance of one's youth. But time has no mercy. However, the fact remains that in those days I was young and handsome."
"You think I have no right to judge these things?" he continued with a smile; "but you're wrong. I wasn't always a priest in a black robe and beaver hat, separated from the world by the Church. In my early life, I studied law, argued cases, and generally won. Then I argued my own case with a beautiful woman, won her over, and married her. I, too, lived in my fool's paradise; I thought the world was all sunshine and the hours were all golden. I was young and, back then, handsome. I can never reconcile the ugly, grey-haired man you become with the charm and elegance of your youth. But time is unforgiving. Still, the fact is that in those days I was young and handsome."
The old priest was handsome still; but again we were silent.
The old priest was still good-looking; but once more we fell silent.
"Then one fine morning I awoke to realities," he went on. "The angel with the flaming sword had come and driven me out of my paradise. Yet I had not transgressed. It was the woman, whom I fondly hoped heaven had given me as a life-long companion. She was beautiful; there was an indescribable charm about her; but she was frivolous and inconstant. She left me one day with one whom I had thought my friend. He was rich and free to roam. I heard of them in other countries: wandering to and fro like spirits ill at ease.
"Then one fine morning, I woke up to the truth," he continued. "The angel with the flaming sword had come and kicked me out of my paradise. But I hadn't done anything wrong. It was the woman I had hoped, with all my heart, heaven had chosen for me as a lifelong partner. She was gorgeous; there was an indescribable allure about her, but she was shallow and unpredictable. One day she left me for someone I thought was my friend. He was wealthy and free to roam. I heard about them in other places, wandering around like restless spirits."
"Finally they went to Rome. Was it a judgment upon the wife who had proved faithless to her husband, the man who had betrayed his friend? Both took the fever at the same time and died within a week of each other. They were buried side by side in a small cemetery near to the Eternal City. Some years after I went to Rome. I had lived down my life's tragedy and could gaze upon their graves with calmness. As I did so, and realised the certainty of retribution, I prayed that I might judge in mercy. They had blighted my life, but looking on those nameless graves I felt for the first time that I could forgive. Yes, the graves were nameless, for no stone had been placed over them. This I did. By way of inscription I merely recorded the initials on each: and the text 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'
"Finally, they went to Rome. Was it a punishment for the wife who had betrayed her husband, or for the man who had betrayed his friend? Both became ill with fever at the same time and died within a week of each other. They were buried side by side in a small cemetery near the Eternal City. A few years later, I went to Rome. I had moved past my life's tragedy and could look at their graves with calmness. As I did so, realizing the certainty of retribution, I prayed that I might judge with mercy. They had devastated my life, but looking at those nameless graves, I felt for the first time that I could forgive. Yes, the graves were nameless because no stone had been placed over them. This I did. As an inscription, I simply recorded the initials on each: and the text 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.'"
"That very same day I was wandering about the English cemetery in Rome, and came upon the text 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water;' doubtless the expression of one whose life had been a failure or disappointment. 'My friend,' I thought, 'you are not to be pitied half so much as those whose names are writ in Sin.'
"That very same day, I was walking through the English cemetery in Rome and came across the inscription 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water;' probably the sentiment of someone whose life had been a failure or a disappointment. 'My friend,' I thought, 'you shouldn't be pitied nearly as much as those whose names are writ in sin.'"
"It was about this time that I determined to enter the Church. Since that terrible blow I had grown to hate the world, withdrew more and more from society. I had no near ties on earth. Again and again I thanked heaven that no child had been born to me. As soon as I had made the resolution I put it in force, and cannot say that I ever regretted it. Gradually all morbidness left me. I lead a busy life; I delight in society; people consider me a very jovial old priest. But I never lift a finger to promote a marriage; I never solemnise one without a sigh and a wonder as to what will be the end of it. And let me tell you a secret. I never hear in the confessional that love is on the wane between husband and wife, without pouring out upon them the sternest vials of my wrath, threatening them with all the terrors of purgatory if so much as a breath of inconstancy of mind or thought is whispered. Oh, if I were not pledged to silence, what Romances of the Confessional could I not tell you!"
"It was around this time that I decided to join the Church. After that terrible blow, I started to hate the world and withdrew more and more from society. I had no close connections on earth. Time and again, I thanked heaven that I hadn’t had any children. Once I made the decision, I acted on it without looking back. Slowly, all my negativity faded away. I live a busy life; I enjoy being around people; others see me as a cheerful old priest. But I never lift a finger to encourage a marriage; I never officiate one without feeling a sigh and wondering how it will turn out. And let me share a secret. Whenever I hear in the confessional that love is fading between husband and wife, I unleash my sternest reprimands on them, warning them of all the horrors of purgatory if there's even a hint of unfaithfulness in their minds or thoughts. Oh, if I weren’t bound by confidentiality, what stories from the Confessional I could share!"
We had listened without interruption. Sitting side by side it was easy to talk without being overheard. The train clattered and beat and throbbed on its way. The happy pair were at the other end of the carriage. H. C., who sat opposite to us, instead of giving his undivided attention to the scenery, was composing a sonnet to the fair lady, which he headed, "To Eve in Paradise"—a questionable compliment. Tortosa, with its narrow streets and gloomy palaces, its strong walls, ancient castle and bridge of boats, all visible from the train, had passed away. One lovely view gave place to another.
We listened without interruption. Sitting side by side made it easy to talk without being heard. The train rattled and shook as it moved along. The happy couple was at the other end of the carriage. H. C., who sat across from us, instead of giving his full attention to the scenery, was writing a sonnet for the beautiful lady, which he titled, "To Eve in Paradise”—a questionable compliment. Tortosa, with its narrow streets and dark palaces, strong walls, ancient castle, and bridge of boats, all visible from the train, had come and gone. One beautiful view replaced another.
"It is indeed a rich country through which we are travelling," said the priest, "the very Garden of Spain, which appears to me to find its culminating point round about Valencia. Our whole progress is marked by historical footsteps. I never visit Tortosa without thinking of St. Paul, and a little of his amazing energy seems to fall upon me. He becomes a real presence to me. An influence he must and will be in all places and in all ages. Then comes Vinaroz with its crumbling walls—one of the loveliest spots in the whole province. I always think its people are like mermen, neither one thing nor the other. They fish the sea and plough the land by turns. Both occupations yield them good fruit, so perhaps they are wise. The fish are abundant, the lampreys excellent. It was here the Duc de Vendôme died from a surfeit of fish, of which he was passionately fond. But for this, Philip V. would probably never have entered upon his long and eventful reign. Look at those white-winged boats gliding upon the blue waters! Where is there another sea like the Mediterranean? It is the very cradle of history and romance; scene of half the mighty events of the world. Were I an idle man I would spend my life upon its surface."
"It’s truly a beautiful country we’re traveling through," said the priest. "This is the Garden of Spain, with its peak around Valencia. Every step we take is filled with history. Whenever I visit Tortosa, I can’t help but think of St. Paul, and I feel a bit of his incredible energy. He feels very real to me. His influence is meant to be felt everywhere and in every time. Then we reach Vinaroz with its crumbling walls—one of the most picturesque places in the province. I often think its people are like mermen, caught between two worlds. They alternate between fishing the sea and farming the land. Both jobs are fruitful for them, so maybe they’re wise. The fish are plentiful, and the lampreys are top-notch. This is where the Duc de Vendôme died from eating too much fish, which he loved dearly. If not for that, Philip V. probably wouldn’t have begun his long and notable reign. Look at those white-winged boats gliding on the blue waters! Where else do you find a sea like the Mediterranean? It’s the cradle of history and romance, the backdrop for countless significant events in the world. If I were free to do anything, I would spend my life just floating on its surface."
"What is that distant object?" indicating an enormous perpendicular rock some five miles away, that stood a picturesque, castle-crowned islet, round which the sea was breaking in faint white lines.
"What is that distant object?" pointing to a massive vertical rock about five miles away, which stood as a scenic, castle-topped island, with the sea gently breaking around it in soft white lines.
"We call it Gibraltar of the West," replied the priest. "An interesting place to visit, and larger than you would imagine, with its 3000 inhabitants. They are curious people: in some things almost a race apart. It is neither an island nor yet part of the mainland. You cannot gain entrance by water, though surrounded by the sea. The only passage to it is a narrow strip of sand reaching to the shore. It was here that Pope Benedict XIII. took refuge after the Council of Constance had pronounced against him. And here comes Benicarlo with its old walls," he continued, as the train drew up at the small station. "The ancient town is worth a visit. Its people, poor and wretched, might be flourishing and well-to-do, for the neighbourhood is wonderfully productive. The vineyards are amongst the best in Spain; the luscious wines are sent to Bordeaux to mix with inferior clarets, which find their way to the English market. Ah! the English little know what adulterated articles are sold in England that the French would never look at."
"We call it the Gibraltar of the West," the priest replied. "It's an interesting place to visit and larger than you'd think, with its 3,000 residents. They're an unusual crowd: in some ways, they're almost a separate race. It's neither an island nor part of the mainland. You can't access it by water, even though it's surrounded by the sea. The only way in is a narrow strip of sand leading to the shore. This is where Pope Benedict XIII sought refuge after the Council of Constance had declared against him. And here comes Benicarlo with its ancient walls," he continued as the train pulled into the small station. "The old town is worth visiting. Its residents, poor and miserable, could be thriving and prosperous because the area is incredibly productive. The vineyards here are among the best in Spain; the rich wines are sent to Bordeaux to be mixed with lower-quality clarets that make their way to the English market. Ah! The English have little idea of the adulterated products sold in England that the French would never touch."
At this moment our fair Eve, who for the last few minutes had come out of paradise, looked attentively at the priest, hesitated a moment, then spoke.
At this moment, our lovely Eve, who had just stepped out of paradise for the last few minutes, looked closely at the priest, paused for a moment, then spoke.
"From the singular likeness," she said, "I think you must be related to the Duke de Nevada in Madrid? Forgive me if I am mistaken."
"From the unique resemblance," she said, "I think you must be related to the Duke de Nevada in Madrid? Please forgive me if I'm wrong."
"Señora," replied the old priest with a polite bow, "Juan de Nevada is my elder and much-loved brother, though we seldom meet—for Madrid is the one place I never visit. I am gratified that you see in me the least resemblance to that truly noble and great man."
"Ma'am," the old priest replied with a respectful bow, "Juan de Nevada is my older and dearly loved brother, although we rarely see each other—Madrid is the one place I never go. I’m glad you notice even a slight resemblance to that truly noble and great man."
"Have you never heard him speak of the Señor de Costello?" continued the lady.
"Have you never heard him talk about the Señor de Costello?" the lady continued.
"Without doubt," returned the priest. "They are neighbours in Madrid. I have heard him mention a very charming daughter, and also very charming cousin who lives in Gerona."
"Without a doubt," said the priest. "They are neighbors in Madrid. I’ve heard him talk about a very lovely daughter, and also a very lovely cousin who lives in Gerona."
"I am that charming daughter," laughed the fair Eve; "but the term applies much more correctly to my lovely cousin. Her beauty has created a furore in Madrid. We are great friends, and she stays with us part of every year. She has just become engaged to your brother's eldest son, and therefore some day will be Duchess de Nevada—though I trust the day is far distant. You have doubtless heard of the engagement?"
"I’m that charming daughter," laughed the beautiful Eve; "but that title fits my lovely cousin even better. Her beauty has caused quite a stir in Madrid. We're really close friends, and she spends part of every year with us. She just got engaged to your brother's oldest son, so one day she'll be the Duchess of Nevada—though I hope that day is a long way off. You must have heard about the engagement, right?"
"Indeed, yes," returned the priest. "Only last week I wrote my nephew a long letter congratulating him upon his good fortune. But how comes it, madame, if I may be so indiscreet, that my fair travelling companion should not herself eventually have become Madame de Nevada?"
"Yes, indeed," the priest replied. "Just last week, I wrote a long letter to my nephew to congratulate him on his good fortune. But may I be so bold as to ask, madame, why my lovely travel companion hasn’t become Madame de Nevada herself?"
The name explained what had puzzled us for some time. We were haunted by a feeling of having met this young man in a previous state of existence, but now discovered that we had really met him in Toledo. He was amongst the group who had sat that first night of our arrival at the other end of the table, smoking and drinking wine and coffee. He it was who had come forward to speak to the man in the sheepskin, and then handed him a bumper of wine. He had left the very next day, and we had seen less of him than of the others.
The name clarified what had been puzzling us for a while. We had this nagging feeling that we knew this young man from a past life, but it turned out we had actually met him in Toledo. He was part of the group that sat at the other end of the table on our first night there, smoking and enjoying wine and coffee. He was the one who stepped up to talk to the man in the sheepskin and then gave him a full glass of wine. He left the very next day, and we had seen less of him than of the others.
We recalled the circumstance to his memory.
We reminded him of the situation.
"I recognised you at once," he said, "but thought you had forgotten me. That man in the sheepskin was my father's head huntsman, a privileged being who was born and brought up on the estate, gave us our first lessons in sport and looks upon us as his own children. My father's place—my own, I fear, before long—is near Toledo. If you ever visit it again we should be delighted to show you hospitality. We live with my father when not in Madrid. He is old, in failing health, and could not bear the idea of my leaving home. On my part I was too glad to remain in the dear old nest."
"I recognized you immediately," he said, "but I thought you had forgotten me. That guy in the sheepskin is my father's main huntsman, a special person who grew up on the estate, taught us our first lessons in hunting, and sees us as his own kids. My father's place—my own, I’m afraid, soon—is near Toledo. If you ever visit it again, we would be happy to have you as our guest. We live with my father when we're not in Madrid. He's old, not in great health, and can't handle the thought of me leaving home. For my part, I was just too happy to stay in the beloved old nest."
"And we see that we have to offer you our congratulations," bowing as in duty bound to his lovely partner.
"And we see that we need to give you our congratulations," he said, bowing as if it were his duty to his beautiful partner.
De la Torre laughed. "You make me your debtor," he replied. "But however profound your congratulations, they can never equal those I offer to myself. I am indeed far more blest than I merit."
De la Torre laughed. "You make me your debtor," he replied. "But no matter how deep your congratulations are, they can never match the ones I give myself. I am certainly way more blessed than I deserve."
"Wait until I show you my true character," laughed madame, "take the reins of government into my own hands, and leave you with no will of your own—a henpecked husband. At present I tender you a velvet hand; presently it may turn into——"
"Just wait until I show you my true self," laughed the lady, "I'll take control of everything and leave you with no say at all—just a henpecked husband. Right now, I'm being gentle; soon, it might change into——"
"If it changed into a cloven foot," he interrupted gallantly, "I should still say it was perfect."
"If it turned into a cloven foot," he interrupted boldly, "I would still say it was perfect."
"Ah, you are in paradise," cried the old priest with a sigh; "in paradise. Try to remain there. Do not summon the angel with the flaming sword. Be ever true and tender to each other. Talk not of cloven feet. Let it ever be the velvet hand, the glance of love, the gentle accents of forbearance. You have every good gift that heaven and earth can give you. Be worthy of your fate."
"Ah, you are in paradise," shouted the old priest with a sigh; "in paradise. Try to stay there. Don't call the angel with the flaming sword. Always be true and caring for each other. Don't talk about cloven feet. Let it always be the soft touch, the loving glance, the gentle words of patience. You have every good thing that heaven and earth can give you. Live up to your destiny."
We interpreted as gently as possible to H. C. the sad news of the engagement of the beauty of Gerona, the lovely Señorita de Costello. It was a great shock. He turned deathly pale and remained for a time staring at vacancy. Then with a profound sigh he tore up his half-finished sonnet, "To Eve in Paradise," and began another self-dedicated, "To Adam in Hades." He keeps it in a sacred drawer, enshrined in lavender and pot-pourri.
We told H. C. the sad news about the engagement of the beautiful Señorita de Costello from Gerona as gently as we could. It was a huge shock to him. He turned pale and stared blankly into space for a while. Then, with a deep sigh, he ripped up his unfinished sonnet, "To Eve in Paradise," and started a new one dedicated to himself, "To Adam in Hades." He keeps it in a special drawer, surrounded by lavender and potpourri.
"All this rencontre is very à propos," said the old priest. "Again the world is smaller than it seems. And we are getting on. Here is Castellon de la Plana already, with its fine fruit and flower gardens and picturesque peasants. Alas, we see less costume everywhere than of old. The taste of the world is not improving."
"All this meeting is quite timely," said the old priest. "Once again, the world feels smaller than it appears. And we are making progress. Here is Castellon de la Plana already, with its beautiful fruit and flower gardens and charming peasants. Unfortunately, we see less traditional dress everywhere than we used to. The world's taste isn't getting better."
Very pleasantly passed the remainder of the journey, through a country beautiful and fertile. Everywhere we saw traces of vineyards and cultivated lands. Here and there oxen were ploughing. Often we saw them thrashing out the rice. Many an old and picturesque well stood out surrounded by trellis-work covered with vine-leaves. But the vines were not festooned after the picturesque manner of North Italy, where you walk under the trellis and pluck the grapes that hang in rich clusters. Here the vines are trained on sticks or grow like currant bushes, and as in Germany, lose their beauty.
The rest of the journey was very pleasant, passing through a beautiful and fertile countryside. Everywhere we looked, there were signs of vineyards and farmland. Occasionally, we saw oxen plowing the fields. We often watched them threshing the rice. Many old and charming wells stood out, surrounded by trellis work covered in vine leaves. However, the vines weren’t draped in the picturesque way you find in Northern Italy, where you can walk under the trellis and pick the grapes that hang in rich clusters. Here, the vines are raised on sticks or grow like currant bushes, and, like in Germany, they lose their charm.
A single field will produce at the same time fruit-trees, almond or olive, corn and grapes, all mingling their beauty and perfume. We passed a multitude of orange and lemon groves with all their deep, rich, sheeny verdure. Nuts and olives, almonds and carobs abounded. Many a palm-tree added its Oriental grace to the landscape. The whole country seemed to revel in sunshine and blue skies. At Saguntum, that town of the ancients, the heights were crowned by walls, fortresses and castles, imperishable outlines grey with the lapse of centuries.
A single field can simultaneously grow fruit trees, almonds, olives, corn, and grapes, all blending their beauty and fragrance. We passed numerous orange and lemon groves with their lush, vibrant greenery. Nuts, olives, almonds, and carobs were plentiful. Many palm trees contributed their exotic charm to the landscape. The entire region seemed to bask in sunshine and blue skies. At Saguntum, that ancient town, the heights were topped with walls, fortresses, and castles, their enduring shapes greyed by centuries.
"I have a proposal to make," said de la Torre, as we neared the capital. "We telegraphed for rooms and ordered dinner in our sitting-room. You three gentlemen must join us. It will only be adding three covers—an effort the chef will be equal to."
"I have a suggestion," said de la Torre as we got closer to the capital. "We sent a telegram for rooms and arranged for dinner in our sitting room. You three gentlemen should join us. It will just mean adding three more place settings—something the chef can handle easily."
"Let me add my persuasions," added Countess de la Torre graciously and gracefully. "Remember we have been united a whole week and are quite an old married couple. You would give us great pleasure."
"Let me add my thoughts," the Countess de la Torre said graciously and elegantly. "Remember, we’ve been together a whole week and are practically an old married couple now. It would make us very happy."
But this, strongly supported by de Nevada the priest, we felt bound to decline. It would have been cruel to intrude so long upon a tête-à-tête which just now must form the delight of their existence.
But this, strongly supported by de Nevada the priest, we felt we had to decline. It would have been harsh to impose on such an intimate moment that must currently bring them great joy.
"I must be obdurate," said the priest. "In the first place your delicate paradise food—which no doubt consists of crystallised fruits and butterflies' wings—would be wasted upon three hungry travellers dwelling without the enchanted gates. But let us compromise. We are all staying at the same hotel. We three unappropriated blessings will dine together, and after that we will come and take our coffee and Chartreuse with you, remaining exactly one hour by the clock: not a moment more."
"I have to be firm," said the priest. "First of all, your fancy heavenly food—which must be made up of candied fruits and butterfly wings—would be wasted on three hungry travelers stuck outside the enchanted gates. But let's find a middle ground. We’re all at the same hotel. We three unexpected guests will have dinner together, and after that, we’ll come and enjoy our coffee and Chartreuse with you, staying exactly one hour by the clock: not a minute more."
So it was settled.
So it was decided.
Soon after this all the church towers and steeples of Valencia came into view. Across a stretch of country, we saw the blue sea sparkling in the evening sunshine. In the air, above the rush of the train, there was a sound of ringing bells.
Soon after this, all the church towers and steeples of Valencia came into view. Across a stretch of countryside, we saw the blue sea sparkling in the evening sunlight. In the air, above the rush of the train, there was the sound of ringing bells.
"It must be a gala day," said Madame de la Torre, listening for a moment to the swelling clamour.
"It must be a celebration day," said Madame de la Torre, pausing for a moment to listen to the rising noise.
"It is for your arrival, madame," returned the priest gallantly. "They wish to do you honour."
"It’s for your arrival, ma'am," the priest replied gallantly. "They want to honor you."
Our fair Eve laughed. "Monsieur de Nevada," she cried, "you were never intended for a priest. It was a mistaken vocation. You ought to have married, and your wife would have been your idol."
Our lovely Eve laughed. "Monsieur de Nevada," she exclaimed, "you were never meant to be a priest. It was a wrong choice for you. You should have married, and your wife would have been your idol."
Under the circumstances it was a somewhat unfortunate speech. The drama in de Nevada's life had taken place long before her birth. She evidently knew nothing of the story. But the priest had outlived his sorrow, and was of an age to sit loosely to the things of earth. A momentary shadow passed over his face, gone as soon as seen.
Under the circumstances, it was a somewhat unfortunate speech. The drama in Nevada's life had happened long before she was born. She obviously had no knowledge of the story. But the priest had moved past his grief and was at an age where he felt detached from worldly affairs. A brief shadow crossed his face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
"Madame," he laughed in clear tones, "if I were forty years younger and Mademoiselle de Costello were not Madame de la Torre, she would almost induce me to forget my vows. As it is, all is well. I am saved from temptation. Valencia at last! Never did journey pass so quickly and pleasantly."
"Madam," he laughed, "if I were forty years younger and Mademoiselle de Costello weren't Madame de la Torre, she would probably make me forget my vows. As it stands, everything is fine. I'm saved from temptation. Finally, Valencia! I've never had a journey go by so quickly and enjoyably."
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' Gateway—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.
First impressions—Focused on enjoyment—Peaceful—The climate is cheerful and lively—New vibe—Little evidence of the past—Old palaces—Wins hearts—City of the Cid—Religious attractions—Archbishopric—University—Even Homer must nod sometimes—Comparative calm—De Nevada takes us away—Wonderful host—Engaging conversation—Serious and light-hearted—Compassion, not sacrifice—Library—In Puzol—Getting a promise—The hour strikes—Count Pedro arrives—Aromatic coffee—Served like magic—Specially prepared temptation—Distorting facts—Land flowing with milk and honey—Curious mind—Mighty man of valor—Cid compared to Cromwell—Retribution—Ibn Jehaf the murderer—Era of fear—The loyal Ximena—Cid's final blow—Priest turned teacher—"Watch out!"—Earthly paradise—Land of solace—Irrigation system—Famous council—Poetic Granada—No appeal—Apostles' Gateway—Earth's charms—Picturesque farmers—Pretty women—Countess Pedro shakes her head—Farewell—Next morning—Calm hustle—Market day—Beauty of the flower market—Lonja de Seda—Fading dream—Audiencia—San Salvador—Antiquity gives way to comfort—Convent of San Domingo—Miserere—Impressive ceremony—City of Flowers—Outside the walls—Famous river—Change of scene.
VALENCIA proved more modern and bustling than we had imagined. After the quiet streets of Tarragona it appeared to us the most crowded place we had ever been in; tramcars ran to and fro; there was much noise and excitement. Half the crowd was composed of the student class. All seemed in an uproar, but it was only their natural tone and manner. The Valencians, especially the lower classes, are devoted to pleasure; the work of the day over, they live for enjoyment.
VALENCIA turned out to be more modern and lively than we had expected. After the quiet streets of Tarragona, it felt like the busiest place we had ever visited; trams zipped by in all directions, and there was a lot of noise and excitement. Half of the crowd was made up of students. Everyone seemed to be in a frenzy, but it was just their usual vibe and demeanor. The people of Valencia, especially those in the lower classes, are all about having a good time; once the workday is done, they live for pleasure.
Ancient Gateway: Valencia.
Involuntarily we were reminded of our old days in the Quartier Latin; but there, excitement often meant revolutionary mischief. The Valencians are peace-loving, and their climate forces them to be gay and lively. Though passionate and hasty, like a violent tornado the rage soon passes. This evening, in spite of much movement, a constant buzzing of voices, an excitement that filled the air, everything was in order. Laughter and chatter abounded, far more so than we had found in most Spanish towns. Until now the character of the Spaniard on ordinary occasions had seemed rather given to silence: in Valencia we came upon a new element, approaching the French or Italian.
Involuntarily, we were reminded of our old days in the Latin Quarter; there, excitement often led to revolutionary mischief. The people of Valencia are peaceful, and their climate encourages them to be cheerful and lively. Though passionate and impulsive, like a violent tornado, their anger quickly fades. This evening, despite the buzz of movement, a continuous hum of voices, and an excitement that filled the air, everything was in order. Laughter and chatter were everywhere, much more so than we had experienced in most Spanish towns. Until now, the typical Spaniard seemed rather inclined toward silence, but in Valencia, we discovered a new vibe, resembling that of the French or Italians.
The city has lost much of its ancient interest. As late as 1871, the wonderful old walls, massive and battlemented, were pulled down to find work for the poor. Twelve gates admitted to the interior: and what the walls were may be judged by the few gates that remain.
The city has lost a lot of its historical charm. As recently as 1871, the impressive old walls, strong and fortified, were torn down to provide work for the unemployed. Twelve gates led into the city: you can get an idea of what the walls were like from the few gates that still exist.
Within the city the air is close and relaxing, the skies are brilliant, the sun intensely hot, the streets narrow and densely packed with houses. This was designed to keep out the heat, but also keeps out air and light. The houses in the side-streets are tall, massive and sombre-looking, and here some of the wonderful old palaces remain. The principal thoroughfares are commonplace; one has, as it were, to seek out the beauties. It is in its exceptional features that Valencia shines, and gradually steals into your affections. Not, however, as Tarragona the favoured. The pure air, stately repose and dignified charm of that Dream of the Past is very opposed to the noisy unrest and crowded thoroughfares, constant going to and fro, and confined atmosphere of this ancient city of the Cid.
Within the city, the air feels close and relaxing, the skies are bright, the sun is blazing hot, and the streets are narrow and packed with houses. This design aims to keep the heat out, but it also restricts air and light. The houses on the side streets are tall, massive, and gloomy-looking, and here some of the amazing old palaces still stand. The main roads are ordinary; you have to look for the beauty. It's in its unique characteristics that Valencia shines and gradually wins you over. However, it doesn't compare to Tarragona, which is more favored. The clear air, elegant calm, and dignified charm of that Dream of the Past stand in stark contrast to the noisy bustle, crowded streets, constant activity, and stuffy atmosphere of this ancient city of the Cid.
Nevertheless it has its ecclesiastical attractions in the way of churches: some with interesting towers, though few with fine interiors. It is an archbishopric, therefore has a cathedral. It possesses a university, and most of the crowd we saw evidently thought that the bow cannot always be strung and Homer must sometimes nod. They fill the cafés and theatres, go mad with excitement in the bull-ring when the Sunday performance is given, and occasionally have a free fight amongst themselves; when some of them get locked up by way of warning to the many rather than as a punishment to the few. After such an outbreak, never very desperate, peace reigns for a time: peace that is never seriously broken.
Nevertheless, it has its ecclesiastical attractions with churches: some have interesting towers, although few have beautiful interiors. It is an archbishopric, so it has a cathedral. It has a university, and most of the crowd we saw clearly believed that you can't always keep the tension high and even Homer needs a break sometimes. They fill the cafés and theaters, go wild with excitement in the bullring during the Sunday show, and occasionally get into scuffles among themselves; when some of them get locked up, it's more of a warning to the many than a punishment to the few. After such an outburst, which is never overly intense, peace prevails for a while: a peace that is never truly disturbed.
A street in Valencia.
It was a relief that first evening to return to the comparative repose of the hotel. When the hour for dinner had struck, de Nevada in clerical garments came to our rooms and carried us off to his own sitting-room where dinner was served. We seemed fated to fall in with the clerical element in Spain, and as yet had certainly not regretted it. De Nevada was evidently well known and highly considered by the hotel people, who exerted their best efforts in his favour, which also fell to our portion. His conversation was a mixture of grave and gay, with much wit and humour. He had outlived his sorrows, it may be, yet their influence remained. Every now and then a chance word or allusion seemed to vibrate some long-silent chord in heart or memory. A momentary shadow would pass over his face as a small cloud passing over the sun for an instant overshadows the earth. It was over in a flash, and he would at once be his genial, jovial self, full of strong spirits toned down by excellent breeding and the thought of what was due to his cloth. Probably we saw more of his inner character than if we had dined with the de la Torres. We had him to ourselves, his undivided attention, and amongst various topics he gave us a great insight into many of the by-ways of the Spanish Church. "It is a subject in which I am deeply interested," he said. "I am writing a book thereon, and devoting considerable space to the vexed argument of the Inquisition. It has never been properly handled, and I am not afraid to say that it was a serious blot, if not on the characters, at least on the judgment of Ferdinand and Isabella. Souls were never yet gained nor religions established by cruelty and torture. It is partly for that reason that I am here. The Archbishop has a magnificent library, and I want a week of reference amongst the books. We are as brothers, and I should take up my quarters in the palace, only that I like to be independent. To-day he is at Puzol, where he has a country house. When here I generally dine with him; was to have done so to-morrow night; but it is an informal engagement, and if you will promise to meet me again at the same hour, we will dine here together. And now the hour sounds for the de la Torres. Let us be punctual, as we must be so in leaving. Did you ever see so charming, so devoted a couple? Who would not dwell in such a fools' paradise?"
It was a relief that first evening to return to the relative calm of the hotel. When it was time for dinner, de Nevada, dressed in clerical robes, came to our rooms and took us to his sitting room where dinner was served. We seemed destined to meet the religious side of Spain, and so far, we had not regretted it. De Nevada was clearly well-known and highly regarded by the hotel staff, who went out of their way to assist him, and we benefited from that as well. His conversation was a mix of serious and light-hearted topics, filled with wit and humor. He had moved past his sorrows, perhaps, but their impact lingered. Occasionally, a random word or reference would seem to strike a long-dormant chord in his heart or memory. A fleeting shadow would cross his face, like a small cloud that briefly obscures the sun. It was only for a moment, then he would quickly become his cheerful, jovial self again, mixing strong spirits with the refinement expected of his position. We probably got to see more of his true character than if we had dined with the de la Torres. We had him all to ourselves, and amidst various topics, he gave us great insight into many of the nuances of the Spanish Church. "It’s a subject I’m very passionate about," he said. "I’m writing a book on it, dedicating a significant amount of space to the contentious topic of the Inquisition. It has never been handled properly, and I’m not afraid to say it was a serious stain, if not on the character, at least on the judgment of Ferdinand and Isabella. Souls have never been saved nor religions established through cruelty and torture. That’s partly why I’m here. The Archbishop has a wonderful library, and I want a week to research among the books. We’re like brothers, and I would stay in the palace, except I prefer to be independent. Today he’s in Puzol, at his country house. When he’s here, I usually have dinner with him; I was supposed to tomorrow night; but it’s an informal invitation, and if you promise to meet me again at the same time, we’ll have dinner here together. Now the hour has come for the de la Torres. Let’s be punctual, as we must be when we leave. Have you ever seen such a charming, devoted couple? Who wouldn’t want to live in such a fool’s paradise?"
He sent our maître-d'hotel to inquire if it would be agreeable to them to receive us, and in response Count Pedro appeared upon the scene. All our rooms adjoined.
He sent our host to ask if it would be okay for them to welcome us, and in response, Count Pedro showed up. All our rooms were connected.
"We are more than ready," he cried. "I am quite sure," laughing, "that you think we spend all our time sitting hand-in-hand and looking into each other's eyes. My dear Nevada, we are quite a sober couple, with a great deal of matter-of-fact sense about us."
"We're more than ready," he exclaimed. "I'm pretty sure," he laughed, "that you think we spend all our time sitting together and gazing into each other's eyes. My dear Nevada, we're actually a pretty practical pair, with a lot of common sense between us."
"Which only proves how difficult it is for people to know themselves," laughed the priest. "But now for the sunshine of madame's presence."
"That just shows how hard it is for people to really know themselves," laughed the priest. "But now, let's enjoy the brightness of madame's presence."
In their sitting-room all banqueting signs had been removed. On the table steamed fragrant coffee, with a decanter of Chartreuse, side by side with cigars and cigarettes. The most fastidious woman in Spain will never object to smoking in her presence. Countess de la Torre had exchanged her becoming travelling-dress for a still more becoming evening costume. She looked dazzlingly beautiful, her pure white neck and arms decorated with jewels. As she rose and received us with a high-bred, bewitching grace, we thought we had seldom seen a fairer vision.
In their living room, all signs of the banquet had been cleared away. The table was set with steaming, aromatic coffee, alongside a decanter of Chartreuse, along with cigars and cigarettes. The most discerning woman in Spain would never mind smoking around her. Countess de la Torre had changed out of her lovely travel outfit into an even more beautiful evening dress. She looked stunningly beautiful, her pure white neck and arms adorned with jewelry. As she stood and welcomed us with sophisticated, enchanting grace, we thought we had rarely seen a more beautiful sight.
"Ah!" cried de Nevada, glancing at the table. "Your feast of orange blossoms and butterflies' wings was served by magic. In fact I am not aware that we are told Adam and Eve in Paradise ate anything. Life was eternal and needed no renewing."
"Ah!" exclaimed de Nevada, looking at the table. "Your spread of orange blossoms and butterfly wings was served by magic. Honestly, I don’t think we’re told that Adam and Eve in Paradise actually ate anything. Life was eternal and didn’t need refreshing."
"You forget," laughed Madame de la Torre. "They ate fruit, or how could Eve have tempted Adam with an apple?"
"You forget," laughed Madame de la Torre. "They ate fruit, or how else could Eve have tempted Adam with an apple?"
"I have always held that as a specially prepared temptation," said the priest. "They had never eaten anything until then, and the danger lay in the new experience."
"I've always believed that this was a particularly crafted temptation," said the priest. "They had never eaten anything before this, and the risk was in the new experience."
"Monsieur de Nevada, you must go to school again," laughed Countess Pedro. "Or you are wilfully perverting facts to suit your purpose. I shall have to inform against you to the Archbishop. We are going to see him to-morrow morning. Are you not in his jurisdiction?"
"Monsieur de Nevada, you need to go back to school," laughed Countess Pedro. "Or you’re intentionally twisting the facts to fit your agenda. I’ll have to report you to the Archbishop. We're seeing him tomorrow morning. Aren't you under his authority?"
"No, madame," replied the priest. "I hold no preferment in the province of Valencia. This Garden of Spain blooms not for my pleasure. Yet, how can I say so, for who enjoys it more when fate brings me here?"
"No, ma'am," replied the priest. "I have no position in the province of Valencia. This Garden of Spain doesn’t bloom for my enjoyment. But how can I say that, when I enjoy it so much every time fate brings me here?"
"It is indeed the Garden of Spain," said de la Torre. "I often wished we were as favoured in the neighbourhood of Toledo—though we have little to complain of."
"It really is the Garden of Spain," said de la Torre. "I often wished we were as fortunate near Toledo—though we have little to complain about."
"Tell me," said Madame de la Torre, as she poured out coffee with a graceful hand, "why this town is called Valencia del Cid. I thought the Cid had only to do with Burgos. I fear I am exposing my ignorance."
"Tell me," said Madame de la Torre, as she poured coffee with a graceful hand, "why is this town called Valencia del Cid? I thought the Cid was only associated with Burgos. I worry I’m showing my ignorance."
"It would be difficult to know what the Cid had not to do with and where he did not go," returned de Nevada. "He was a mighty man of valour, according to his lights: also a great barbarian. In those days we might all have been the same. In my own mind, I have always likened him to the English Cromwell; and if Cromwell was in any way better than he, it is that he lived six centuries later. They were equally determined and unscrupulous. What a wonderful passage is that in the history of England! But the Cid had much to do with Valencia. He came here in 1094, and after a siege of twenty months took the town. It is remarkable how retribution follows a man, as surely as shadow follows the substance. 'Be sure your sin will find you out.' Never was truer proverb What says Shakespeare?" continued the priest, turning to us:
"It would be hard to know what the Cid wasn't involved in and where he didn't go," replied de Nevada. "He was a powerful warrior in his own way, but also a real barbarian. Back then, we could all have been the same. Personally, I've always thought of him as similar to the English Cromwell; and if Cromwell was any better than him, it's only because he lived six centuries later. They were both equally determined and ruthless. Isn't that a fascinating part of English history? But the Cid had a lot to do with Valencia. He arrived here in 1094, and after a twenty-month siege, he took the city. It's amazing how retribution follows a person, just like a shadow follows an object. 'Be sure your sin will find you out.' There's never been a truer saying. What does Shakespeare say?" continued the priest, turning to us:
| "'Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, |
| The fateful shadows that hang by us still.' |
"I don't know that I quote correctly, and my English is barbarous," he laughed. "Never could I master that fine language; perhaps for the reason that I never dwelt long enough in your country. Few and short have my visits been. It was in 1095 that the Cid took Valencia. Ibn Jehaf the murderer was on the throne, having killed Yahya, whom Alonso VI. had placed there. This act brought the Cid down upon them. The first thing he did was to burn Jehaf alive on the great square that you will see to-morrow when you go to the Archbishop: act worthy of the tyrant. He ruled here for five years. His will was law; it was a small reign of terror. Then he died, and his faithful wife Ximena endeavoured to hold the reins. Those were not times when a woman could rule easily, and in 1101 the Moors brought hers to an end and banished her from the province. It is said that when the Cid captured Valencia he took his wife and daughter to a height to show them the richness of the country; and promised his favourite daughter that if she pleased him in her marriage that fair prospect from the boundaries of the Saguntum Hills on the north to the confines of the sea on the east should be her dowry: a promise never to be fulfilled. Within three years the daughter died unwedded; a death so violent that it is said to have struck a death-blow to the Cid, and to have brought home to him many of his perfidious acts. Certain it is that he was never the same man afterwards. Another two years brought his own life to a close. But, madame, you are beguiling me into a history, and turning the old priest into a schoolmaster."
"I’m not sure if I’m quoting correctly, and my English is terrible," he laughed. "I could never master that beautiful language, maybe because I never stayed long enough in your country. My visits have been few and brief. It was in 1095 when the Cid took Valencia. Ibn Jehaf the murderer was on the throne, having killed Yahya, whom Alonso VI. had put there. This act brought the Cid down upon them. The first thing he did was burn Jehaf alive in the main square that you will see tomorrow when you go to the Archbishop: a fitting act for a tyrant. He ruled here for five years. His word was law; it was a brief reign of terror. Then he died, and his loyal wife Ximena tried to take control. It wasn’t a time when a woman could easily rule, and in 1101 the Moors ended her rule and exiled her from the province. It is said that when the Cid captured Valencia, he took his wife and daughter to a high point to show them the richness of the land; he promised his favorite daughter that if she made him proud in her marriage, that beautiful view from the Saguntum Hills in the north to the sea in the east would be her dowry: a promise that was never kept. Within three years, the daughter died unmarried; her death was so tragic that it’s said to have devastated the Cid, making him realize many of his treacherous actions. It’s certain that he was never the same after that. Two years later, his own life came to an end. But, madame, you’re leading me into a story, and turning the old priest into a schoolteacher."
Our fair hostess laughed.
Our lovely host laughed.
"You make me your debtor," she replied. "I shall take greater interest in what I see to-morrow, and look at everything through the eyes of the past. Has the Archbishop any relics of the Cid?"
"You’re making me owe you," she replied. "I’ll pay more attention to what I see tomorrow and view everything through the lens of the past. Does the Archbishop have any relics of the Cid?"
"Not only of the Cid, but of many other historical persons and events," said de Nevada. "You must especially notice the library with its fine collection of books. I may be there at the moment, and if so will promote myself to the honour of Librarian-in-chief to Countess Pedro de la Torre."
"Not just of the Cid, but of many other historical figures and events," said de Nevada. "You should especially check out the library with its impressive collection of books. I might be there at that time, and if I am, I will take on the honor of Librarian-in-chief to Countess Pedro de la Torre."
"Beware!" laughed madame. "Countess Pedro has a thirst for knowledge. Your office will be no sinecure."
"Watch out!" laughed Madame. "Countess Pedro is eager to learn. Your job won't be a walk in the park."
"My labour of love will at least equal madame's diligence, though the climate is hardly favourable to very hard work," smiled the priest. "Even Nature conspires to indolence in the people. The ground brings forth abundantly, and almost unaided. The Moors thought it an earthly paradise—as it is. I am not sure but they considered it the scene of the first paradise. Heaven, they said, was suspended immediately above, and a portion of heaven had fallen to earth and formed Valencia. To the sick and sorrowing it is a land of consolation. In its balmy airs—far more healing than those of Italy—the former recover strength; in the brilliance of its sunshine, the blueness of its skies, the splendour of its flowers and vegetation, the troubled mind finds peace and repose."
"My labor of love will at least match madame's hard work, although the climate isn't exactly ideal for intense effort," the priest smiled. "Even nature encourages laziness among the people. The land produces abundantly, almost on its own. The Moors thought it was a paradise on earth—and it truly is. I'm not sure, but they believed it was the site of the original paradise. They said heaven was suspended just above, and a piece of heaven had fallen to earth and formed Valencia. For the sick and sorrowful, it is a place of comfort. In its soothing air—far more healing than Italy's—the weary regain their strength; in the brilliance of its sunshine, the blue of its skies, and the beauty of its flowers and greenery, the troubled mind finds peace and rest."
"Indeed it does," replied the priest. "And far from being commonplace, the idea to me, surrounded by its halo of the past, is full of picturesque romance."
"Absolutely," replied the priest. "And instead of being ordinary, the idea, with its aura of history, is rich in colorful romance."
"What is that?" asked madame. "It is dangerous to make these remarks before an inquiring mind."
"What is that?" asked Madame. "It's risky to say these things in front of someone who's curious."
"The matter is simple," said de Nevada. "Valencia is the most perfectly irrigated province in Spain, not excepting Granada. Especially is that the case in the surrounding neighbourhood. You must have noticed narrow channels running through the fields as you passed in the train. The system presents infinite difficulties. Not one of the least is that all shall share alike in the fertilizing streams. In Granada a good deal is done by signals, and occasionally in the night-silence you may hear the silver bell sounding upon the air and carried from field to field: token that the dams are opened and the water flows. In Valencia they have nothing so poetical. The tribunal was instituted centuries ago by the Moors. It has been handed down from generation to generation and still continues. Being perfect, the system works well. Every Thursday morning seven judges sit in the great doorway of the cathedral, and hear all complaints relating to irrigation. These judges choose each other from the yeomen and irrigators of the neighbourhood. They pronounce sentence, and against that sentence there is no appeal. The judges are integrity itself. It is their motto, and it seems as impossible for them to go wrong as for a Freemason to betray the secrets of his craft. I think the system might with advantage be adopted by other tribunals."
"The issue is straightforward," said de Nevada. "Valencia is the most perfectly irrigated province in Spain, even compared to Granada. This is especially true in the surrounding area. You must have noticed the narrow channels running through the fields as you passed by on the train. The system has countless challenges. One of the biggest is ensuring that everyone gets their fair share of the water. In Granada, a lot is coordinated using signals, and sometimes in the quiet of night you can hear a silver bell ringing in the air, moving from field to field—a sign that the dams are open and water is flowing. In Valencia, there’s nothing quite as poetic. The tribunal was established centuries ago by the Moors. It's been passed down through generations and is still in use today. The system works well because it's so effective. Every Thursday morning, seven judges sit in the grand entrance of the cathedral to hear all irrigation-related complaints. These judges are chosen from the local farmers and irrigators. They make their rulings, and there’s no appeal against those decisions. The judges are the epitome of integrity. That’s their motto, and it seems as impossible for them to make a mistake as it is for a Freemason to reveal the secrets of their craft. I believe other tribunals could benefit from adopting this system."
"I should like to see and converse with these judges," said madame, "and decorate them with the order of the Golden Fleece. Surely they deserve it?"
"I would like to meet and talk to these judges," said madame, "and award them the Golden Fleece. They definitely deserve it?"
"That order, I fear, is reserved for those of higher rank," replied the priest. "Yet I have often myself thought they should wear an order of Distinguished Merit: a sort of Cross of the Legion of Honour—after the French idea—open to all ranks and classes. But as you proceed on your journey to-morrow evening, you will not be here on a Thursday. The judges are indeed to be condoled with."
"That honor, I’m afraid, is meant for those of higher rank," the priest replied. "Still, I’ve often thought that they should get an award for Distinguished Merit: like a Cross of the Legion of Honour—following the French model—available to everyone, regardless of rank or class. But since you’re leaving on your journey tomorrow evening, you won’t be here on Thursday. The judges really should get our sympathy."
"I have slightly changed our plans," said Count Pedro, "and we leave the day after to-morrow by the early train. It will be less fatiguing for Isabel. We shall also see more of the country. I never tire of gazing upon the beauties of nature, and fortunately my wife is in sympathy with me. Seas, mountains, forests, vast territories, cultivated plains or sandy deserts, all alike fill me with a delight and rapture nothing else can equal. I hope to spend some of the first years of our married life in becoming intimate with the best points of many lands."
"I've made a few adjustments to our plans," Count Pedro said, "and we're leaving the day after tomorrow on the early train. It will be less tiring for Isabel. Plus, we'll get to see more of the countryside. I never get tired of admiring the beauty of nature, and thankfully my wife feels the same way. Whether it’s the sea, mountains, forests, vast expanses, farmland, or sandy deserts, they all fill me with a joy and excitement that nothing else can match. I hope to spend some of the early years of our married life getting to know the highlights of many different places."
"You will find few more charming spots than Valencia," returned the priest. "Its rich plains never fail. No sooner has one harvest been gathered than another appears. Did you notice the peasants in the fields as we came along, sitting at work with their knees up to their ears? How picturesque they look walking down a road in their short white linen trousers and jackets and scarlet mantles, coloured handkerchiefs wound round the head like a turban, and blue scarves tied round the waist. I have watched them many a time. You will see nothing of this in the town itself."
"You won't find many places as charming as Valencia," replied the priest. "Its fertile land never disappoints. Just when one harvest is finished, another one appears. Did you see the farmers in the fields as we were passing by, sitting with their knees up to their ears? They look so picturesque walking down the road in their short white linen pants and jackets, with their red cloaks, colorful handkerchiefs wrapped around their heads like turbans, and blue scarves tied around their waists. I've observed them many times. You won't see any of this in the town itself."
"I don't quite like the type of face," objected de la Torre. "It is too African. The sun has grilled them to a colour that is almost mahogany. And they are superstitious and revengeful."
"I don't really like the kind of face," de la Torre said. "It’s too African. The sun has baked them to a color that's almost mahogany. And they're superstitious and vengeful."
"But their imagination is lively and keeps them in almost constant good humour," returned the priest, "so they seldom think of revenge. How well they sing their fiera, how jovially they dance the rondella. It is quite a pleasure to look at this abandonment of happiness, this existence utterly free from care. Believe me, they have their virtues. And how pretty the women are! Few women in Spain equal those of Valencia. They are singularly graceful and their walk is perfect. Notice a congregation of women in church. You will hardly find elsewhere an assemblage so conspicuous for beauty of face and grace and nobility of form."
"But their imagination is lively and keeps them in almost constant good humor," replied the priest, "so they rarely think about revenge. How beautifully they sing their fiera, how joyfully they dance the rondella. It's truly a pleasure to witness this display of happiness, this life completely free from worries. Believe me, they have their virtues. And the women are beautiful! Very few women in Spain can match those from Valencia. They are unusually graceful, and their walk is perfect. Just look at a group of women in church. You will hardly find a gathering elsewhere that stands out so much for beauty of face, grace, and nobility of form."
Countess Pedro shook her head. "Oh!" she cried, raising her clasped hands. "I shall have more and more to tell to the Archbishop. Monsieur de Nevada, you are not supposed to know that female beauty exists, and here you are describing it with an eloquence which comes from the heart."
Countess Pedro shook her head. "Oh!" she exclaimed, raising her clasped hands. "I’ll have more and more to share with the Archbishop. Monsieur de Nevada, you’re not supposed to acknowledge that female beauty exists, yet here you are talking about it with an eloquence that comes straight from the heart."
Renaissance Tower: Valencia.
"With humble deference to your opinion, madame, I disagree with you," laughed the priest. "All things beautiful are to be appreciated; above everything else a beautiful woman, the noblest work of God. We worship the stars in the heavens, though we can never attain to them. Do you imagine that I could be in this room and remain insensible to such charms as few women possess?"
"With all due respect to your opinion, ma'am, I have to disagree with you," laughed the priest. "Everything beautiful is meant to be appreciated; above all, a beautiful woman is the finest creation of God. We admire the stars in the sky, even though we can never reach them. Do you think I could be in this room and not be affected by charms that few women have?"
Our fair hostess blushed with pleasure. No woman is insensible to a compliment of which she can easily judge the sincerity. Every woman also likes to be praised before the husband to whom she is devoted. The age of de Nevada permitted him to be candid in expressing his admiration, whilst the in some sort family connection that would take place at the marriage referred to, had paved the way to an immediate and friendly intimacy.
Our lovely hostess blushed with happiness. No woman can ignore a compliment she can clearly tell is sincere. Every woman also enjoys being praised in front of the husband she loves. The age of de Nevada allowed him to openly express his admiration, and the somewhat family connection that would come from the upcoming marriage had set the stage for a quick and friendly closeness.
In spite of the priest's emphatic determination to leave punctually, the hour had long struck when we reluctantly took our departure. Both de la Torre and his fair wife were charming, refined and intellectual, and the moments had passed all too quickly.
Despite the priest's strong commitment to leave on time, the hour had long passed when we finally said our goodbyes. Both de la Torre and his lovely wife were delightful, sophisticated, and intelligent, and the time had flown by too quickly.
Next morning the crowded streets had thinned. Most of the people had disappeared, reserving themselves for the evening. Yet there was a constant, quiet activity going on, which gave the city a lively and prosperous air. It was market-day; the most picturesque market we had yet seen in Spain; thronged with buyers and sellers, piled up with all the fruits and vegetables of the South. Figs, grapes and pomegranates abounded at very small prices. The market-place was full of colouring, in part due to the bright handkerchiefs and scarves worn by men and women.
The next morning, the crowded streets had emptied out. Most people had vanished, saving their energy for the evening. Still, there was a steady, calm activity happening that gave the city a vibrant and prosperous feel. It was market day—the most colorful market we had seen in Spain—filled with buyers and sellers and stacked high with all the fruits and vegetables from the South. Figs, grapes, and pomegranates were in abundance at very low prices. The marketplace was full of color, partly thanks to the bright handkerchiefs and scarves worn by both men and women.
All was as nothing compared with the splendour and perfume of the covered flower-market. For a few halfpence one carried away sufficient to decorate a palace. For ninepence one woman offered us a bouquet more than a yard round. We had never seen anything like it and wondered if it was meant to grace some foreign Lord Mayor's banquet. This sum was asked with some hesitation, seeing that we were strangers: she was prepared to take half the amount. The roses were far lovelier than those that grow in the gardens of Italy and find their way across the Channel. We gave a few halfpence for a large handful of tuberoses and pinks, and the woman was so charmed at the liberal payment that she presented us with a great bunch of sweet verbena. We possess some of the leaves now, and the scent—rare above all other scents—hangs round them still. Each morning we renewed our purchase. The flowers were always there. For them it was market-day all the year round.
Everything seemed trivial compared to the beauty and fragrance of the covered flower market. For just a few cents, you could take home enough flowers to decorate a palace. For nine pence, a woman offered us a bouquet that was over a yard in size. We had never seen anything like it and wondered if it was meant for some foreign Lord Mayor's banquet. She hesitated to ask for this amount since we were strangers and was willing to take half. The roses were far more beautiful than those found in the gardens of Italy that get shipped across the Channel. We paid a few cents for a large handful of tuberoses and pinks, and the woman was so pleased with the generous payment that she gifted us a big bunch of sweet verbena. We still have some of the leaves, and the scent—rarer than all others—lingers on them. Every morning we bought more. The flowers were always available. For them, it was market day all year round.
The market-place was a charming three-cornered square; on one side a Renaissance church that for its style was really picturesque and formed an admirable background to the women and stalls. The interior, all gilt and glitter, set one's teeth on edge, but that did not alter the outward effect.
The marketplace was a lovely three-cornered square; on one side stood a Renaissance church that was truly picturesque and provided a stunning backdrop for the women and stalls. The interior, all gold and sparkle, was a bit overwhelming, but that didn't change the overall appearance.
Opposite was a far lovelier building—the Lonja de Seda, or ancient Silk hall—of exquisitely beautiful and refined fifteenth-century Gothic.
Opposite was a much more beautiful building—the Lonja de Seda, or ancient Silk hall—of exquisitely beautiful and refined fifteenth-century Gothic style.
The immense rooms were ornamented with fluted columns without capitals, that spread out like the leaves of a palm-tree and lost themselves in the roof. Behind it was an old garden, with wonderful architectural surroundings. A long stone staircase ended in a Gothic doorway of graceful outlines and deep rich mouldings. Windows filled with half-ruined tracery looked on to the garden with its trees and flowers. The upper part was an open Gothic arcade with rich ornamentations and medallions, above which rose a massive square tower with a round Norman turret.
The huge rooms were decorated with fluted columns that fanned out like palm leaves and disappeared into the ceiling. Behind it was an old garden, surrounded by stunning architecture. A long stone staircase led up to a gracefully designed Gothic doorway with deep, rich moldings. Windows with crumbling tracery overlooked the garden filled with trees and flowers. The upper section featured an open Gothic arcade adorned with intricate designs and medallions, topped by a large square tower with a round Norman turret.
This dream-building was vanishing under the hands of the restorer. The court was filled with workmen, and the exquisite tone of age, the rounded, crumbling outlines were beginning to disappear. We were just in time to see it at its best.
This dream-like creation was fading away under the restorer's touch. The court was filled with workers, and the beautiful, aged colors and the soft, worn edges were starting to vanish. We arrived just in time to see it at its peak.
Marketplace, Valencia.
From this we made our way to the cathedral, of which little need be said. After the architectural dreams of Catalonia, it was terribly unsatisfactory. The interior gave out no sense of grandeur, repose or devotion. On Sunday, during service, it gained a certain solemn impressiveness from the kneeling crowd, but that was all. Begun in the thirteenth century, and originally Gothic, few traces of the first building remain. Certain portions of the exterior are beautiful and striking; especially the magnificent north doorway—the Apostles' Gateway; deep and richly ornamented, though many of its statues have disappeared. It is here that the Tribunal of the Waters sits in judgment, to which we have heard de Nevada allude.
From there, we made our way to the cathedral, which doesn't require much description. After experiencing the architectural wonders of Catalonia, it was quite disappointing. The interior lacked any sense of grandeur, calm, or devotion. On Sunday, during the service, it gained some solemnity from the kneeling crowd, but that was about it. Started in the thirteenth century and originally Gothic, few traces of the original structure are left. Some parts of the exterior are beautiful and striking, especially the magnificent north doorway—the Apostles' Gateway; it's deep and richly decorated, although many of its statues have disappeared. This is where the Tribunal of the Waters holds court, which we've heard de Nevada mention.
SILK EXCHANGE: VALENCIA.
Near the cathedral was the Audiencia, or Court of Justice, one of the most perfect buildings in Europe. Though the ground-floor has been divided into public offices, the elaborately carved and gilt ceilings remain, decorated with splendid honey-comb pendentives of the Moorish School. The first floor is given up to the matchless Salon de Cortes, where justice is administered; its walls covered with curious frescoes of the sixteenth century, chiefly portraits of the members of the Cortes assembled in session. The rich carving of the room is in native pine, and was finished in the sixteenth century, when art was still at its best. A narrow gallery runs round the room supported by slender columns. Below this are coats-of-arms and busts of the kings of Aragon, with appropriate historical incidents. The ceiling is also elaborately carved in lozenges encased in square panels. Not the smallest fragment of the room has been left undecorated, and its refined, subdued tone is lovely in the extreme. Here we found the sword and banner of Jayme el Conquistador, which the Valencians place amongst their chief treasures.
Near the cathedral was the Audiencia, or Court of Justice, one of the most impressive buildings in Europe. Although the ground floor has been converted into public offices, the intricately carved and gilded ceilings remain, adorned with beautiful honeycomb pendentives from the Moorish School. The first floor is dedicated to the unmatched Salon de Cortes, where justice is served; its walls are covered with fascinating frescoes from the sixteenth century, mainly portraits of the members of the Cortes in session. The rich woodwork in the room is made from native pine and was completed in the sixteenth century, when art was at its peak. A narrow gallery encircles the room, supported by slender columns. Below this are coats-of-arms and busts of the kings of Aragon, along with relevant historical scenes. The ceiling is also intricately carved in lozenges set in square panels. Not a single part of the room remains undecorated, and its elegant, understated tone is incredibly beautiful. Here we found the sword and banner of Jayme el Conquistador, which the Valencians regard as one of their greatest treasures.
The churches are numerous, but not specially interesting. San Salvador possesses a rude expressive sculpture of the thirteenth century, a curious image, supposed to have been carved by Nicodemus, and said to have miraculously found its solitary way from Syria across the seas.
The churches are many, but not particularly interesting. San Salvador has a rough, expressive sculpture from the thirteenth century, a unique image that is believed to have been carved by Nicodemus and said to have miraculously made its way alone from Syria across the seas.
Not far from this is the Church, given to the Templars by James I. in 1238, when already a building of some antiquity. Here was the remarkable tower of Alibufat, on which the Cross was first displayed. But like the people of Zaragoza, who pulled down their leaning tower, so the Valencians demolished the tower of Alibufat to widen a street. We have seen that even their ancient walls were not spared. They have no respect for antiquity; no love for the past. A modern spirit possesses them; a love of pleasure and comfort; a desire to get money for the sake of indulgence. Gay, lively, full of excitement and impulse, everything yields to the passing moment.
Not far from this is the Church, given to the Templars by James I. in 1238, when it was already an old building. Here was the impressive tower of Alibufat, where the Cross was first shown. But just like the people of Zaragoza, who took down their leaning tower, the Valencians tore down the tower of Alibufat to widen a street. We've seen that even their ancient walls weren't spared. They have no respect for history; no attachment to the past. A modern mindset drives them; a love of pleasure and comfort; a desire to make money just for indulgence. Bright, lively, full of excitement and impulse, everything gives way to the moment.
Next we come to the once vast and splendid Convent of San Domingo, in the days of its glory one of the richest and most powerful convents in Spain, but now shorn of all its ecclesiastical element. Outlines alone remain: the chapter-house and cloisters of late Gothic still beautiful and refined. In a small chapel supported by four slender pillars San Vincente Ferrer took upon him the vows of a monk.
Next, we arrive at the once grand and impressive Convent of San Domingo, which in its heyday was one of the wealthiest and most powerful convents in Spain, but now lacks all its religious elements. Only outlines remain: the chapter house and cloisters in late Gothic style, still beautiful and refined. In a small chapel supported by four slender pillars, San Vincente Ferrer took on the vows of a monk.
HAIRCUT SALON: AUDIENCE.
Of the religious ceremonies the most imposing is the Miserere which takes place every Friday in the church of the Colegio del Patriarca. High Mass is first given at nine o'clock. The music both at this and the Miserere is magnificent. Many of the rank and fashion of Valencia are constant in their attendance. Ladies assemble in a great crowd, each wearing a black mantilla. As they kneel in penitential attitude the scene is full of devotional grace and charm.
Of the religious ceremonies, the most impressive is the Miserere, which happens every Friday at the church of the Colegio del Patriarca. High Mass starts at nine o'clock. The music during both the Mass and the Miserere is stunning. Many people of high society and fashion in Valencia regularly attend. Ladies gather in large numbers, each wearing a black mantilla. As they kneel in a penitential posture, the scene is filled with devotional grace and beauty.
The space above the high altar is covered with a purple pall which looks black and funereal. Chanting commences: slow and solemn and in the minor key.
The area above the high altar is draped with a purple cloth that appears black and somber. The chanting begins: slow, serious, and in a minor key.
Suddenly, in the midst of the sad cadences, the picture above the altar descends by machinery, and in its place is seen a lilac veil. There is a slight movement, a half-raising of the head, amidst the congregation; an attitude of expectation. The mournful but exquisite music does not cease. It is soft and subdued, appealing to the senses. Presently the veil is withdrawn and gives place to a grey veil. This in turn passes away and a black veil appears, representing the veil of the Temple. It is torn asunder, and an image of the Saviour on the Cross is disclosed.
Suddenly, in the middle of the sad melodies, the picture above the altar lowers by machinery, and in its place, a lilac veil is seen. There’s a slight movement, a half-raising of heads among the congregation; an air of anticipation fills the room. The mournful yet beautiful music continues, soft and subdued, appealing to the senses. Soon, the lilac veil is pulled away, revealing a grey veil. This one is then removed, and a black veil appears, representing the veil of the Temple. It is torn apart, and an image of the Savior on the Cross is revealed.
The upturned heads gaze for a moment; on many a countenance appears the emotion actually felt. Imagination is stirred by the dramatic representation. A murmur escapes the kneeling multitude; the music swells to a louder strain, the voices gain a deeper pathos. Then voices and organ gradually die away to a whisper and cease.
The lifted heads look for a moment; many faces show the emotions genuinely felt. Imagination is sparked by the dramatic performance. A soft murmur rises from the kneeling crowd; the music builds to a louder crescendo, and the voices take on a deeper sadness. Then, the voices and organ slowly fade to a whisper and stop.
Silence reigns. For a moment there is no sound or stir. Then all is over; the Miserere is at an end. Quietly the fair penitents rise from their knees and stream out into the streets, which gain an additional charm as they pass onwards with their perfect forms and graceful walk.
Silence fills the air. For a brief moment, there's no sound or movement. Then it’s all done; the Miserere has finished. The beautiful penitents quietly get up from their knees and flow out into the streets, which become even more enchanting as they walk by with their perfect figures and elegant strides.
In spite of the somewhat claptrap element, the Miserere is impressive from the beautiful and refined music, the kneeling crowd, the deep obscurity that gives it mystery. It is even worth a day or two's delay in this fair City of Flowers and other delights.
Despite the somewhat outdated aspects, the Miserere is striking because of the beautiful and refined music, the kneeling crowd, and the deep obscurity that adds to its mystery. It is even worth taking a day or two delay in this lovely City of Flowers and other delights.
For in our mind we always associate Valencia with the perfume of flowers. Roses for ever bloom, and like silver in the days of Solomon, are accounted as little worth. But if they were plentiful as to the Greeks of old they would only seem the lovelier.
For in our minds, we always connect Valencia with the scent of flowers. Roses always bloom, and like silver in the days of Solomon, are seen as not worth much. But if they were as abundant as they were for the ancient Greeks, they would only appear more beautiful.
Some of the streets are very picturesque, with long narrowing vistas of houses and balconies, casements and quaint outlines, all in the strong light and shadow of sunshine, with perhaps a church tower and spire rising above all at the end, sharply outlined against the intensely brilliant blue of the sky.
Some of the streets are really beautiful, with long, narrowing vistas of houses and balconies, windows and charming shapes, all in the strong light and shadow of the sun, with maybe a church tower and spire rising above everything at the end, sharply outlined against the bright blue of the sky.
Making way, we reach the gates of the city, which are still its glory, though so few remain of the twelve that once admitted to the interior. Some still retain their towers and machicolations. Outside these runs the famous river with its ancient bridges. Crossing one of them, and proceeding a distance of three miles down a straight, not very interesting road, you reach the famous port of Valencia: one of the finest ports in Spain, one of the largest harbours. After the close atmosphere of the town, the scene is agreeable and exhilarating.
Making our way, we arrive at the city gates, which are still a symbol of its glory, even though so few of the twelve that once opened up the interior remain. Some still have their towers and defensive structures. Outside of these, the famous river runs alongside with its ancient bridges. Crossing one of them and continuing for about three miles down a straight, rather unremarkable road, you reach the famous port of Valencia: one of the finest ports in Spain and one of the largest harbors. After the close atmosphere of the town, the scene is pleasant and refreshing.
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—Maître d'hôtel 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.
Port and harbor—Sunday and fresh air—In the marketplace—De Nevada protests—A curse of the country—In the past—On the breakwater—Invaded tramcar—De Nevada confirmed—Another crusade needed—Plaza de Toros—In Sunday attire—Home interiors—When the play was over—Bullring at night—Fitful dreams—Fever—Maître d'hôtel 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 favor—Glories of Spain—Eastern blessing.
OUR first visit to the port and harbour was on a Sunday. Labour was suspended, and vessels of all countries were flying their flags. From the end of the long breakwater we breathed freely. Before us stretched the wide shimmering sea, blue as the sky above. A very few white-sailed boats were gliding about—only in summer are they found in large numbers. On such a day as this, hot, glowing, glorious to us of the North, the soft-climed Valencians would not venture upon the water. An occasional fishing-boat strayed in and out, but all else was at peace. The whole place was deserted. There was a strange calm and quiet upon everything; almost an English "Sabbath stillness" in the air.
OUR first visit to the port and harbor was on a Sunday. Work was on hold, and ships from all nations were flying their flags. From the end of the long breakwater, we felt a sense of freedom. Before us lay the vast, shimmering sea, as blue as the sky above. A few sailboats were gliding around—only in the summer do they appear in large numbers. On a hot, beautiful day like this, the soft-skinned Valencians wouldn’t venture out onto the water. An occasional fishing boat came in and out, but otherwise, everything was peaceful. The whole place felt deserted. There was an unusual calm and quiet everywhere; almost an English "Sabbath stillness" in the air.
We wondered, but soon discovered the cause. This might have dawned upon us had we called to mind yesterday's experience.
We wondered, but quickly figured out the reason. We might have realized this sooner if we had remembered our experience from yesterday.
We were walking through the market-place with de Nevada the priest, when a large placard caught our eye, announcing a bull-fight for the next day, Sunday: the last of the season.
We were walking through the market with the priest when a big sign caught our attention, announcing a bullfight for the next day, Sunday: the last one of the season.
"I have never seen one," said H. C. "We must go to it."
"I've never seen one," said H. C. "We have to check it out."
"Surely you would not visit the barbarous exhibition?" said de Nevada. "In this matter I have nothing of the Spaniard in me. I hold bull-fights as a curse of the country; training up children to cruelty and laying the foundation of a host of evils."
"Surely you wouldn't go to that brutal exhibition?" said de Nevada. "In this matter, I have nothing of the Spaniard in me. I see bullfights as a curse to the country; they teach children cruelty and lay the groundwork for a lot of evils."
But his words had no weight with H. C.
But his words didn’t matter to H. C.
"I think everyone should see a bull-fight at least once in their lives. If I know nothing of its horrors, how can I join in a crusade against them? Once seen, I will write a scathing poem on the entertainment which shall be translated into Spanish. All my graphic power of description shall be exerted, and it may go far to put down the evil. I might also appeal to the people's superstition, which seems almost the strongest element in their nature. You will come?" turning to us.
"I believe everyone should experience a bullfight at least once in their lives. If I'm unaware of its horrors, how can I take part in a campaign against them? After witnessing it, I plan to write a critical poem about the spectacle that will be translated into Spanish. I will use all my descriptive skills, and it might help to combat this issue. I might also appeal to the people's superstition, which seems to be a significant part of their nature. Will you come?" turning to us.
But we had had our experience once for all years before, in the bull-ring at Granada, accompanied by eight naval officers whose nerves were in excellent order. When the play was half over, and men shouted and women shrieked and waved, and there was universal applause and uproar, sick of the horrors, we left the building: to the surprise and no doubt contempt of the assembly.
But we had our experience long ago, years before, in the bullring at Granada, joined by eight naval officers whose nerves were in great shape. When the performance was halfway through, with men shouting and women screaming and waving, and everyone applauding and causing a commotion, we left the place, to the surprise and probably disdain of the crowd.
Thus H. C.'s appeal fell upon deaf ears.
Thus H. C.'s appeal went unheard.
And when it came to the point he also would not go. So it fell out that we were both sitting on the breakwater, gazing upon the shimmering sea, revelling in the serene stillness of the atmosphere.
And when the time came, he decided not to go either. So, we ended up sitting on the breakwater, looking out at the sparkling sea, enjoying the calmness of the moment.
The scene changed. We had to return, and seeing an empty tramcar, found ourselves enjoying the world from a solitary elevation: a short-lived pleasure. From a side-street there suddenly poured forth a crowd of men, who swarmed in and out and up the sides: and stillness and solitude were over.
The scene shifted. We had to head back, and spotting an empty tramcar, we found ourselves enjoying the view from a lonely height: a brief delight. Out of a side street, a crowd of men suddenly surged in, bustling in and out and up the sides: and the calm and solitude were gone.
They were mad with excitement, and being already late, feverishly anxious to make way. One might have thought them intoxicated, but it was excitement only. They raved and shouted; their eyes flashed and glistened; they anticipated the horrors of the bull-ring; speculated as to how many bulls would be killed, whether the toreador would escape. For the moment they were as wild animals, and de Nevada's protest in the market-place wanted no better confirmation.
They were ecstatic, and since they were already late, they were frantically trying to hurry. You might have thought they were drunk, but it was just pure excitement. They yelled and shouted; their eyes sparkled and gleamed; they imagined the terrifying moments of the bullring and wondered how many bulls would die and if the toreador would make it out alive. For the time being, they resembled wild animals, and de Nevada's protest in the marketplace couldn't have found a better confirmation.
H. C. shuddered. His poetical mind had received a shock in coming into contact with this coarse and savage element.
H. C. shuddered. His artistic mind was jolted by encountering this rough and brutal force.
"I am glad I decided not to go," he said. "De Nevada is right. Bull-fighting should be put down, even though the people rose up in revolt. It needs a Crusade as much as ever the cause for which the Templars went eastward."
"I’m glad I chose not to go," he said. "De Nevada is spot on. Bullfighting needs to be stopped, even if people rebel against it. It needs a crusade just like the cause for which the Templars went east."
The Plaza de Toros was thronged with a crowd of men, women and children, who could not pay the fee or were too late for admission. If unable to enter, it was something to look upon the outer walls, whilst the thunders of applause helped them to realise the scene.
The Plaza de Toros was packed with a crowd of men, women, and children who couldn’t afford the ticket or arrived too late to get in. Even though they couldn’t enter, it was still worth it to look at the outer walls while the cheers of the audience let them experience the event.
The tramcar waited some twenty minutes, and we remained studying the crowd of eager faces that surged to and fro. From the bull-ring—one of the largest and finest in Spain—arose that constant roar and tempest of voices.
The tramcar waited for about twenty minutes, and we kept observing the crowd of excited faces that moved back and forth. From the bullring—one of the largest and finest in Spain—came that constant roar and tumult of voices.
We were almost prisoners, wondering how we should escape, when a city tramcar came up, stood side by side with ours, and we made the exchange. This slowly moved through the crowd and turned into a quieter thoroughfare, and the raving followed us far down the road.
We were nearly trapped, trying to figure out how to get away, when a city tram pulled up next to ours, and we switched. It slowly made its way through the crowd and turned onto a quieter street, while the chaos followed us far down the road.
The car travelled slowly round the town, through the Cathedral Square, in and out of ancient gateways. Street after street, comparatively deserted, wore its Sunday dress. Flowers abounded. We were on a level with first-floor windows, and from many an open casement came a glimpse of domestic interiors: the scent of roses; fair ladies dressed in rustling silks and sheeny satin; ripples of laughter and conversation; occasional streams of melody from a fair performer. Absorbed, we did not observe the car gradually getting round to its starting-point, until we once more found ourselves in the centre of the crowd outside the bull-ring.
The car slowly cruised around the town, through Cathedral Square, weaving in and out of ancient gateways. Street after street, relatively empty, was dressed up for Sunday. Flowers were everywhere. We were level with first-floor windows, and from many open windows, we caught glimpses of home interiors: the smell of roses; beautiful ladies in rustling silks and shiny satin; laughter and chatter; occasional bursts of music from a talented performer. Lost in the moment, we didn’t notice the car making its way back to the starting point until we found ourselves back in the center of the crowd outside the bullring.
They had not moved an inch. The spectacle was just over, the great doors were thrown open, and a cortége passed out: cart after cart with dead horses and bulls, the latter decorated as if for a prize show. A deafening roar, louder than ever, went up from the people. Finally came the vehicle with the toreadors and matadors dressed in all their fine colours, flushed with their performance, calmly taking the hurrahs. The very horses seemed maddened as they tore out of sight. Then the crowd began to disperse. Strolling out after dinner, we found ourselves once more in front of the bull-ring, looking in the darkness like a second Roman Coliseum. The square was deserted, its crowds having gone home to live the horrors over again in their dreams. Silence reigned. But the time would come round for fresh spectacles and more horrors.
They hadn’t moved at all. The show was just over, the big doors swung open, and a procession came through: cart after cart filled with dead horses and bulls, the bulls adorned like they were going to a competition. A deafening roar, louder than before, erupted from the crowd. Finally, there came the vehicle with the bullfighters and matadors dressed in their colorful outfits, glowing from their performance, calmly soaking in the cheers. Even the horses seemed wild as they raced out of sight. Then the crowd began to break up. After dinner, we found ourselves back in front of the bullring, looking like a second Roman Coliseum in the darkness. The square was empty, its crowds having gone home to relive the horrors in their dreams. Silence filled the air. But the time would come again for new spectacles and more terrors.
And so it goes on from one generation to another.
And so it continues from one generation to the next.
That night our own dreams were fitful and broken. We had watched the sunset from the tramcar, full of splendour and colouring. As the sun went down, a chilliness had risen upon the air, and suddenly we shivered. Then it passed away, but there was no rest on retiring. Fever came on, and in semi-delirium we imagined that we were taking part in a bull-fight; warring with infuriated animals. There was no repose and no escape. Deafening shouts rang in our ears, but still the combat went on; seemed to have gone on for years, and must go on for ever.
That night, our dreams were restless and fragmented. We had watched the sunset from the tram, full of brilliance and color. As the sun set, a chill crept into the air, and we suddenly felt a shiver. It passed, but we couldn’t relax when we went to bed. A fever hit us, and in a semi-delirious state, we imagined we were in a bullfight, battling with raging beasts. There was no peace and no escape. Loud shouts echoed in our ears, yet the fight persisted; it felt like it had been going on for years and would go on forever.
The agony was terrible. Molten lead coursed through our veins. We tried to rise, but chains bound us down. The night passed. In the early morning the fever abated, and presently we awoke from a short, unrefreshing slumber; rose as one who has gone through a long illness. When H. C. appeared and said it was time for the flower-market and the Lonja, he went alone.
The pain was unbearable. Molten lead flowed through our veins. We tried to get up, but chains held us down. The night went by. In the early morning, the fever lessened, and soon we woke from a brief, unrefreshing sleep; we got up like someone who's just come out of a long illness. When H. C. showed up and said it was time for the flower market and the Lonja, he went by himself.
Our maître-d'hôtel, who felt he could not be sufficiently attentive to friends of de Nevada and the de la Torres, brought us strong tea; and on hearing an account of our night, suddenly departed, to reappear with a white powder procured at a chemist's.
Our head waiter, who thought he couldn't pay enough attention to friends of de Nevada and the de la Torres, brought us strong tea; and after hearing about our night, suddenly left and came back with a white powder he got from a pharmacy.
"A touch of the fever, señor, caught last night at sundown," he remarked. "It is taken in a moment, but seldom shaken off so quickly. This powder will go far to put you right."
"A bit of a fever, sir, caught last night at sunset," he said. "It comes on suddenly, but rarely goes away that fast. This powder will help you feel better."
We took it in faith, and found it chiefly quinine. The effect was excellent. Though still weak, we were capable of an effort, and when H. C. returned with hands full of roses, carnations, orange-blossoms, sweet verbena—for which he had extravagantly paid threepence and made the flower-woman's heart sing for joy—we were able to carry out our programme and start for Saguntum.
We accepted it on faith and discovered it was mostly quinine. The results were great. Although we were still weak, we could make an effort, and when H. C. came back with his arms full of roses, carnations, orange blossoms, and sweet verbena—which he had extravagantly paid threepence for, making the flower seller incredibly happy—we were ready to stick to our plan and head for Saguntum.
A short railway journey landed us amidst the ruins of this ancient city, where we were in the very atmosphere not only of Rome, but of days and people long before.
A quick train ride took us to the ruins of this ancient city, where we felt the presence of not just Rome, but of times and people long before.
The small, primitive town at the foot of the height was full of quaint outlines. Large circular doorways led to wonderful interiors; immense living-rooms in semi-obscurity; rich dark walls whose colour and tone were due to smoke and age. Here women were working and spinning and sometimes bending over a huge fire, deep in the mysteries of cooking. Beyond these dark rooms one caught sight of open courts or gardens, where orange and other trees flourished. Some of the women were busy making cheese, which here is quite an article of commerce and goes to many parts of the country. We had the place to ourselves. The women stopped their cheese-making and spinning to assemble in groups of twos and threes and stare after us. Human nature is curious and inquisitive all the world over.
The small, basic town at the base of the hill was filled with charming features. Big circular doorways led to amazing interiors; huge living rooms veiled in dim light; rich dark walls that had taken on their color and tone from smoke and age. Here, women were busy working and spinning, sometimes leaning over a large fire, deeply engaged in the art of cooking. Beyond these dark rooms, you could glimpse open courtyards or gardens, where orange and other trees thrived. Some of the women were occupied with making cheese, which is a significant product here and is shipped to various parts of the country. We had the place to ourselves. The women paused from their cheese-making and spinning to gather in small groups and watch us. Curiosity is a natural part of human nature everywhere.
But the charm and attraction of the place are the ruins that crown the heights; walls and towers now crumbling and desolate, witnessing to the strength and power of Saguntum in ages gone by. It was founded nearly 1400 years before the Christian era by the Greeks of Zante, when the Phœnicians were still monarchs of the land. Why they permitted the Greeks to erect this stronghold does not appear. When a wealthy frontier town allied to Rome, it was attacked by Hannibal. The defence was brave, determined and prolonged; but Rome would not come to the rescue, and the town perished amidst frightful horrors. This chiefly led to the Second Punic War, by which Saguntum was revenged and Hannibal and his armies were routed out of Spain: reverses they never recovered. In time it was rebuilt by the Romans, and in the course of centuries fell under the dominion of the Goths and the Moors.
But the charm and attraction of the place are the ruins that crown the heights; walls and towers now crumbling and desolate, standing as a testament to the strength and power of Saguntum in ages past. It was founded nearly 1,400 years before the Christian era by the Greeks from Zante, when the Phoenicians were still ruling the land. The reason they allowed the Greeks to build this stronghold is unclear. As a wealthy border town allied with Rome, it was attacked by Hannibal. The defense was brave, resolute, and drawn out; but Rome did not come to the rescue, and the town fell amid terrible horrors. This largely led to the Second Punic War, by which Saguntum was avenged and Hannibal and his armies were driven out of Spain: losses they never recovered from. Over time, it was rebuilt by the Romans, and over the centuries, it came under the control of the Goths and the Moors.
Saguntum—Murviedro, as it is often called—is now a magnificent ruin. The climb to the castle is long, steep and rugged, and on reaching the gates we found them closed. There was no guardian to admit us; the ruins were uninhabited. After our feverish night, a return to the town for the keys and a second long climb seemed too much of a penance. Yet the interior must be seen.
Saguntum—often referred to as Murviedro—is now an impressive ruin. The hike up to the castle is long, steep, and rough, and when we got to the gates, we found them locked. There was no one there to let us in; the ruins were deserted. After our restless night, going back to the town for the keys and then making another long climb felt like too much of a punishment. But the inside has to be seen.
Fortune favoured us. We found a man near the gates cutting away the rank grass and weeds: a strange uncanny creature; terribly hump-backed; with a pale long-drawn face from which a couple of dark eyes looked out upon you with a strange inward fire that seemed consuming him. He was almost a skeleton, as though he and starvation were close companions.
Fortune smiled on us. We saw a man near the gates cutting down the thick grass and weeds: a weird, eerie figure; severely hunchbacked; with a long, pale face from which a pair of dark eyes stared at you with an unusual intense fire that seemed to be burning him up. He was almost a skeleton, as if he and starvation were best friends.
We made known our trouble, offering a substantial bribe if he would go down and bring up the keys. The man's eyes sparkled. Without hesitation he laid down his great shears and put on the coat he had placed under the walls.
We expressed our dilemma, promising a significant bribe if he went down and retrieved the keys. The man's eyes lit up. Without a moment's pause, he set aside his large shears and put on the coat he had left under the walls.
"If the keys are to be had by mortal power, señor, I will not return without them," he said; his voice was shrill with the sharpness of habitual suffering.
"If the keys can be obtained by human means, sir, I won't come back without them," he said; his voice was high-pitched from the constant pain.
"Go, then, and success attend you. We await you here."
"Go ahead, and good luck. We're here waiting for you."
We sat down between the great gates and the ruins of the Roman theatre, and watched our messenger's long thin legs rapidly flying over the ground. Then he disappeared behind the houses.
We sat down between the huge gates and the ruins of the Roman theater, watching our messenger's long, thin legs moving quickly across the ground. Then he vanished behind the houses.
We waited and wondered. Presently he reappeared followed by an old woman dangling great keys. His eloquence had prevailed. Perhaps he had promised to share the bribe, or hoped it might be doubled. Panting and breathless, they reached us.
We waited and wondered. Soon, he came back, followed by an old woman holding big keys. His charm had worked. Maybe he promised to split the bribe, or thought it could be increased. Out of breath and panting, they reached us.
"Ah, señor, this is unheard-of," said the old woman. "No one enters without permission from the commandant. If he knew, it would be as much as my place is worth—not that it is worth much. But he is away to-day; gone to Valencia to the marriage of a friend. So I have some excuse; and he will never know. I will admit you. The times I have opened these gates! I am sixty-five, señor, and have been up and down, through summer and winter, through storm and tempest, ever since I was fifteen. Pretty near the end now."
"Ah, sir, this is unbelievable," said the old woman. "No one gets in without the commandant's permission. If he found out, it would cost me my job—not that it's worth much. But he's away today; he's gone to Valencia for a friend's wedding. So I have a bit of an excuse; he will never know. I will let you in. The times I've opened these gates! I’m sixty-five, sir, and I've been coming and going, through summer and winter, through storms and tempests, ever since I was fifteen. I'm pretty much at the end now."
Ruins of Saguntum.
We found the fortress distinctly Moorish and very interesting. The old woman, well up in her work, knew the history of every portion. Amidst the ruins of the castle were some Moorish cisterns she declared to be bottomless, where blind fish for ever swam. Below what was once the governor's garden, she led us to gloomy dungeons where heavily chained prisoners were confined for life, and she described many a horror that had taken place in the past. Everything testified to the strength of Saguntum of old.
We found the fortress clearly Moorish and very interesting. The old woman, knowledgeable in her craft, was familiar with the history of every part. Among the ruins of the castle were some Moorish cisterns she claimed were bottomless, where blind fish swam endlessly. Below what used to be the governor's garden, she took us to dark dungeons where heavily chained prisoners were kept for life, and she described many horrors that had occurred in the past. Everything showed the strength of Saguntum in ancient times.
From the walls the views are magnificent. Stretching across the wide plain, one caught faint traces of Valencia and the shimmering sea; at our feet was the little town, and beyond it the hills rose in gentle outlines.
From the walls, the views are amazing. Spanning the vast plain, you can see faint hints of Valencia and the glistening sea; right below us was the small town, and further back, the hills rose in soft outlines.
As we looked we observed a procession set forth upon the long white road. Harsh, discordant music from brass instruments rose upon the air. Then we saw that it was a funeral. The coffin was being slowly borne on men's shoulders to the cemetery. The latter was near the town, enclosed in high walls, above which appeared the dark pointed tops of the melancholy cypress. A group of mourners followed the coffin; women bowed and weeping, men subdued: quite a long stream of them. Near us stood our curious messenger.
As we looked, we saw a procession moving along the long white road. Loud, jarring music from brass instruments filled the air. Then we realized it was a funeral. The coffin was being slowly carried on men’s shoulders to the cemetery. It was close to town, surrounded by high walls, above which rose the dark, pointed tops of the sad cypress trees. A group of mourners followed the coffin; women were bowed down and crying, while the men seemed subdued: quite a long line of them. Nearby stood our curious messenger.
"Who is it?" we asked.
"Who's that?" we asked.
"A sad story, señor. A youth of seventeen, who caught the fever and died. A week ago he was as well as you or I: full of energy and enterprise: talking of what he wanted and what he would do in the future. His ambition was to emigrate, and for long he had been trying to get his parents' consent. But he was their only child, and they were loath to part with him. Ah! he has taken a longer journey now; emigrated to a more distant country. And there will be no coming back to Murviedro."
"A sad story, sir. A seventeen-year-old who caught the fever and died. A week ago, he was just as fine as you or I: full of energy and ambition, talking about his dreams and what he planned to do in the future. He wanted to emigrate, and he had been trying for a long time to get his parents' approval. But he was their only child, and they were hesitant to let him go. Ah! He's taken a longer journey now; he's emigrated to a more distant place. And there’s no coming back to Murviedro."
"And the parents?"
"And what about the parents?"
"Poor things! They are heartbroken. There goes his mother, supported by two women friends. One can almost hear her weeping. Oh that horrible music! It goes through my spine as if it would tear it asunder. When I am buried I hope they will have no music. I think I should turn in my coffin. Is it not a splendid view, señor? This fortress may well be called the key of Valencia. The key of the province, you understand, not of the town. We command the best of the country. You should see it in summer, when every tree is in full leaf and every flower in bloom, and the branches droop with the weight of their fruit. A land of abundance, is it not, Miguella?" turning to the old woman, who stood looking at the sad cortége with weeping eyes.
"Poor things! They’re heartbroken. There goes his mother, supported by two female friends. You can almost hear her crying. Oh, that horrible music! It goes through my spine like it’s going to tear it apart. When I’m buried, I hope there won’t be any music. I think I’d turn in my coffin. Isn’t it a magnificent view, señor? This fortress could definitely be called the key to Valencia. The key to the province, , you understand, not just the town. We have the best view of the area. You should see it in summer when every tree is full of leaves and every flower is blooming, and the branches are weighed down with fruit. A land of abundance, isn't it, Miguella?" she said, turning to the old woman who was standing there, gazing at the sad procession with tear-filled eyes.
"Ay, Juan, it is so," she returned with tearful voice. "Abundance of everything. But fate is cruel, and strong youth must die, and old people like you and I who half starve, for all the abundance, must still cumber the earth."
"Ay, Juan, it is true," she replied, her voice filled with tears. "There is plenty of everything. But fate is harsh, and vibrant youth must perish, while old people like you and me, who barely survive, still occupy the earth."
"Speak for yourself, Madre Miguella," returned the man sharply. "Whatever you may be, I am not yet old and I don't see that I take the place of a better man. I shall be forty-one next New Year's Day. A hard life I have of it; few pleasures and little food. I am not formed as other men; no woman looking at me would take me for her husband. For all that, I am not tired of life, and have no desire to be in the place of that poor lad. It will come soon enough, Madre Miguella, without wishing oneself there before the time."
"Speak for yourself, Madre Miguella," the man replied sharply. "Whatever you might be, I'm not old yet, and I don't see how I take the place of a better man. I'll be forty-one next New Year's Day. I have a tough life; few pleasures and not much food. I'm not like other men; no woman looking at me would consider me for her husband. Still, I'm not tired of life, and I don't wish to be in that poor kid's place. It'll come soon enough, Madre Miguella, without wanting to rush there before it's time."
"Santa Maria! what a clucking about nothing!" retorted Miguella. "If I called you an old man it was only a form of speech. I had in my mind's eye the strong lusty youth who has gone to his burial. Compared with him I should call you old and of little worth. After all, I was only thinking of the uncertainty of human life. You won't deny that, friend Juan."
"Good grief! What a fuss over nothing!" Miguella shot back. "When I called you an old man, it was just a figure of speech. I was thinking of the strong, vibrant youth who has passed away. Next to him, I'd say you're old and not worth much. Really, I was just reflecting on how uncertain life is. You can’t deny that, right, friend Juan?"
"I suppose I can't," replied the contrite hunchback. "Poor lad! I could almost have found it in my heart to die for him. He was always good to me; never mocked at me; gave me many a centimo from his little hoard; often shared his dinner if I met him on the road. I have lost a friend in him."
"I guess I can't," replied the regretful hunchback. "Poor guy! I almost could have found it in my heart to die for him. He was always nice to me; never made fun of me; gave me a few cents from his little stash; often shared his lunch if I ran into him on the road. I've lost a friend in him."
Miguella was shedding tears afresh at the recital of the lad's virtues.
Miguella was crying again at the mention of the boy's virtues.
"Poor boy!" she cried. "But he's better off. He hadn't time to grow hard and wicked. The angels make no mistake when they come for such as him. I wish his poor mother could see it in that light."
"Poor boy!" she exclaimed. "But he's better off. He didn't have time to become hard and cruel. The angels never get it wrong when they come for someone like him. I wish his poor mother could see it that way."
Barcelona.
By-and-by, the poor mother will come to see mercy in the blow, but she can't do that whilst the sound of her boy's voice rings in her ears, and she still feels the clasp of his arms round her neck. She wouldn't be a mother if she did."
By and by, the poor mother will come to see mercy in the blow, but she can't do that while the sound of her boy's voice echoes in her ears, and she still feels his arms around her neck. She wouldn't be a mother if she did.
Time was on the wing. The sun was declining, the shadows were lengthening when we turned from the ruins and once more stood outside the walls. Miguella locked the doors with a firm hand and possessed herself of the keys. We took care the bribe should not be halved. It was a gala day for them, poor creatures. Juan's face lighted up with infinite contentment.
Time was flying by. The sun was setting, and the shadows were getting longer when we turned away from the ruins and stood outside the walls again. Miguella locked the doors tightly and took the keys. We made sure the bribe wasn't cut in half. It was a special day for them, poor souls. Juan's face lit up with pure happiness.
"Lucky for me that I came up weeding, señor. For a whole week I need feel no hunger, and may give my poor body a little repose."
"Lucky for me that I’ve been weeding, sir. For an entire week, I won’t feel hungry, and I can give my poor body a little rest."
"But life is not quite such hard lines with you, Miguella?"
"But life isn't so tough with you, Miguella?"
"Not quite, señor, though hard enough. Yet I have many mercies. I earn a little money by making cheeses; and in summer, when visitors now and then come to Murviedro, I take a trifle and put by a peseta for a rainy day. Heaven be praised I have never been in actual want; and Juan knows that he has never in vain asked me to lend him a centimo. Though I find his accounts very long reckonings," she quaintly added with a smile.
"Not exactly, sir, but it's tough enough. Still, I have many blessings. I make a little money by producing cheeses, and in the summer, when visitors occasionally come to Murviedro, I save a bit and set aside a peseta for a rainy day. Thank goodness I've never really been in need; and Juan knows he's never asked me for a cent without getting it. Though I do find his accounts quite lengthy," she said with a charming smile.
"Miguella, you have been as good as a mother to me," returned Juan. "I never knew any other mother; have ever been a waif on the earth, without kith and kin either to bless or ban."
"Miguella, you've been like a mother to me," replied Juan. "I've never known another mother; I've always been an orphan in this world, with no family to support or curse me."
We all went down the rugged steep together. At the bottom, Juan bade us farewell and turned to the left towards his humble cottage. Miguella escorted us up the quaint, quiet street. We passed through a picturesque gateway, and just beyond this was her small house.
We all went down the steep path together. At the bottom, Juan said goodbye and turned left towards his cozy cottage. Miguella led us up the charming, quiet street. We walked through a beautiful gateway, and just beyond that was her little house.
"Señor, if you would allow me to make you some coffee to refresh you for your journey, I should be happy," she said. "I am famous both for my cheese and my coffee."
"Sir, if you’d let me make you some coffee to refresh you for your trip, I would be happy to," she said. "I’m known for both my cheese and my coffee."
To refuse would give her pain; the train was not due for an hour and a half; a cup of Miguella's coffee was not to be despised. She turned with a glad smile, opened her door, and invited us to enter.
To say no would hurt her feelings; the train wasn’t scheduled for another hour and a half; a cup of Miguella’s coffee was worth having. She turned with a cheerful smile, opened her door, and welcomed us inside.
It was a surprise to find her cottage the perfection of order, for the Spaniards are not famous for the virtue. She placed chairs, and bustled about her preparations. In a few moments a peat fire with sticks was blazing on the hearth, water was put on to boil, and a brown earthenware coffee-pot was placed on the embers to warm. In her own domain Miguella became a handy, comely old woman, who moved about without noise and must have been a good helpmeet to the husband she had lost a quarter of a century ago. Whilst the water was boiling, she took us into an inner room and showed us her arrangements for making cheese. It was an interesting sight, and the old woman went up still further in our estimation. Everything was spotlessly pure and clean. A grey cat followed her about like a dog and seemed devoted to her.
It was a surprise to find her cottage perfectly tidy, since Spaniards aren't known for that quality. She set up chairs and hurried around getting things ready. In a few moments, a peat fire crackled on the hearth, water was set to boil, and a brown earthenware coffee pot was placed on the embers to warm up. In her space, Miguella became a practical, pleasant old woman who moved quietly and must have been a great partner to the husband she lost twenty-five years ago. While the water boiled, she took us into a back room to show us how she made cheese. It was a fascinating sight, and the old woman impressed us even more. Everything was spotlessly clean. A grey cat followed her around like a dog and seemed completely devoted to her.
"She is getting old like me," said poor Miguella, "but she is a faithful animal, and never by any chance puts her nose into a pan of milk. I might leave it all open; nothing would be touched. It is only ewes' milk, señor. Would you like some in your coffee?"
"She's getting old like me," said poor Miguella, "but she's a loyal animal and never, under any circumstances, sticks her nose into a pan of milk. I could leave it out in the open; nothing would be touched. It's just ewe's milk, sir. Would you like some in your coffee?"
We thought black coffee more stimulating.
We found black coffee to be more energizing.
She placed it on the table, hot and fragrant. Miguella had not overpraised the cunning of her hand. With a slight diffidence meant for an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses, and with home-made bread, placed it also on the table. The coffee she served in white cups of coarse porcelain, which we duly admired, and she brought forward plates of the same material.
She set it down on the table, steaming and aromatic. Miguella hadn’t exaggerated the skill of her hands. With a hint of shyness that felt a bit like an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses and, along with some homemade bread, added it to the table. She served the coffee in white mugs made of rough porcelain, which we admired, and she brought out plates made from the same material.
So Miguella, in largeness of heart gave us hospitality, and our simple collation was so perfect that a king need have wished no better. She had put on a white apron to serve us becomingly, and from her chimney-corner, where she added fuel to her fire, surveyed the appreciation of her labours with pride and pleasure. To us, the incident—not an every-day one—had borne a certain interest and charm. We had gone back for a moment to primitive days, "when Adam delved and Eve span." The best of Miguella's nature had come out simply because we had been a little kind to her: and we wisely reflected that too often the greatest enemy to mankind is man.
So Miguella, with her generous spirit, welcomed us into her home, and our simple meal was so delightful that a king would have wished for nothing better. She wore a white apron to serve us nicely, and from her spot by the fireplace, where she stoked the fire, she watched the appreciation of her efforts with pride and happiness. For us, this experience—not something we encountered every day—carried a unique interest and charm. We felt like we had returned to simpler times, "when Adam plowed and Eve wove." The best side of Miguella's character shone through simply because we had shown her a bit of kindness; and we wisely recognized that too often, the greatest enemy to humanity is humanity itself.
Our last glimpse of Miguella was of a comely old woman standing in her doorway to watch us depart. The glow of the setting sun was upon her face, which was softened and refined by her abundant neat grey hair. She looked pleased and happy. No doubt she would return to her chimney-corner and cheese-making, and ponder over the day's small adventure. Juan would be no loser. Many a centimo would find its way from her pocket to his, and he would think her more motherly than ever.
Our last sighting of Miguella was of a lovely older woman standing in her doorway to watch us leave. The glow of the setting sun lit up her face, which was softened and refined by her tidy, abundant gray hair. She looked content and happy. No doubt she would head back to her cozy spot by the fireplace and her cheese-making, reflecting on the day's little adventure. Juan would come out ahead. Many a centimo would make its way from her pocket to his, and he would think of her as even more motherly than before.
AUDIENCIA COURTYARD: BARCELONA.
On our way to the station we saw the sad funeral procession approaching. Most had dispersed, but some six or eight women were returning with the poor mother, who still looked bowed and broken. As Juan had wisely said, time would lessen the blow, but for the present no silver lining was visible in the heavy cloud overshadowing the life.
On our way to the station, we saw a sad funeral procession coming up. Most people had left, but six or eight women were coming back with the grieving mother, who still looked defeated and shattered. As Juan wisely said, time would soften the blow, but right now, there was no silver lining in the dark cloud hanging over her life.
We watched them disappear through one of the large round doorways into the home now desolate for ever. Then we went on, and presently the train came up, and Saguntum passed out of our lives, though not out of memory. Miguella and Juan, the ancient ruins and outlines crowning the heights, the quaint streets with their picturesque interiors, the sad procession winding slowly down the long white road, the bowed mourners and the weeping mother: nothing could ever be forgotten.
We watched them fade away through one of the large round doorways into the now forever-desolate home. Then we moved on, and soon the train arrived, and Saguntum left our lives, though not our memories. Miguella and Juan, the ancient ruins and outlines on the heights, the charming streets with their picturesque interiors, the sorrowful procession slowly making its way down the long white road, the grieving mourners and the weeping mother: none of it could ever be forgotten.
Some days after this we were walking in the streets of Barcelona. We had said good-bye to Valencia and our present sojourn in Spain was drawing to a close. With sorrow and sighing we remembered the motto of the wise king: This also shall pass away. Oft quoted before, it is ever present with us and we quote it once more. We had gone through many experiences, made many acquaintances who had become friends. In imagination a small crowd of companions surrounded us, every one of them with a special niche in our heart and memory. Sauntering through the now long familiar streets, we had wandered instinctively into the neighbourhood of the cathedral. As we stood in the courtyard of the Audiencia, admiring for the fiftieth time its pointed arches, clustered columns and fine old staircase, two people entered, breaking upon our solitude. Their faces were radiant with happiness. At the first moment we hardly recognised them; the next we saw that it was Loretta and Lorenzo.
A few days later, we were walking through the streets of Barcelona. We had said goodbye to Valencia, and our time in Spain was coming to an end. With sadness and sighs, we recalled the wise king's saying: This too shall pass.. It’s a phrase we've often heard, and it always stays with us, so we repeat it once again. We had gone through many experiences and made acquaintances who became friends. In our minds, a small group of companions surrounded us, each holding a special place in our hearts and memories. Strolling through the now-familiar streets, we found ourselves in the neighborhood of the cathedral. As we stood in the courtyard of the Audiencia, admiring for the fiftieth time its pointed arches, clustered columns, and beautiful old staircase, two people entered, interrupting our solitude. Their faces shone with happiness. At first, we hardly recognized them; then we realized it was Loretta and Lorenzo.
"Still in Barcelona! How is this, Loretta?"
"Still in Barcelona! How's it going, Loretta?"
"Señor, we have prolonged our stay. There was no special reason why we should not do so. Work is provided for, and the donkeys are in good keeping. We shall never again have such a holiday. It comes only once in our lives."
"Sir, we have extended our stay. There wasn't any particular reason not to. Work is covered, and the donkeys are well looked after. We'll never have a holiday like this again. It happens only once in our lives."
"It is quite unnecessary to remark that you are happy, both of you."
"It’s really not needed to say that you’re both happy."
"Señor, I ask what I have done that heaven should have bestowed such favour upon me," returned Loretta, her face glowing with fervour. "I feel as though I could take the whole creation under my wing and love it for the sake of the love that is mine. I tell myself that I have not half cared for my dumb animals, though harsh word to them never passed my lips."
"Sir, I want to know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness from heaven," Loretta replied, her face full of passion. "I feel like I could embrace the whole world and love it for the love that is mine. I remind myself that I haven’t fully cared for my animals, even though I’ve never spoken harshly to them."
"Loretta, we have found your clock," passing from the sublime to the commonplace. "Come both of you and see it."
"Loretta, we’ve found your clock," moving from something extraordinary to something ordinary. "You both should come and check it out."
It was in the adjoining Calle de Fernando, not many yards from where we stood. We were just in time: the clockmaker was about to pack up and despatch it. Its design might have been made to order. A clock of white alabaster, pure as the heart of Loretta. Cupid with bow and arrows slung behind him struck the hours on a silver bell. The hour-glass was missing, it is true, but the sands of Loretta and Lorenzo were none the less golden. So the clock instead of being forwarded to Espluga, was sent to their address in Barcelona.
It was on the nearby Calle de Fernando, just a few yards from where we stood. We arrived just in time: the clockmaker was about to pack it up and send it out. Its design looked custom-made. A clock made of white alabaster, as pure as Loretta's heart. Cupid, with his bow and arrows slung behind him, struck the hours on a silver bell. The hourglass was missing, it's true, but the sands of Loretta and Lorenzo were still golden. So instead of being sent to Espluga, the clock was sent to their address in Barcelona.
"My happiness is now complete," cried Loretta. "Yet one thing is still wanting. I would that you, señor, should come as speedily as possible and ride Caro to Poblet, and that Lorenzo and I should wait upon you. Ah, do not delay."
"My happiness is now complete," Loretta exclaimed. "But there’s still one thing missing. I wish you, sir, would come as quickly as possible and ride Caro to Poblet, while Lorenzo and I wait for you. Please, don’t take too long."
"One of the most romantic episodes I ever heard of," cried H. C., as Loretta and Lorenzo walked away arm in arm in their great happiness, and we turned to contemplate once more the magic interior of the cathedral that has no rival.
"One of the most romantic moments I’ve ever heard about," exclaimed H. C., as Loretta and Lorenzo strolled away arm in arm, completely happy, while we turned to admire the enchanting interior of the unmatched cathedral once again.
"It is indeed. And if these dream-churches and ancient towns are her glories, does Spain not possess yet other glories in the exalted lives of Rosalie and Anselmo, the simple hearts and annals of yonder couple, and all who resemble them? May their shadows never grow less and their faces never be pale!"
"It really is. And if these dreamlike churches and historic towns are her treasures, doesn't Spain have even more treasures in the noble lives of Rosalie and Anselmo, the kind souls and stories of that couple, and all who are like them? May their spirits always remain strong and their faces always bright!"
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The rose.
The rose.
[B] If the reader feels any interest in Sebastien, he will be glad to hear that a petition sent to the landlord in the form of a letter proved as effective as the proposed deputation. He was promoted to the dignity (and fees) of second waiter in the dining-room: and on the first of last May was united to his beloved Anita. The sun shone and the skies were blue; the world smiled upon the young couple. The bride in her white veil and pale silk dress (the gift of her late employer, Madame la Modiste) must have appeared ravishing; and few bridegrooms in Manresa could have looked handsomer or more manly than Sebastien. We imagine how his face beamed, his eyes sparkled, his heart overflowed. His master—not to be outdone by Madame la Modiste—gave them a wedding breakfast, and the walls rang with the shouts that went up when the health of the happy pair was drunk. One can only wish them the serene bliss and success they deserve.
[B] If the reader has any interest in Sebastien, they'll be pleased to know that a letter sent to the landlord was just as effective as the suggested meeting. He was promoted to the position (and salary) of second waiter in the dining room, and on the first of last May, he married his beloved Anita. The sun was shining, and the sky was clear; the world seemed to smile at the young couple. The bride, in her white veil and light silk dress (a gift from her late employer, Madame la Modiste), must have looked stunning; and few grooms in Manresa could have appeared more handsome or manly than Sebastien. We can imagine his face lighting up, his eyes shining, and his heart overflowing. His boss—wanting to match Madame la Modiste—threw them a wedding breakfast, and the walls echoed with cheers when everyone toasted to the happy couple. One can only wish them the peaceful happiness and success they truly deserve.
[C] The following letter from the old canon, one of many, may be transcribed for the benefit of the reader:
[C] Here's a letter from the old canon, one of many, that might be copied for the reader's benefit:
"You will be anxious to hear how our patient has been progressing since I last wrote to you. Better and better. There is nothing but good news to send you. I think I may almost affirm that Eugenie is now 'clothed and in her right mind.' The cure is effected. For many months she has not looked upon the wine cup, and declares that all desire for it has left her. I believe it has. As you know, the very day after our first and last evening together I sought her out, told her I was her father's friend, explained to her the atonement that was in her power. The poor creature, overcome with misery, sorrow and remorse, burst into such tears as I have never seen shed, and yielded without a murmur to my wish. I would give her no time for reconsideration, and that very day she took up her abode in my house. She never leaves it except in company with Juanita or myself. There has been no trouble from the beginning. It almost seemed as though the calm and peaceful atmosphere of our little household at once exorcised the evil spirit within her. Her better nature has triumphed, and I am persuaded that she will not fall away again. I do not intend that she shall. As long as I live this is to be her home. She asks nothing better; declares that for the first time in her life she has found peace and happiness. Her gratitude to you is unbounded. If I only mention your name, tears spring to her eyes. I believe she would lay down her life for you. She begs that you will one day come again to see, not the old Eugenie who accosted you in the church; she is dead and buried; but the new Eugenie who lives and has taken her place. She wonders what influence gave her courage to speak, and declares it was some unseen spirit or power which compelled her to go forward whether she would or no. The moment she saw you this spirit took possession of her and she was passive in its hands. Never before had such a thing happened to her. I put it down to other and higher influence. These things do not happen by chance. Heaven may spare my life for some years. During that time Eugenie's home is assured. She is now as a daughter to me; shares my modest repasts; occupies herself in the affairs of the house; spends much of her time with Juanita. She reads much, and is studying science with me. Her intelligence is of a high order, and she has a wide grasp of mind. By-and-by she may outrun me. Truly it is a pearl of price we have rescued from the fire. And I too have my reward. The house is brighter since she came to it. Even Juanita, who once only smiled, now laughs on occasion. She has taken a great affection for Eugenie, and when I am no longer here will transfer her services to our protégée. Heaven be praised, I am able to leave them independent of the world. And I have enlisted my nephew's sympathy in the matter. Eugenie is to be much with them when I go hence, but this is to be her home; hers for her life. Yet who can tell? She is young. If you thought her beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm, radiant face, those clear, steadfast eyes? One day she will probably marry again; and in a second and more worthy choice find all the happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and headstrong mistake.
"You'll be eager to hear how our patient has been doing since my last letter. Better and better. I have nothing but good news to share. I can almost say that Eugenie is now 'clothed and in her right mind.' The healing is complete. For many months, she hasn't touched alcohol and insists that any desire for it has vanished. I believe it has. As you know, the very next day after our first and last evening together, I found her, told her I was her father's friend, and explained the atonement she could achieve. The poor woman, overwhelmed with sadness, sorrow, and guilt, cried tears like I've never seen before and agreed to my wishes without hesitation. I didn’t give her any time to think it over, and that very day, she came to live in my house. She only leaves when she's with Juanita or me. There’s been no trouble from the start. It almost felt like the calm and peaceful vibe of our little household instantly cleared the negativity within her. Her better nature has prevailed, and I'm convinced she won’t backslide again. I will ensure she doesn’t. As long as I live, this will be her home. She doesn't want anything else; she says for the first time in her life, she has found peace and happiness. Her gratitude to you is immense. If I mention your name, tears fill her eyes. I believe she would give her life for you. She hopes you'll visit again one day, not the old Eugenie who spoke to you in church; she is gone and buried, but the new Eugenie who has taken her place. She wonders what gave her the courage to speak and says it was some unseen force that pushed her to move forward whether she wanted to or not. The moment she saw you, this spirit took control of her, and she was entirely submissive to it. This has never happened to her before. I attribute it to a higher influence. These things don’t happen by accident. Heaven may allow me to live for a few more years. During that time, Eugenie’s home is secured. She is now like a daughter to me; she shares my simple meals; she helps with household matters; she spends a lot of time with Juanita. She reads a lot and studies science with me. Her intelligence is impressive, and she has a broad mindset. Eventually, she might surpass me. Truly, we have rescued a precious gem from the fire. And I too find my reward. The house is brighter since she arrived. Even Juanita, who used to only smile, now laughs sometimes. She has grown very fond of Eugenie, and when I am no longer here, she will dedicate her services to our protégé. Thank heaven, I can leave them self-sufficient. I've also gained my nephew’s support in this matter. Eugenie will spend a lot of time with them when I’m gone, but this will always be her home; hers for life. Yet, who knows? She is young. If you thought she was beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm, radiant face, those clear, steady eyes? One day she will probably marry again and, in a second, more worthy choice, find all the happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and reckless mistake."
"And now, the old question. When are you coming? Juanita bids me say that all the resources of her simple art are waiting to be put forth in your favour. She declares she never was happier than that evening when she waited upon us and dispensed her simple luxuries. Eugenie says she shall never be at perfect rest until you have witnessed her transformation. For myself, I have a new work on Natural Philosophy to show you. I long once more to pace together the aisles of our beloved cathedral. At my age I live from day to day, grateful to heaven for each new day in this bright world. But it behoves me to sit loosely to all things. The end may come at any hour, it cannot be very far off now. The old man longs to welcome you yet once again. Deny him not."
"And now, the age-old question: when are you coming? Juanita asked me to tell you that all her creative talents are ready to be used for your benefit. She says she has never been happier than that evening when she served us and shared her simple pleasures. Eugenie claims she will never feel truly at peace until you've seen her transformation. As for me, I have a new work on Natural Philosophy to share with you. I can't wait to walk through the aisles of our beloved cathedral together again. At my age, I live day by day, thankful for each new day in this beautiful world. But I must stay detached from everything. The end could come at any moment, and it can’t be far off now. The old man is eager to welcome you once more. Please don’t deny him."
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