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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Quasimodo seemed to have power to raise emotion, to play upon every nerve, and he appeared to delight in using that power.
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.
A journey indeed; a flight into fairyland; spiritual realms where nothing earthly can enter.
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.
"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?"
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.
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.
So we rose from the steps, and Quasimodo rose too, and his Shadow took up its customary position.
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
"Is he your wonderful midnight player?"
"Si, señor. Do you mean to say you have heard him?"
"We were with him last night, and spent more than two hours in the cathedral listening to his wonderful 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."
"A curious, grotesque man, who almost gives one the impression of being supernatural," we observed.
"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 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.
"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."
"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."
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.
"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."
"He is sad-looking. One could almost imagine he had mistaken his vocation, or gone through some great sorrow in life."
"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."
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.
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.
"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."
"And you would rather put up with the grapes and the oranges in the market-place?" we suggested.
"We should like to put them down, señor. Only try us."
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.
"Why don't you join them, and take your share of the spoil?" 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."
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.
"What is 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.
"And you really love it?" we asked this singular 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."
.
"Good-bye, Hugo. Keep to your ideals and aspirations."
"No fear, señor. I mean to do so."
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
"Who is that for?" we asked, for there was no mistaking his soft 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."
We knew how much this was worth; 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."
"Do you think so?" replied this whirligig heart. "Certainly Rosalie's eyes were matchless; I tremble when I think of them. And then we got to know her, which is an advantage. After all it shall go to Rosalie. The fair Costello might have a temper—there's no knowing."
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.
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.
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.
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.
Fortunately we were going the other way. As the driver mounted his box he shrugged his shoulders.
"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."
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.
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.
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 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.
"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.
"No," we replied; "but we were even now debating 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."
The boy, who happened to be standing near his father, grew elated.
"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."
"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."
"Of which I have an excellent vintage," replied our host, who seemed equal to any emergency. "Frisco, take care that you are ready."
"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.
"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."
A prejudice we unfortunately shared, and our host went back lamenting our want 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
This sounded alarming; but we discounted something for disappointed ambition.
"Are these donkeys all your living?" we asked, already feeling a certain regret that we had employed 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."
"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.
"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."
"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?"
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.
"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.
"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."
"Was the donkey never claimed, 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."
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.
"And your lover? You did not take compassion upon 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."
"But you," we observed, feeling the question a delicate one, "why have you never married? By your own confession you are 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.
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.
"You have chosen well, Loretta. He will make you a good husband."
"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."
"And suppose Caro had turned his back upon him?" we inquired. 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."