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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
But it was in the Middle Ages that Barcelona was great, and these Middle Ages have left their mark on her ecclesiastical history. Powerful, she used her power well; rich, she spent wisely.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
But the charm of charms lies in the octagonal lantern at the west end, and here Barcelona stands unrivalled.
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.
Well do we remember the first time we saw this lantern and its imposing accompaniment.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
As we looked, lost in the past, we became aware that we were not 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.
"Spring and winter," said H. C., looking at this strange advancing pair.
"Or life and death; for surely they are fitting emblems? Who can they be, and what do they want in this forsaken spot?"
The child said something to the aged man and motioned towards us. He paused a moment as though in doubt, then approached yet nearer.
"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."
"You are then in the habit of coming here?" returning his salutation.
"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."
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?
"You have long ceased to labour?" we observed, for want of a better reply to his too obvious 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."
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.
"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."
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.
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.
WE rose early one morning for the purpose of visiting Montserrat the sublime, the magnificent, 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 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."
You think it only five minutes since you fell asleep. "Two o'clock, not five," cries a drowsy voice. "You have waked me too soon."
"As you please, señor. Not for me to contradict 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.
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.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.