A Gerona señora—Grace and charm—Lord of creation—Morning greeting—Arcades and ancient houses—Conscription—Gerona a discovery—Streets of steps—Ancient eaves and rare ironwork—Old-world corner—Desecrated church—Gothic cloisters—Ghosts of the past—Visions of to-day—Soldiers interested—"Happy as kings"—Lingerings—Colonel seeks explanation—No lover of antiquity—More conscription—Dramatic scene—Pedro to the rescue—Mother and son—Sad story—Strong and merciful—Pedro grateful—Restricted interests—Colonel becomes impenetrable again.
A Gerona señora—Grace and charm—Lord of creation—Morning greeting—Arcades and ancient houses—Conscription—Gerona a discovery—Streets of steps—Ancient eaves and rare ironwork—Old-world corner—Desecrated church—Gothic cloisters—Ghosts of the past—Visions of to-day—Soldiers interested—"Happy as kings"—Lingerings—Colonel seeks explanation—No lover of antiquity—More conscription—Dramatic scene—Pedro to the rescue—Mother and son—Sad story—Strong and merciful—Pedro grateful—Restricted interests—Colonel becomes impenetrable again.
LASTnight we had found much to admire, though in the darkness the charms were only half seen. This morning on opening our window clouds hung low and threatening; yet the grey tone over all was in such singular harmony with the ancient city that we hardly regretted the gloomy skies.
Immediately opposite our casement was a small draper's shop presided over by an industrious feminine genius. She was up betimes and worked as though she had taken to heart all the proverbs of Solomon. A short, dark woman of the true Spanish type, bright, active, and not above all manner of work, for she swept her pavement diligently and arranged her wares; doing all with a certain natural grace that was not without its charm.
We thought her a young widow struggling for existence, but when all the work was done and everything was comfortably arranged, a husband appeared upon the scene; evidently a lord of creation who looked upon women, and especially wives, as born to labour. It was their portion under the sun. She had no doubt grown used to this state of things and accepted it as part of life's penances.
"I hope you have slept well," we heard her say with theslightest tinge of sarcasm—the street was so narrow as to bring them almost within half-a-dozen yards of us. "I have been up these two hours, whilst you were serenely unconscious," veiling her head in a graceful mantilla. "Yet you hardly seem refreshed," as he yawned lazily.
"Cara mia, you are an admirable woman and the best of wives. I admit that without your aid life would go hardly with me. But to you work is a pleasure, and I would not deprive you of it for the world."
A FRAGMENT OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF GERONA.A FRAGMENT OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF GERONA.
By this time the mantilla was adjusted and the dark little woman swept good-temperedly out of the shop. The prettiest of small feet tripped on to the pavement. She looked up, saw us gazing in her direction, and her smile disclosed the whitest of teeth.
"Ah, señor, you have heard our conjugal Good-morning. It is always the same. Fate has been hard upon us women. The weaker vessel, we get terribly imposed upon by our masters. Now I go to church to pray for a blessing upon my work andreformation to my lord. Not that he is bad or unkind or tyrannical, as husbands go—only incorrigibly lazy. Oh, you know it is true, Stefano."
Upon which the little lady—she was quite lady-like in spite of swept pavement and hard work—made us a court-curtsey, flourished a farewell to hercaro sposo, and passed swiftly and gracefully down the street. It is said that only Spanish women know how to walk, and there is some truth in the proverb.
Rain had fallen heavily during the night, as the watchmen reported through the small hours. It had ceased—with a promise of more to come. Remembering the proverb we took umbrellas.H. C.shouldered his and put on his military manner. The town indeed, quiet as it was, seemed full of a military atmosphere, for conscription was still going on and we presently came upon the official scene.
We had gone out without our amiable guide to wander at will and let chance take us whither it would. In the light of day the arcades seemed deeper, more massive, more picturesque even than last night. Standing on the bridge we looked down upon the dry bed of the river far below. The altars of the chestnut-roasters were cold and dead; the demons absent. But even at that moment there came down a small band of them to rake out fires and prepare for action.
The ancient houses on either side make this view from the bridge one of the most remarkable in the world. These rose straight from the river-bed, and where water still ran their outlines were reflected: houses looking old enough to date from the days of the deluge: a huge mass once white, now yellow, brown and black with weather and age. All the windows seemed to have been taken out, resulting in that curious air of unglazed wreck and ruin so often seen in warm latitudes. Countless balconies adorned with flowers and coloured draperies hung over the water. Above all rose the outlines of the cathedral and other churches in the background with striking effect. The distant view was closed in by the winding river, where the houses on both sides appeared to join hands. Just beyond this we had stood last night listening to the rustling of the reeds, lost in the scene so vividly reflected by the lurid glare of the torches.
STREET IN GERONA.STREET IN GERONA.
People were gradually waking up and opening their stalls. All down the long thoroughfare were more ancient and massive arcades, hardly noticed last night in the restless crowd. In this countrypar excellenceof arcades we had never seen such as these.
"Gerona is a discovery," said H. C. for the twentieth time. "The view from this bridge is something to dream about. Yet one longs for sunshine and lights and shadows. Remarkable as the scene is, it is a study in grey. We want contrast."
But the town had more wonders in reserve, when presently our host's son joined us and pointed out the hidden treasures of the narrow tortuous streets. Houses with gabled ends, tiled roofs and windows ornamented with magnificent wrought ironwork; the true tone of antiquity over all—as yet unspoilt. Gerona, in its dying prosperity, has, like Segovia, escaped the ravages of the restorer. Its substantial mansions are firm and steadfast as in the far gone Middle Ages.
The irregularities of the place add to its charm. Built on rising ground, the streets are a pilgrimage of rough, uneven, picturesque steps. From these, narrow openings lead into many acul-de-saccrowded with ancient outlines that are nothing less than artistic dreams.
We soon came to one of these ascending streets with its endless flight. Far up, it was crowned by a church with a solitary square tower and a Renaissance west front. Houses on either side had wonderful ironwork windows; we cannot help reverting to this special feature; and many a gothic casement was rich in the remains of refined tracery and ornamented balconies; whilst from the deep overhanging eaves quaint waterspouts here and there craned their long necks like gargoyles of some ancient cathedral. Reaching the church and turning to the right down a narrow passage between high dead walls we found ourselves in an excited scene: no less than the building given up to the rites of conscription. The spot and its surroundings was one of the most picturesque in Gerona. A long, broad flight of steps led up to an ancient church now desecrated and turned into barracks. Groups of young soldiers were clustered together and sentinels paced to and fro. To the left, facing the long flight, low ancient houses wonderful in tone and construction were decorated with wrought ironworkwindows, some of them almost Moorish in design, the upper floors terminating in round open arcades and tiled roofs with projecting eaves; one of those old-world bits only to be seen in these mediæval towns of Spain.
We climbed the steps and braved the sentinel, feeling there must or ought to be hidden cloisters attached to this old church of which nothing remained but the west front. But we were not to pass unchallenged. An inner sentry came up and asked our business. Hearing that we wished to see the cloisters, he beckoned to a further sentry who evidently belonged to the colonel or commandant of the regiment. Permission was soon brought, and pointing out the way, we were left to our own devices.
Instinct had not failed us. In a few moments we were standing in the midst of large lovely old cloisters with Gothic arcades resting on slender coupled marble columns. Above these rose a gallery of round arcades supported by single pillars with carved capitals, the arches, wider and more open than the pointed arches beneath them, presenting a fine contrast. A deep archway reached by some half-dozen steps led through the palace to the east end of the cathedral and the town walls beyond. In the square in front of palace and cathedral was an ancient and beautiful well. Above these again a slanting tiled roof fitly crowned the scene.
Here in days gone by monks and priests had paced the silent corridors. A sacred atmosphere in which the world had no part hung over all. Father-confessors listened to the secret struggles of young novices who hoped to leave the vanities and temptations of life outside the walls of their cells, only to find that in this state of probation conflict can never cease. So confessions were made and penances exacted, and soft footsteps and pale faces haunted those quiet cloisters. Large dark eyes—larger and darker for the sunk cheeks—gazed upwards at the sky that canopied the quadrangle with such divine peace, vainly seeking a clue to the mysteries of existence.
To-day all was changed. The cloisters were still militant, but in quite another way. All the ancient serenity and repose had departed and the beauty of outline alone remained.Soldiers and recruits in every stage of undress went about in restless activity.
ENTRANCE TO MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA.ENTRANCE TO MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA.
In the upper gallery some were making or mending clothes, others drawing from the well in what was once the cloister garden. It was still ornamented with its fine old ironwork. Monks and priests once looked down and saw pale, cowled faces reflected in the calm water; and perhaps as they drew it to the surface there came a vision of another well in a far-off land and a certain woman of Samaria. No such vision troubled the five or six closely-cropped soldiers, whose reflected imagesbelow had nothing saintly, troubled or questioning about them. These rough specimens of an undersized, undisciplined army were out of all harmony with the ancient outlines that nothing could deprive of their beauty and refinement.
We felt the charm and incongruity of it all. The men crowded within a few yards of us, delighted at being taken by the small camera, interested at finding themselves reflected on the object glass, unhappy that we could not there and then present each with a photograph duly printed and mounted. Such a machine surely performed miracles.
"You all look very happy," H. C. remarked, for more carelessly contented faces were never seen—a mixture of types good and bad.
"As happy as kings," they answered. "We eat, drink and sleep well. Clothes and lodging are found us and we never have any fighting to do. We should like a little more money for tobacco—but one can't have everything."
Finally, we stayed so long answering questions, satisfying curiosity, lingering over the beauty of the cloisters, that the colonel himself appeared upon the scene in full uniform, sword and all. No lover of architecture, he could not understand how any one bestowed a second glance on these old outlines. Were we trying to worm military secrets out of the men with the intention of starting another Peninsular war? The worthy colonel who had so freely given us permission to enter was now anxious for an explanation. Pointing out the charm and merit of the cloisters—the pity they should have transposed the order of things and turned pruning-hooks into swords—he declared he could not agree with us.
"I discover no great beauty in these old corridors," he said, "and would infinitely rather see them filled with brave soldiers than with a parcel of effeminate monks and priests."
We argued the fitness of things—a time and place for everything.
"If there were once more a siege of Gerona I would turn our very churches into barracks," laughed our colonel, clanking his sword and looking fierce as a fire-eater. "And who knows? As far as I am a prophet we are not anywhere nearthe days of the millennium. There are more signs of universal war than of eternal peace."
We had left the cloisters and were standing almost within touch of the west front of what had been the church. The colonel caught our "mild regretful gaze," laughed and clanked his sword again.
MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA.MILITARY CLOISTERS: GERONA.
"What will you?" he said. "After all, I would not have been the one to do it myself; but finding it done, I use it without prickings of conscience. See," pointing to the crowd below, "we must have room for our recruits. Poor Spain is not England. Our resources are limited. Yet you, sirs, monarchs of the world notwithstanding, had your days ofdesecration under Cromwell. Opportunity given, and all evil is possible as well as all good."
The crowd alluded to was full of dramatic interest. The very walls of the great grey building seemed pregnant with the chances of fate; the wide doorway greedy to swallow up the youth of the country. Young men disappeared within to the human lottery with anxious faces or reckless humour. Free agents this morning, to-night perhaps bound down to servitude: a willing bondage to some, to others worse than a death-blow.
Perhaps the chief interest centred in the crowd of elders—parents and friends waiting for the verdict—many a face full of that patient endurance so terrible to look upon. Mothers with the sickness of hope deferred, to whom the very shadow of war was a nightmare; fathers wondering if the boy who had now become companion and part bread-winner, was about to be thrown into the whirl of barrack life with its manifold temptations. They had passed that way in their own youth and knew that only the strong are firm. Stalwart amongst the crowd we recognised Pedro, our last night's platform acquaintance.
"Why, Pedro," said the colonel—we were standing just a little above the people—"what brings you here to-day? Surely you have made your offering to the country and your boy is now at Tarragona?"
"True, colonel," returned this veteran, firm as an oak tree. "My boy has left me; I saw him off last night and you might have heard the noise going on up here; half the town was at the station. I have no fears for him. He knows good from evil and has strong principles. I gave him my blessing and please Heaven he will return when the years are over. But my heart aches for these poor women who are weak when their emotions are in question. So I thought I would come and console them a bit, and tell them that military discipline after all is a very fine thing—the best thing that could happen to them if they only do their duty. You agree, colonel?"
"Of course I do," returned the colonel sharply. "There is no training like it. It makes men of boys if they have only an inch of wood in them that will bear carving."
WAITING FOR THE VERDICT.WAITING FOR THE VERDICT.
We had noticed one pale woman close to the doorway, drooping and woe-begone. She seemed superior to those about her, and over her head, half draping her face, was the graceful mantilla. At that moment a youth appeared, a handsome, manly image of his mother—the resemblance was at once evident; his thread-bare clothes proving him scantily endowed with worldly goods. As he advanced a serious expression andhesitating manner betrayed his fate. No need to ask the question, and with a cry that was half sob, wholly despair, the mother threw her arms about her boy's neck as though life could hold no further ill for her. At such a moment reticence was thrown to the winds. What to her the lookers-on? Were they not all fellow-sufferers?
"A sad story," said our colonel, whose eyes glistened. "They were amongst the most prosperous people in Gerona, when the husband died and left them almost in poverty. Her eldest son turned scapegrace and this boy was her last hope. No doubt she feels that fate is hard upon her. Pedro," to the old man who looked on compassionately, "tell her it will all come right in the end. Stay; quietly whisper to her to come to my office to-morrow morning at ten and ask for me. I will promise to keep a special eye upon that boy of hers. He is of finer mould and deserves a better fate than many. I will see that he has it."
Pedro looked his gratitude, thought there was only one colonel in the world, and he stood before him. To be strong and merciful is to win hearts.
"There is more interest for me in this little crowd than in all your ecclesiastical outlines," said the colonel. "I never saw a building that I did not tire of in a week, but my work and my men interest me more year by year. I feel I have something to live for."
He was small and wiry, this colonel, with piercing dark eyes and a mouth of which a fierce moustache could not conceal the kindliness. One wished him a finer body of men than these recruits, too many of whom were of the lowest type and had not, to use his own metaphor, even the inch of wood that would bear carving.
"That need not greatly trouble you," he said. "It is surprising how many are the exceptions. After all, it is a survival of the fittest. But I see you are interested in humanity just as much as I am," noting how we followed every movement and expression of this pathetic little crowd. "So far your resources are wider than mine, for when on the subject of old buildings you are as absorbed as in front of this little drama. My interests are more restricted. Well then, if you like tocome to my office to-morrow morning at ten you shall have more food for your sympathies. We will interview that poor woman together and see how far we can minister consolation to the widow and fatherless."
This was not one's idea of severe military discipline, but we could not help admiring a nature that after years of experience and repeated discouragements—in spite of what he had said—still possessed so warm a heart, so much of human faith. No doubt he had shown a little of his true self on the spur of the moment, influenced by the above incidents. All his kindliness of feeling was kept well out of sight of others. The next instant he had passed beyond the sentry and was holding forth in tones hard as the Pyramids, cold as the Sphinx.
Beauties of age—Apostles' Doorway—How the old bishops kept out of temptation—Interior of cathedral—Its vast nave—Days of Charlemagne—And of the Moors—A giant dwarfed—Rare choir—Surly priest—And a more kindly—Our showman—Dazzling treasures—Father Anselmo—Romantic story—Heaven or the world?—Doubts—The gentle Rosalie decides—Sister Anastasia—Told in the sacristy—A heart-confession—Anselmo's mysticism—Heresy—Charms of antiquity—Scene of his triumph—Celestial vision—Church of San Pedro—Pagan interior—Rare cloisters—Desecrated church—Singular scene—Chiaroscuro—Miguel the carpenter—His opinions—Daily life a religion—Anselmo improves his opportunity—"A reflected light"—Ruined citadel—War of Succession—Alvarez and Marshall—Gerona in decadence—A revelation—Dreamland—Midday vision.
Beauties of age—Apostles' Doorway—How the old bishops kept out of temptation—Interior of cathedral—Its vast nave—Days of Charlemagne—And of the Moors—A giant dwarfed—Rare choir—Surly priest—And a more kindly—Our showman—Dazzling treasures—Father Anselmo—Romantic story—Heaven or the world?—Doubts—The gentle Rosalie decides—Sister Anastasia—Told in the sacristy—A heart-confession—Anselmo's mysticism—Heresy—Charms of antiquity—Scene of his triumph—Celestial vision—Church of San Pedro—Pagan interior—Rare cloisters—Desecrated church—Singular scene—Chiaroscuro—Miguel the carpenter—His opinions—Daily life a religion—Anselmo improves his opportunity—"A reflected light"—Ruined citadel—War of Succession—Alvarez and Marshall—Gerona in decadence—A revelation—Dreamland—Midday vision.
THEcolonel disappeared, and we went our way through narrow, tortuous, deserted wynds until we found ourselves in the quaint cathedral square.
Here again we were surrounded by the beauties of antiquity. Before us was the south front of the cathedral with its deeply-arched Apostles' Doorway at which we had knocked in vain last night. At right angles, its grey walls of exactly the same tone as the cathedral, was the Bishop's Palace, its picturesque windows guarded by ancient ironwork. Why so carefully secured? Had the mediæval bishops feared a reversal of things—serenades from fair dames yielding to the charm of forbidden fruit? Or mistrusting their own strength had wisely put temptation out of reach? Ancient walls are discreet and disclose nothing.
The outer gloom was intensified when we passed within the cathedral. After a time pillars and arches and outlines grew more or less visible, a shadowy distinctness full of mystery, appealing to the senses.
The vast nave is the widest Gothic vault in existence and on entering strikes one with astonishment. So bold was the architect's design considered that it created consternation in the minds of Bishop, Dean and Chapter then ruling. Council after council was summoned and opinions were taken from the great architects of foreign countries. Finally a jury of twelve men was appointed who gave their verdict in favour of Boffy, and the nave was erected.
This was in the year 1416. There had existed a cathedral on this very spot since the eighth century and the days of Charlemagne. Like so many of those early cathedrals it was pulled down and rebuilt; and sometimes it happened that the new was no improvement on the old. This was not the case with Gerona. The cathedral was rebuilt in 1016, but the nave was reserved for Boffy and his genius four hundred years later. That early cathedral was turned into a mosque when the Moors took Gerona, but they allowed Catholic services to be held in the Church of San Filiu, close at hand, now shorn of part of its spire. In 1015 the Moors were expelled and the old cathedral was reinstated.
The nave has the fault of being too short, and Boffy could not fail to see that it wants in proportion. Either space or funds failed him, and the giant had to be dwarfed. Still it remains gigantic with a clear width of seventy-three feet. Toulouse, next in width, has sixty-three feet; Westminster Abbey only thirty-eight feet. For the effect of contrast the smaller choir and aisles throw up the proportions of the vast vault. Over all is its wonderful tone; whilst the obscure light brings out the pointed arches of choir and chapels and the slender fluted pillars in softened outlines.
The choir has a magnificent retablo and baldachino of wood and silver: a rare work of art dating back to the year 1320: so promising that we wished to see the treasures of the sacristy. It was the duty of a certain priest to show them. The priests take the office in turn. To-day he whose turn it was proved unamiable. "He would not show them; had other things to do; we must come another day," hurriedly buttoning his heavy black cloak as he spoke; an ill-favoured example of his race, short, swarthy, unshaven. We explained that our hours werelimited. Without further parley he marched rapidly down the aisle, cloak flying, hobnailed shoes waking desecrating echoes.
Then another and kindlier priest came up; altogether a different and more refined specimen of humanity. He would gladly show us the treasures if we would wait whilst he sought the keys. With these he soon returned and thought he had been long. "I am sorry to keep you," he said, "but they were not in their place. Now let me turn showman and do the honours."
Leading the way into the large sacristy he unlocked a cupboard and took out a key. With this he opened a drawer and took out another key. The treasure was well guarded. Finally he swung back great doors and our eyes were dazzled as he lighted a beautiful old lamp whose rays flashed upon gemmed and jewelled crooks and crosses, enamelled plates and chalice, a wealth of gold and silver ornaments, many dating back to the twelfth century. Some of the crosses were magnificent in design and execution, some had strange and interesting histories. Then he showed us rare and wonderful needlework rich in gold thread and coloured silks, also dating back seven or eight hundred years. He explained everything in a quaint fashion of his own, then took us through a series of rooms each having its special attraction. Amongst the pictures were one or two of rare merit and a very early period.
These rooms and their treasures were well worth the little trouble it had cost to see them. Moreover we were brought into contact with an amiable ecclesiastic full of refinement and romance.
CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.
"It is a pleasure to show them to you," he said, when we thanked him. "I love all these things amongst which my life has been spent, for I hardly recall the time when I was not attached to the cathedral. As a child I was an acolyte, and remember the delight with which I used to turn the wheel at the altar and listen to its silver chiming. I was never happy but in church, attending on the priests, filling every office permitted to a boy. From the age of ten I determined to be a priest myself and never lost sight of that hope—though I once hesitated. But I was poor, and don't know whether it would have come to pass unaided by one of our canons who wasrich and good; educated and half adopted me, and dying four years ago left me a sufficient portion of his wealth. I almost think of myself as one of those romances which only occasionally happen in life. But there was a moment"—he smiled almost sadly—"when I was sorely tempted to abandon religion for the world."
"For what reason?" we asked, for he paused. Evidently he wished the question, and there was something so interesting about him that we were willing to linger and listen.
"A very ordinary reason. I daresay you can guess, for it was the old, old story: nothing less than love. I had not yet taken religious vows and was free to choose. Should it be earth or heaven? Few perhaps have been more completely enthralled than I. Walking and sleeping my thoughts were filled with the gentle Rosalie. She was beautiful and I thought her perfect. Outward grace witnessed to her inward purity of soul.
"To make my conflict harder, she returned all my affection. It was perhaps singular that her life too had been destined to the cloister, as mine to the Church. For one whole year we both struggled, miserable and unsettled. Every fresh meeting only seemed to strengthen our attachment. An excellent opening in the world presented itself—might we take this as an indication that Heaven favoured our desires? It was a sore strait and perhaps we should not have done wrong to yield. During the daylight hours it seemed so. But night after night I awoke with one verse ringing in my ears: 'He that having put his hand to the plough looketh back, is not fit for the Kingdom of Heaven.' In my excited, almost diseased imagination, the text seemed to stand out in the darkness in letters of fire. I tossed and turned upon my troubled bed. Drops of anguish would break upon my brow. On the one hand bliss that seemed infinite; surrounded by all the false colouring and attraction of forbidden fruit. On the other the sure service of Heaven—a higher, nobler destiny without doubt.
"I grew pale and emaciated under my heart-fever. If left to my own decision I know not how it would have ended: perhaps in yielding. My gentle Rosalie proved the stronger vessel.
"One morning—shall I ever forget it?—the sun was shining, the skies were blue, birds and flowers were at their best and brightest, song and perfume filled the air, I received a letter in the beloved handwriting. Before opening it I felt that it held our fate and knew its contents. The soul is never mistaken in such crises.
"'Anselmo, my beloved,' it said, 'my choice is made and I trust you not to render my difficult task impossible. Last night in a dream my mother visited me; so real her presence that I feel we have held communion together. Her face was full of a divine love and pity, and O so sad and sympathising. Suddenly she pointed and I saw two roads before me. On each I recognised myself. On the one broad road you walked with me hand in hand. We were both bowed and broken and foot-sore. We seemed unhappy, full of care and sorrow. Romance and sunshine? They had fled with the long past years. Nothing was left but to lay down our burden and die.
"'On the other road I walked alone, but I was strong, upheld by unseen support. The way was long, yet my footsteps never wearied. I wore the dress of a Sister of Mercy. At the far, far end, bathed in divine light, a glorified being yet yourself, you beckoned and seemed to await me. Beyond you there was a faint vision of Paradise—I knew you had passed to the higher life. Then my mother turned and spoke. Her voice still rings in my ears. "My child, in the world you should have tribulation such as you are not fitted to bear. Your path lies heavenward." Then she pointed upwards, seemed gradually to fade away, and I awoke. I felt it an indication accorded me, and rising, on my knees dedicated afresh my life to Heaven if it would deign to receive me. Beloved, you will help me; you will lighten my task. Though never united on earth, none the less do we belong to each other; none the less shall spend eternity together.'
INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: GERONA.INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: GERONA.
"Even now," continued the priest, returning to his own narrative, his voice somewhat agitated: "even now I cannot always think quite calmly of that morning. I sat amidst the birds and flowers, spell-bound, heart-broken. The serene skies and laughing sunshine seemed to mock at my calamity. Earthly dreams were over. Never for a moment did I questionRosalie's decision or seek to turn it aside. I prayed for strength, and it was sent me. She became a Sister of Mercy, I a priest. So our lives are passing, dedicated to Heaven. Not for us the feverish joys of earth, but quiet streams undisturbed by worldly cares."
"And Rosalie? She still lives?"
CLOISTER OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.CLOISTER OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.
"Yes, and in Gerona. Her new name is Sister Anastasia. We meet sometimes in the silent streets; sometimes at the bedside of the sick and dying; occasionally at the house of a friend. I believe that we are as devoted to each other as in the days of our youth, but it is love purified and refined, containing a thousand-fold more of real happiness than our first passionate ecstasy. If we are to believe her vision, I shall be the first to enter the dark passage and cross to the light beyond. It may yet be half a lifetime—who knows? I am only thirty-seven,Rosalie thirty-five—but whenever the summons comes for her, I feel that I shall be awaiting her on the divine shores."
We were seated in a room beyond the sacristy where silence and solitude reigned amidst the evidences of the past centuries on walls and crucifix and ancient Bibles—a delightful room in which to receive such a confession. A halo of romance surrounded our priestly guide; his pale, refined face glowed with a light from which, as he said, all earthly dross was purified. And yet he was evidently very human; sympathies and affections were not straitened; his interests in Gerona and its people were keenly alive. It was the kindliness of his nature had caused him to take compassion upon us when his more surly fellow-labourer in the vineyard had turned a deaf ear to our request.
But our golden moments were passing; we could not linger for ever in old-world sacristies listening to heart-confessions. Treasures were locked up, keys placed in their hiding-places; we went back into the church and the closing of the great sacristy door echoed through the silent aisles. More beautiful and impressive seemed the wonderful interior each time we entered; a vision of arches and rare columns and exquisite windows wonderfully solemn and sacred. In darkened corners and gloomy recesses, in shadows lost in the high and vaulted roof, we fancied guardian angels lurked unseen, bringing rest for the heavy-laden, pardon for the sinner, strength for those who faint by the way.
"I have often felt it," said our companion, reading our thoughts by some secret influence; "and have stood here many and many an hour, utterly alone, lost in meditation. At times mysticism seems to take me captive. Visions come to me, unsought, not desired; the church is full of a shining celestial choir; I hear music inaudible to earthly ears; the rustle of angels' wings surrounds me. These visions or experiences—call them what you will—have generally occurred after long fastings, when the spirit probably is less restrained by mortal bonds. But underlying all my days and action, an intangible incentive for good, I feel the influence of Rosalie. You see I am still mortal and the earthly must mix with the heavenly. Nor would I wish it otherwise as long as I have to minister tomortals, or how could I sympathise with the sin and sorrow and suffering around me? Even our Lord had to become human, that being in all things tempted like as we are, He is able to succour them that are tempted."
APOSTLES' DOORWAY AND BISHOP'S PALACE: GERONA.APOSTLES' DOORWAY AND BISHOP'S PALACE: GERONA.
We were walking down the broad nave. Anselmo had thrown on his long cloak, which added grace and dignity to his tall slender figure. His pale face shone out in the surrounding gloom like a saintly influence. What strange charm was about this man? In the course of a few moments we felt we had known him for years. He was singularly lovable and attractive. Underlying all his gentleness was an undercurrent of strength; an evident self-reliance, yet the reliance of one who leans on ahigher support than his own. Here was one worthy of enduring friendship had our lines not been thrown far apart. As it was he too would disappear out of our life and we should see his face no more. But his memory would remain.
At the west doorway we turned and looked upon the splendid vision: the magnificent nave with its slender pillars and lofty roof, the distant choir with aisles and arches visible and invisible in the dim religious light that threw upon all its sense of mystery. Above all the wonderful tone.
"For five and twenty years I have looked upon this scene, and its influence upon me is as strong as ever," said the priest. "Here I have found that peace which passeth all understanding. How many a time have I let myself in with my key, and in these solitary aisles withdrawn from the world to hold communion with the unseen. Here strength has come to fight life's battles. Here I have composed many a sermon, here silently confessed my sins to the Almighty and obtained pardon. Breathe not the heresy, but confession to man brings me no rest. I have to go to the great Fountain Head, trusting in the one Atonement and one Mediator. Nothing else gives me consolation."
We crossed to the doorway of the cloisters. Anselmo, unwilling to leave us, crossed also. We were too glad of his companionship to wish it otherwise. He added much to the spell of our surroundings; a central figure from which all interest radiated. It was passing from the gloom of the interior to the broad light of day subdued by the grey clouds that hid the sunshine.
The cloisters reposed in all the charm of antiquity. For eight hundred years Time had rolled over them with all its subtle influence. There they stood, an irregular quadrangle, the simple, beautiful round arches resting on coupled shafts, whose carved capitals were so singularly elaborate and delicate. Seldom had the attraction of Romanesque architecture been more evident.
CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.
"I love them," said the priest. "How often have I paced these silent corridors until the very stones seem worn with my footsteps. And they witnessed the most painful scene, the last great struggle of my life—but my triumph also. For hereI bade my earthly farewell to Rosalie; on this very spot on which we stand renounced all human hopes and claims upon her and gave her into Heaven's keeping. Here I placed her treasured letter next my heart, where it still reposes; where it will lie when that heart has ceased to beat and this frame has returned to the dust from which it was taken."
We passed through the little north doorway to the outer world. Far away the snow-capped Pyrenees rose heavenwards like a celestial vision. In the plain the silvery river ran its winding course listening to the love-songs of the reeds and rushes. Near us was the lovely octagon tower, shorn of its spire. Without the ancient walls we traced the remains of the citadel; and within them the yet more ancient churches of San Pedro and its desecrated companion.
"Let us go down to them," said Anselmo: "examine the wonderful little cloisters and make the acquaintance of Miguel the carpenter. He seems to care little that where now is heard the fret of saw and swish of plane, once rose voices of priests at worship and faint whispers of the confessional."
It was a rough descent, but a singularly interesting scene. We found ourselves in narrow streets with ancient houses whose windows were guarded by splendid ironwork. Last night the watchmen had paced and cried the hour, awakening the echoes, summoning the silent shadows with their lanterns. To-day there was no sense of mystery about streets and houses; daylight loves to disillusion. We had to content ourselves with quaint gables and old-world outlines. Behind us was one of the ancient gateways strong and massive, leading directly into the precincts of the cathedral. Framed through its archway we saw a portion of the vast flight of steps crowned by the uninteresting west front. It was one of the very best, most old-world bits of Gerona, and within a small circle were antiquities and outlines that would have furnished an artist with work for half his days.
Upon all this we turned our backs as we went towards San Pedro. Here everything is in opposition to the cathedral; the exterior of this Benedictine church is its glory. Rounding a corner we are in full view of the beautiful west Norman doorway with its delicately wrought carving and fern-leaf capitals.Above the doorway is a very effective cornice and above that an admirable rose window: altogether a rare example of the Italian Romanesque. The whole church is very striking, with its fine octagonal tower and Norman apses built into the old town walls. Just beyond the tower a gateway leads to the citadel and open country beyond. A church existed here as early as the tenth century—possibly earlier; the present church dates from the beginning of the twelfth, when it was given to the Benedictine Convent of Santa Maria by the Bishop of Carcassonne.
We passed through the lovely old doorway to the uninteresting interior: a nave and isles with rude arches and piers plain and square. There was something cold and pagan about the general effect, exaggerated no doubt by contrast with the cathedral we had just left. Anselmo was not insensible to the influence.
"If I were Vicar of San Pedro, half the delight of my days would vanish," he said. "Instead of living in a refined, almost celestial atmosphere, existence would be a daily protest against paganism. Let us pass to the cloisters."
Here indeed the scene changed. Smaller than those of the cathedral, they were almost as beautiful and effective though more ruined and more restored.
"Not time but wanton mischief has been at work here," said Anselmo. "The work of destruction was due to the French in the Peninsular War. Which of Spain's treasures did they leave untouched?"
Nevertheless a great part of their beauty remained. The passages were full of collected fragments; old tombs, broken pillars, carved capitals and ancient crosses: a museum of antiquities: and the Norman arches resting upon their marble shafts were a wonderful setting to the whole. Above them, all round the cloisters, a series of small blind Norman arcades rested upon delicately carved corbels—charming and unusual detail.
DOORWAY OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.DOORWAY OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.
Within a few yards of San Pedro was a still more ancient and interesting church with a most picturesque interior; yet a church no longer, for it has been turned into workshops. A low octagonal tower crowns a red-tiled roof with slightly overhanging eaves. Beneath the eaves repose small blind arcades, and hereand there in the lower hall other arcades are gradually crumbling away. The wonderful roof is rounded and broken into sections to suit the plan of the building. Ancient eyelets admit faint rays of light, and a fine rounded arch points to what was once the principal doorway.
The interior is domed, vaulted and massive, black with age. Small, it seems to carry one back to the days when Christians were few and worshipped in secret. Now fitted as a carpenter's shop, it is full of the sound of hammer and plane. In one corner, men are melting glue and heating irons at a huge fireplace. The floor is uneven and below the level of the road. Light enters with difficulty. An obscure, suggestive scene worthy of Rembrandt, who would have revelled in this combination of mysterious gloom and human occupation.
The master, a stalwart Spaniard, bade us enter and gave us welcome. He was probably a man who did not trouble himself about religion, but his reverence and admiration, even affection for Father Anselmo were evident.
"You honour me with your presence and bring back a sacred atmosphere to this desecrated building," he said to the priest. "Not every day will you come upon such a scene. Yet there is a certain fitness in it after all. Was not Joseph a carpenter? and did not our Saviour work in the carpenter's shop? So that, as it seems to me, it has become noble above all other callings. And so, if this church must be turned to secular use, we have chosen for the best. To me there is no sense of desecration. You have San Pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there is room and to spare in both."
"I fear you seldom add to the number of worshippers," said Anselmo, with the mildest of rebukes. "Yet, Miguel, how often have I said there is good in you—an apprehension of the beauty of a religious life—if only you would not allow it to run to seed."
"Father," returned Miguel good-humouredly—it was curious to hear an older man thus address a younger—"all in good time. I conceive that I am living a fair life, working hard, treating my wife well, looking after my children. But somehow I can't go to confession—what have I to confess, in the name of wonder?—and I never feel a bit the better for Mass, high or low. SoI just make a religion of daily life, and by-and-by, when I am old, I will try to find benefit in your set forms and ceremonies."
Anselmo shook his head. We knew how closely he sympathised with at least one part of Miguel's objections, though he could not tell him so. He only looked a vain remonstrance, which Miguel received with the good-natured smile that seemed a part of himself.
"Last Sunday," said Anselmo, placing his hand on Miguel's shoulder, "I took for my text those words which are some of the most solemn, most hopeless, most full of warning in the whole Bible:'And the door was shut.'There, Miguel, is a sermon in a nutshell. Bear it in mind and ponder over it. Your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure of the morrow? Forgive me," turning to us; "I did not come here for this, but Miguel and I are old friends and understand each other. As continual dropping will wear away a stone, so I seldom neglect to put in a word when we meet, though to-day I might for your sake have refrained. It will tell in the end," nodding to Miguel, "for he has a conscience and I will not let it rest. And what a building in which to preach a sermon!" looking upwards and around. "These blackened vaults, those massive time-defying walls, this earthy, uneven floor—everything suggests a pagan rather than Christian past. If anything could heighten the effect it is those weird workers at the fire with faces lighted up by tongues of flame. All seems a remnant of barbarism. But it is a wonderful spot, and I come again and again and every time it reads a fresh lesson to the soul. The whole place seems full of ghostly shadows. And it is perfect, as you see; transepts, a chancel and apses; nothing wanting. And so, Miguel, you who so to say dwell in the odour of sanctity, on ground once consecrated, within walls once devoted to the service of Heaven, should be influenced by your surroundings and become a shining light."
"Then I fear it will never be anything but a reflected light," laughed Miguel, "and that proceeding from your revered and beloved person. I shall be content if only the shadow of Elijah's mantle touches me in falling."
We left the wonderful little building so crowded withinterest past and present. Miguel professed to feel honoured by our visit, and placing himself in attitude outside his door intimated that he should like to be taken with our instantaneous camera. This was done and the result promised in due time. We left him standing there—a tall, strong, magnificent specimen of his race, with hair turning grey and rugged features full of a certain power.