DESECRATED CHURCH: GERONA.DESECRATED CHURCH: GERONA.
"That man has in him the making of a hero," said Anselmo, as we passed through the gateway in the old wall. "In adifferent station of life he would have been a master of the world. But I always feel that the lives and destinies of such men, missed here, will be carried on to perfection in another state of existence. Great powers were never meant to be lost. Here he is the acorn, there he will become the full-grown tree bearing fruit."
We were climbing towards the ruined citadel and at last found ourselves within the once formidable fortress. Much remained to show the strength of what had been, but its immense area was now given up to silence and weeds.
"It is full of a sad atmosphere and melancholy recollections," said Anselmo. "One goes back in spirit to the terrible days of the past. First that War of Succession, when Gerona with two thousand men manfully but hopelessly resisted Philip V. with an army five times as great. Again in 1808, with three hundred men, chiefly English, she repulsed Duhesme with his six thousand warriors. In 1809 the French besieged her with thirty-five thousand men. Alvarez, who was then Governor—you will have observed his house in the cathedral square—was terribly handicapped. He had little food and scarcely any ammunition, but was one of the bravest and wisest men of Spain. The siege was long and fierce, the suffering great. We were much helped by the English, but your gallant Colonel Marshall was killed in the breaches. It is said that Alvarez wept at his death, declaring he had lost his right hand. In such straits was the town that even the women enrolled themselves into a company dedicated to Santa Barbara. The enemy failed to take the city; never was resistance more manful and determined. Many of the besieging generals gave up in angry impatience and went off.
"But at last two new enemies arose—famine and disease—inseparable spectres. Before these Gerona could not stand. Everything depended on Alvarez, and he fell a prey to fever. A successor was appointed whose first and last act was to capitulate. The siege had lasted nearly eight months, and the French lost fifteen thousand men. So," looking around, "we are on classic ground, sacred to courage, consecrated by human suffering, watered with streams of human blood. Gerona has never recovered. She has steadily declined and still declines.
OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA.OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA.
Nevertheless, she is and ever will be Gerona the brave and beautiful."
Anselmo had not exaggerated. Gerona was indeed a revelation. It is not a Segovia, for there is only one Segovia in the world; but, little known or visited, it is yet one of Spain's most picturesque and interesting towns. Nature and art have combined to make it so—the art of the Middle Ages, not of to-day. A modern element exists, but the new and the old, the hideous and the beautiful are so well divided by the river, that you may wander through the ancient streets undisturbed by the nineteenth century and fancy yourself in dreamland.
CLOISTERS OF SAN PEDRO.CLOISTERS OF SAN PEDRO.
We had mounted to the highest point of the ruins and seated ourselves on the embankment. Fragments of the old citadel lay about in all directions; crumbling walls, desolated chambers, dark entrances leading to underground vaults. Over all grew tall sad weeds, so suggestive of vanished hands and departed glory. It was a romantic scene, and as we sat and pondered, citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast army; the ground trembled with the tramp of horsemen, march of troops. In imagination we saw the dead and dying,the bold resistance to human foes, the falling away before a foe that was not human. The air was full of the shout of warriors, flash of swords, roar of cannon. Then the vision passed away, leaving nothing but the empty deserted scene before us. The grass on which we sat was covered with flowers, and wild thyme scented the air with its pungent fragrance. A little below, stretching far round, were the old town walls, grey and massive.
The ground in front broke into a ravine, disclosing fresh outlines of towers, walls and ancient houses. San Pedro was conspicuous, and just beyond it the short octagon of the desecrated church. In its rich sheltered slope grew a luxuriant garden, with hanging shrubs and weeping trees and many fruits of the earth. To-day, it was a scene of peace and plenty; wars and rumours of wars might never have been or be again. Above all, within the ancient walls rose the outlines of the cathedral overlooking the whole town and vast surrounding country as though in perpetual benediction. Beside us sat Father Anselmo, his pale refined face and clear-cut features full of the beauty of holiness.
Suddenly the great cathedral bell struck out the twelve strokes of mid-day, and we listened in silence as the last faint vibrations seemed to die away amidst the distant Pyrenees.
"It is my summons," said the priest. "I would fain linger with you, but duty calls me elsewhere. I cannot say farewell. Let us again meet to-morrow."
We promised; then looking steadily at him saw a wave of emotion pass over his expressive face. Following his intent gaze, our eyes rested upon a slight, graceful figure in the dress of aReligieuse, flitting silently through the small square beside the desecrated church. Miguel, who stood at his door, bowed as to a saint.
"Sister Anastasia," said Anselmo, his eyes having already betrayed the fact. "She is bound on some errand of mercy. May Heaven have her in its holy keeping!"
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"—The unexpected happens—under the probe—Wise reservation—Born to command—Contrasts—Nothing new under the sun—The señora prepares for the fair—Grievance not very deep seated—Bewitching appearance—Señora dramatic—Ernesto—Marriage a lottery—Every cloud its silver lining—Geronaen fête—Delormais' mission—Deceptive appearances—Evils of conscription—Ernesto's ambition—Les beaux jours de la vie—Rosalie—A fair picture—Strange similarity—Heavenwards—Anastasia or Rosalie—Her dreams and visions—Modern Paul and Virginia—Eternal possession—A Gerona saint—The better part—More heresy—Fénélon—One creed, one worship—Not peace but a sword—Not dead to the world—Angel of mercy—H. C. mistaken—Earthly idyll.
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"—The unexpected happens—under the probe—Wise reservation—Born to command—Contrasts—Nothing new under the sun—The señora prepares for the fair—Grievance not very deep seated—Bewitching appearance—Señora dramatic—Ernesto—Marriage a lottery—Every cloud its silver lining—Geronaen fête—Delormais' mission—Deceptive appearances—Evils of conscription—Ernesto's ambition—Les beaux jours de la vie—Rosalie—A fair picture—Strange similarity—Heavenwards—Anastasia or Rosalie—Her dreams and visions—Modern Paul and Virginia—Eternal possession—A Gerona saint—The better part—More heresy—Fénélon—One creed, one worship—Not peace but a sword—Not dead to the world—Angel of mercy—H. C. mistaken—Earthly idyll.
THATsame afternoon the people had recovered from their glamour. The fair was in full swing, Gerona festive. It was a general holiday and work was suspended. The shops were open, but no one attempted to make purchases. Even our industrious little lady with the idle husband gave up hoping for customers and turned to pleasure. And she took her pleasure as she did her work, with a great amount of earnestness.
Luncheon had long been over. Black coffee and headache were of the past. The Silent Enigma had gone their way. Mutely they had risen, taken their hats, and marched out in a procession of three. Delormais had duly administered his homily; and after so strangely opening his heart had gone into the town to prosecute his mission. Whether an inspection of the numerous convents, a private embassy from the Pope, or some other weighty matter only to be entrusted to a man of tact and judgment, he did not say.
Before separating we had asked him if his object in visiting Gerona were ecclesiastical or domestic, concerned himself or his office.
"Your question is very natural, but on that point I must be silent," he returned. "My mission—I may tell you so much—is delicate and momentous. It is secret, but the secret is not mine, and can no more be disclosed than a secret of the confessional. Just now when I promised to relate to you a part of my life I was offering you of my own. No one has a right to stay me. My experiences injure none. I might publish them to-morrow and disturb no one's slumbers. But at the present moment I may call myself an ambassador—though not in bondage like St. Paul—and every act I do and every word I utter need be consecrated by prayer and reflection."
"Who would have supposed anything so weighty within this little town?" we remarked. "Before arriving we looked upon it as a deserted village, the ends of the earth. From the train Gerona appears in the last stage of misery and destitution."
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?" quoth the priest. "The unexpected happens. I have long learned not to judge beforehand; above all not to be prejudiced by appearances. Rags may conceal the noblest heart, and a silken doublet cover the bosom of a Judas. Confess," laughing, "that when I took my seat next to you just now you voted me intrusive; said to yourself: 'Why does this old man usurp my elbow room, with ten vacant chairs lower down? He is troublesome. I will chill him with a proud disdain.' And now all is changed and you ask me to sit next you at dinner. Is it not so?"
So near the truth, indeed, that one felt as though under the searching X-rays. "Suffering is misanthropical," we replied. "Not physical but heart pain brings out the sympathies. So it is dangerous to ask a favour of a man tortured by gout—or headache."
"All which really means that I knew you better than you know yourself," returned Père Delormais, in his rich, round tones. "That is only a general experience. And now I go my way. If all be well, we meet again at dinner. Ah! I never speak without that reservation. How many times have I seen the evening appointment cancelled by death at noon."
STREET IN GERONA.STREET IN GERONA.
He left the room; a tall, stately figure with hair white as snow; a man full of life and energy, evidently born to commandand fill the high places of earth: a power for good or evil as he should be well or ill-directed. A very different nature from Anselmo, whom we had left at mid-day. The one ruling the destinies of men; the other content to follow in the Divine footsteps of humility and love; satisfied with a limited horizon; doing good by precept and example but asking no wider sphere than his little world. Yet in his way capable of influencing human hearts; of stirring up enthusiasm in a great crusade if only the torch of ambition inflamed his zeal. Very differentthe method and influence of the two men, though each had the same end in view. But in the many phases of human nature some must be led, others driven. One will hear the still, small voice, another needs the burning bush; James was the Son of Thunder, Barnabas of Consolation. As in the days of old, so now.
STREET IN GERONA.STREET IN GERONA.
We too went our way down the broad marble staircase of the ancient palace, but with no secret or delicate mission to perform like Delormais. We had followed rather closely, but up and down the street not a vestige of him remained. Whether he had gone right or left we knew not. The place was deserted. Looking upwards nothing was visible but outlines of the rare old houses. Here and there a gabled roof and dormer window; many a wrought-iron balcony; many a Gothic casement rich in tracery and decoration; many a lower window protected by a strong iron grille, despair of serenaders, consolation of parents, paradise of artists.
It was now that we saw our industrious and amiable señora preparing for the fair. Again the mantilla was being gracefully arranged. The lady—very properly—had evidently no idea of neglecting the good looks nature had bestowed upon her.
"Ah, señor," as we stopped with a polite greeting, "for a whole week this fair is the upsetting and devastation of the town. It comes with all its shows and shoutings; distracts our attention; we may as well close the shutters for all the business that is done; finally it walks off with all our spare money. And who is a bit the better for it?"
But madame's grievance was evidently not very deep-seated, for she laughed as she adjusted the folds of her mantilla more becomingly, and looking across at a mirror could only confess herself satisfied with her bewitching appearance.
Near her stood a good-looking boy of some fourteen years, who evidently just then thought the attractions of the fair far more important than his mother's adorning. He was impatient to be gone.
"Calm yourself, my treasure," she remonstrated. "The day is yet young. Chestnuts will not all be roasted, nor brazen trumpets all sold. These are eternal and inexhaustible, like the snows of the Sierra. Oh! youth, youth, with all its capacities!"she dramatically added. "Ah, señor, you will think me very old, when you see me the mother of this great boy!"
We gallantly protested she was under a delusion: he must be her brother.
"My son, señor, my son. I married at sixteen, when I was almost such a child as he, and I really do feel more like his sister than his mother.Ahimé!If I had only waited a few years longer I might have chosen more wisely; perhaps have found a husband to keep me instead of my keeping him. Marriage is a lottery."
We suggested that every cloud has its silver lining.
"True, señor. And after all if I did not draw the highest number, neither did I fall upon the lowest. This dear youth too is a consolation. He is fond of swords and trumpets, but never shall be a soldier. I have long had the money put by for a substitute in case he should be unlucky. For that matter, Heaven has prospered my industry and in a humble way we are at ease."
This recalled the scene witnessed in the earlier hours of the morning and the appointment half made with the colonel for the morrow.
"Evidently you do not approve of conscription, madame, which to-day seems to be running hand-in-hand with the revels of the fair."
"I see that conscription is a necessary evil," returned madame, "for without it we should not get soldiers; but you will never persuade me any good can come of it. That my son here, who has been carefully brought up, should suddenly be thrown under the influence of the worst and vilest of mankind—no, it is impossible to avoid disaster. So, Ernesto, never fix your affections on a military life, for it can never be, never shall be. I would sooner make you a priest, though I haven't the least ambition that way either."
To do the boy justice, he seemed quite ready to yield, laughed at the idea of priesthood, and if fond of swords and trumpets, his military ardour went no further. If one might judge, a civil life would be his choice, and possibly a successful one, for he seemed to inherit his mother's energy with her dark eyes and brilliant colouring. But for the moment thefair and the fair only was the object of his desires. This was in accordance with the fitness of things. He was at the age which comes once only, with swift wings, when life has no alloy and happiness lies in gratifying the moods and fancies of the moment.
"Now I am ready," said the mother, evidently very happy herself. "Ah, señor, you are too good," as we slipped a substantial coin into the boy's hand and bade him buy his mother a fairing and himself chestnuts and ambitions. "But after all, the pleasure of conferring happiness is the most exquisite in the world. There is nothing like it. So perhaps I should envy, not chide you."
They went off together, the boy taking his mother's arm with that confidential affection and good understanding so often seen abroad. To him the world was still a paradise, and his mother at the head of all good angels.Les beaux jours de la vie—short-lived, but eternally remembered. So, parents, indulge your children but do not spoil them. The one is quite possible without the other.
It was to be a day of encounters. We followed our happy pair down the deserted street, admiring the graceful walk of the mother, the boy's tall, straight, well-knit form and light footstep. As they disappeared round the corner leading to the noisy scene of action, a quiet figure issued from beneath the wonderful arcades and approached in our direction. She was dressed as a Sister of Mercy and seemed to glide along with noiseless movements.
"Rosalie," we breathed, turning to H. C. for confirmation.
"Without doubt," he replied. "There could not be two Rosalies in one town."
"Or in one world."
On the impulse of the moment we went up and, bareheaded, spoke to her; felt we knew her—had known her long. Anselmo's vivid confession had taken the place of time and custom.
Yes, it was Rosalie. A more beautiful face was seldom seen, never a more holy; all the refinement and repose of Anselmo's added to an infinite feminine grace and softness. They were even strangely alike, as though the same impulse intheir lives, a constant dwelling upon each other, their fervent, though purified, affection had created a similarity of feature and expression. Hers was the face of one whose life is turned steadily heavenwards, to whom occasionally, whether waking or sleeping, a momentary glimpse of unseen glories is vouchsafed, one whose daily work on earth is that of a ministering spirit. As far as it is possible or permitted here, Rosalie bore the evidence of a perfect and unalloyed life that had never looked back or attempted to serve two masters. Perhaps she might have become a mystic, but the serious and practical nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy groove, free from introspection. She was walking her lonely pilgrimage along the narrow road of her dream with firm, unflinching steps. The end, far off though it might yet be for Anselmo and for her, could not be doubted.
"Ma sœur, you are Anastasia, devoted to good works; and once were Rosalie devoted to Anselmo," we said, without waiting to choose our words. "There could not be another Rosalie in Gerona, as there could not be another Anastasia."
"Nay," she returned, "I am Rosalie still, and still devoted to Anselmo. There is no past tense for our affection, señor, which sweetens my days and makes me brave in life's battles."
She seemed neither surprised nor startled by our sudden address. Calm self-possession never for a moment forsook her, though in our rashness we might have been probing a half-healed wound or rousing long dormant emotions.
But it was far otherwise. Naturally as Anselmo had told us his story she replied to our greeting. They were a wonderful pair, these two. United, their careers would have been very different, but never otherwise than pure and holy. As we spoke to her a slight colour mounted to her pale, lovely face, a light came into her eyes, a sweet smile parted the lips. She looked almost childlike in her innocence, utter absence of self-consciousness.
"Yes, I was Rosalie," she repeated; "and I am Rosalie still, though my life compels me to adopt a new name. But I ever think of myself as Rosalie, and in my dreams am Rosalie of the days gone by. Sometimes my mother visits me in those dreams and calls me Rosalie. If we retain our names in thenext world I shall be Rosalie once more. Señor, you have been with Anselmo and he has told you our story—or how could you know?"
"It is true. We have been with Anselmo, were with him this morning and parted at mid-day. As the clock struck twelve we stood on the ruined citadel and saw you cross the square of San Pedro."
"Ah, señor, I saw you also, for I recognised Anselmo. He is never within many yards of me but seen or unseen I know it. Some spiritual instinct never fails to tell me he is near."
"You are both remarkable. Your love and constancy ought to be placed side by side with the histories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and Héloïse. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above them."
"Señor, if we only knew, there are thousands of histories in the world similar to our own, but they are never heard of. Shakespeare records a Juliet, Chateaubriand an Atala, and they become immortal; but what of the numberless heroines who have had no writer to send them down to posterity? Depend upon it they are as the sand of the sea. And is it so much to give up for Heaven? We possess each other still, Anselmo and I; and the possession is for ever. You think it strange to hear a Sister of Mercy talking of love in this calm and passionless way," she smiled. "You imagine me cold and severe. You do not believe that I have feelings deep as the sea, wide as eternity. It is true that my love for Anselmo is only the love we should all bear towards each other; but for him it is supreme and exalted above all words. In my dreams he comes to me as an angel of light bidding me be of good courage; in my waking hours he is my best and truest friend, my hero and my king. Is not this better than all the passionate vows which rarely survive one's early youth, and too often die under the strain of life's daily work? For me, Anselmo is still surrounded by all the romance of our first youth. He is a sort of earthly shekinah, a pillar of fire guiding me onwards."
"And you never regret the choice you have made? the companionship you have given up? the right of calling Anselmo husband? the sacrifice of motherhood, which is said to be sweetest of all earthly ties to woman?"
CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.
"Regret?" she softly murmured. "A hundred times since it happened conviction has been vouchsafed to me in my dreams, strengthening my faith, showing the wisdom of my choice. Every day of my life I thank Heaven for the power it gave me. Had I married Anselmo, he would have become my religion; my heart's best affection given to him, Heaven would have come second. I know and feel it. And we know Who has said: 'He that loveth father and mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.' Yet that would have been my case in the earlier years; and in the later—who can tell?—perhaps what I have described."
"Impossible, for Anselmo is worthy of all love, and could never change. One rarely meets any one like him. He seems little less than saint."
"He is very saintly," replied Rosalie, with almost a look of ecstasy. "I frequently meet the priesthood in the sick-room, at the bedside of the dying. The difference in the ministrations is wonderful. The very entrance of Anselmo brings consolation, seems to sanctify the chamber. Sometimes it is almost as though an angel spoke."
If she at all exaggerated, who could wonder? She saw and heard and judged everything through her own nature; and to the sick and sorrowing no doubt came herself as a rainbow of hope.
"You have done wisely and chosen the better part," we said. "Your life in consequence is peaceful and happy."
"It could not be more so," answered Rosalie. "I have my earthly shekinah to lighten my path. My heart is so much in my work that if I lived for a century I should never weary of it. What higher mission or greater privilege could there be? I am constantly at the bedside of the sick, assisting the last moments of the dying, helping to restore others to health. The love they give me is unbounded. My existence is made up of love. I feel I have many in the other world who pray for me, perhaps watch over my daily life."
"But are they not in purgatory?" For of course Rosalie was a Roman Catholic.
"I do not believe in purgatory," she murmured in subdued tones. "I have seen many die who cannot possibly begoing to torment. If there be a transition state, it is one of bliss and holiness, where the soul, in gratitude to God for His mercies, grows and expands until it becomes fit for the heaven of heavens."
"But this is perplexing. Here are two devout Romanists who reject the very first conditions of their faith. Anselmo believes not in confession, you reject purgatory. Of course we agree with you, but then we are Protestants."
"Hush!" murmured Rosalie. "The very walls of Gerona have ears. We can only act up to our convictions, and where they disagree with the Church keep differences to ourselves. What Anselmo believes, I believe. It is wonderful how we think alike in all great matters. This morning I had the privilege of a long conversation with Père Delormais, who is staying for a week here. There, indeed, is a broad-minded Churchman who ought to be Pope of Rome. He would favour Protestants as much as Roman Catholics—and scandalise the narrow-minded community. In that he reminds me of the Abbé Fénélon, who is so earnest and devout. Do you know his 'Spiritual Letters,' señor?"
"It is one of our favourite books, Rosalie. Those who read and follow Fénélon will hardly go wrong. We have always felt he was a Protestant at heart."
"A follower of Christ at heart," returned Rosalie, "without distinction of forms and ceremonies. To him if the heart was right, the rest mattered little. He cared not whether a soul worshipped within or without the Church of Rome. Would that all errors could be swept away and we were all Protestants and Catholics, united in one creed and ritual, even as we worship the one true God and believe in the all-sufficient Saviour."
"That day is far distant. We must wait the millennium, Rosalie. Until then it is not to be peace but a sword. The bitterest persecutors are those who fight for what they call Religion."
"'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,'" quoted Rosalie. "That applies equally to the 'Household of Faith.' There is the prophecy. I suppose we must not look for a Church Triumphant until the Church Militant has ceased.But I must go my way. Señor, I rejoice that you spoke to me. I am glad to know you. Whether the acquaintance be of hours or years, you are evidently Anselmo's friends, therefore mine. Do not think my heart closed to all human interests because I wear a religious garb and go through life as Sister Anastasia, ministering to the sick and dying. On the contrary, I take pleasure in all the worldly concerns of my friends. I like to hear of their being married and given in marriage. Nothing delights me more than the sight of a happy home and devoted family. And I like to hear of all the changes, improvements, inventions that are turning the world upside down and revolutionising the lives of men. If you are staying in Gerona we shall meet again. I am constantly flitting to and fro. My life is a great privilege, as I have said. You will keep a corner in your heart for me and for Anselmo; one niche for both. Adieu, señor. Adieu."
She glided away rapidly with her quiet graceful motion; an angel of mercy, we thought, if earth ever held one.
"Never, never should I have had strength to give her up," said H. C., following her with all his susceptible nature in his eyes. "This morning I admired Anselmo, now I feel quite angry with him."
"You do wrong and are mistaken. It was her choosing, not his. He behaved nobly. They have found their vocation. Both are happy, and we cannot doubt it is Heaven's ordering. There is no shadow in their lives; remember how rare that is. You know Mrs. Plarr's lines:
For them the genii have separated. Their life has no pain. Think of Rosalie's vision. Had they married it might have been all sorrow and suffering. No, best as it is. Their story is an idyll too perfect for this world. They have had their romance, and have kept it."
Demons at work—In the crowd—Ernesto and his mother—Roasted chestnuts—Instrument of torture—New school of anatomy—Rhine-stones or diamonds?—Happy mother—Honest confession—Danger of edged tools—Cayenne lozenges for the monkeys—Joseph—Early compliments—Ernesto pleads in vain—Down by the river—Music of the reeds—Rich prospect—Faust—Singers of the world—Joseph takes tickets—Gerona keeps late hours—Its little great world—Between the acts—Successful evening—In the dark night—On the bridge—Silence and solitude—Astral bodies—Joseph turns Job's comforter—Magnetism—Delormais psychological—Alone in the streets—Saluting the Church militant—Haunted staircase again—Sighs and rustlings—H. C. retires—"Drink to me only with thine eyes"—Delormais' challenge—Leads the way—Illumination—Coffee equipage—"Only the truth is painful"—Lost in reverie.
Demons at work—In the crowd—Ernesto and his mother—Roasted chestnuts—Instrument of torture—New school of anatomy—Rhine-stones or diamonds?—Happy mother—Honest confession—Danger of edged tools—Cayenne lozenges for the monkeys—Joseph—Early compliments—Ernesto pleads in vain—Down by the river—Music of the reeds—Rich prospect—Faust—Singers of the world—Joseph takes tickets—Gerona keeps late hours—Its little great world—Between the acts—Successful evening—In the dark night—On the bridge—Silence and solitude—Astral bodies—Joseph turns Job's comforter—Magnetism—Delormais psychological—Alone in the streets—Saluting the Church militant—Haunted staircase again—Sighs and rustlings—H. C. retires—"Drink to me only with thine eyes"—Delormais' challenge—Leads the way—Illumination—Coffee equipage—"Only the truth is painful"—Lost in reverie.
WEwere facing the wonderful arcades which still seemed haunted by Rosalie's shadow, so vivid the impression she left behind her. It was one of the most striking bits of Gerona the beautiful, with its massive masonry and deep recesses requiring sunlight to relieve their mysterious gloom.
In a few moments we stood once more on the bridge, looking upon the remarkable scene. The demons were in full work down in the dry bed of the river; their altars threw out tongues of flame as wood, coal and braise mingled their elements, and the air seemed full of the scent of roasted chestnuts.
Those marvellous houses stood on either side with their old-world outlines and weather-beaten stains. Above them rose the towers of Gerona's churches, sharply cutting the grey sky. To our right, the boulevard stretched far down, with its waving, rustling trees. All the shows were in full operation;streams of people went to and fro; the booths were making a fortune; the Dutch auction was giving away its wares—if the auctioneer might be relied on.
We joined the crowd and presently felt a tug at our elbow. It was Ernesto with radiant face, his hands full of chestnuts freely offered and accepted. We found it easy to persuade ourselves the indigestible horrors were excellent.
"Ernesto, you are taking liberties," said his mother, as the boy took our arm to confide his purchases. A Rhine-stone brooch for the mother, which Mrs. Malaprop would have declared quite an object of bigotry and virtue; a wonderful knife for himself, full of sharp blades and secret springs. A purse capable of holding gold, and a pocket-book that would soon become dropsical with a boy's treasures. Finally, from the innermost recess of a trousers' pocket, he produced for an instant—a catapult; to be held a profound secret from the mother.
"It keeps her awake at night," he confided; "and when she does get to sleep she dreams of smashed windows and murdered cats. Now I never smash windows, though I do go for the cats when I have a chance. It does them no harm. If I hit them, you hear a thud like a sound from a drum—the cats are not over-fed in these parts—but instead of tumbling down dead, which would be exciting, they rush off like mad."
"Perhaps they die afterwards, Ernesto, of fractured liver or broken heart."
This was at once negatived.
"Oh no, cats haven't livers and hearts like human beings. Their insides are nothing but india-rubber. You can't kill a cat. If one fell from the top of San Filiu, it would get up, shake its paws and run away."
We noted this revelation, intending to bring it before the Faculty on our return to England, which evidently still gropes in Egyptian darkness. The catapult was restored to safe depths, and before long no doubt many a domestic tabby would be missing; there would be widowed cats and orphaned kittens in many a household.
Then Ernesto, drawing us under an arcade out of the throng of the fair, insisted upon fastening his mother's mantilla with the new brooch that we might all admire the flashing stones.
"I believe they have made a mistake, and these are real diamonds," he cried excitedly, kissing his mother and duly admiring the effect. "And I haven't spent half my pocket-money yet."
"Thanks to you, señor," said the happy mother. "I was his first thought. He bought me the brooch before he would look at a knife or chestnut. It shall be kept amongst my treasures."
She was evidently almost as happy and light-hearted as the boy, her eyes flashing with proud affection. No great care haunted her life in spite of her conjugal good-morning.
"Confess that your lot is favoured," we said, "and you would not change your lazy husband even if you had the chance. Confess you adore him and are to be envied."
"Well, señor, you are not my father-confessor," she laughed, "but I will confess to you all the same. I admit I would rather bear the ills I have than fly to those of which I know nothing," unconsciously quoting Shakespeare.
"Then the conjugal good-morning must be a little sweetened. It is dangerous to play with edged tools."
Again she laughed, a laugh free from anxiety.
"We understand each other, señor. If I received him too amiably he would not appear upon the scene till twelve o'clock. Not that I really mind; but it is a bad example for Ernesto. The boy, however, takes after me. Never will grass grow under his feet."
Ernesto was impatient to be off; he must certainly act up to the proverb to-day.
"Now for the shows," cried the lad. "We are losing too much time here. I smell roasted chestnuts, but their flavour is better. We must cross the iron bridge to get to the shows. I want to hear the lions growl, and administer cayenne lozenges to the monkeys. It is great fun to see them. You must often have done the same, señor?"
We virtuously disowned the impeachment. But he was full of harmless mischief, after the manner of boys healthy in mind and body; free and open in his thoughts and ways.
A few minutes and we found ourselves in the market-place listening to the clown who had used superhuman exertions lastnight, still apparently in excellent health and spirits. Night was the great harvest-time, but even now his labours were receiving fair success. The people had got over their first glamour and were responding.
"There is José, your landlord's son, señor, looking to right and left," said madame, in the interval between two terrific trumpet blasts. "Probably searching for you. Ah! he sees us."
The tall, slight young man was making his way through the few remaining stalls in the market. These sold nothing but fruit and were altogether neglected. Gerona did not shine in that department.
"I have been looking for you everywhere," said our young host as he came up, bowing politely after the fashion of his country. "I thought, señor, you might want me to pilot you about the town; but you are in the hands of a fairer guide, and I am not needed."
Joseph had evidently not pursued his studies at Tours for nothing, and was beginning early to turn compliments.
"On the contrary, we shall be glad of your company," we replied. "Ernesto and his mother are going in to hear the lions roar and administer delicacies to the monkeys. And having no ambition to shake in our shoes or be taken up for cruelty to animals, we would rather explore the antiquities of Gerona under your care. So you appear at the right moment."
"Ah, señor, do come in," pleaded Ernesto. "I should enjoy it so much more. And you would shriek with delight when you saw the antics of the monkeys eating cayenne——"
"Ernesto, you are incorrigible," we interrupted, laughing. "We decline the risk; and whilst detesting monkeys, we have a conscience. Yours evidently has still to be awakened. But you may come and tell us your experiences at the hotel later on—that is if you are still at large."
So the boy, taking his mother's arm, boldly mounted the steps, and with a final happy nod, and flourishing a small packet of cayenne lozenges, he disappeared beyond the curtain. How the lions would roar or the monkeys receive the indignity remained to be seen. Ernesto was not wanting in purpose and might be trusted to do his best.
We left the shows and the crowd for a moment, wentround to the banks of the river, and listened to the whispering reeds and rushes. What repose; what a contrast to the glare and glitter and crowding of the fair. Not a soul visible excepting the ferryman a little way up-stream, waiting dejectedly in his boat for custom that would not come. The rustling reeds harmonised musically with the quiet flow of the water as it rippled and plashed on its way to the sea. To the left the plain spread far and wide—a rich, productive country with much fair beauty about it. Where we stood the river was broad and reflected the magic outlines of the town, faint and subdued under the grey skies. Above the music of the rushes we could hear the distant hum of the pleasure-seekers, where everything was life and movement.
Presently passing the theatre, we saw "Faust" announced for that evening. An operatic company had arrived from Barcelona. Wonders would never cease. In this dull town, decaying remnant of Spain, there was an Opera-house, and the tempter was to play off his wiles on beautiful Margaret. What would the performance resemble?
"Quite a large house," said Joseph, "and a very fine one; the players are often excellent."
Of course he judged from his own experience, which had never gone beyond Tours; never dreamed of the great voices of the world. Who indeed could dream of Titiens, never having heard of her? Or of Ilma di Murska?—those stars in the world of song: not to mention Grisi and Malibran the incomparable, of the far-gone days. Still, he spoke with enthusiasm, and we felt we must hear this Faust and Marguerite.
"Take three tickets for to-night, José, and you shall point out all theéliteof Gerona; the great, the good, the beautiful."
Joseph needed no second bidding. Diving through the doorway to the office he returned with three excellent stalls. The performance was to be fashionably late. Everything in the way of entertainment is late in Spain, and especially in Gerona. At night the streets are soon deserted, but people do not go to bed. They sit up in their own homes, amusing themselves.
"It is announced for half-past eight," said Joseph, "but seldom begins before nine."
OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA.OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA.
Accordingly before eight-thirty we found ourselves in our seats waiting the lifting of the curtain. The house was nearly empty, though it was within five minutes of the appointed hour. Not a sign of any orchestra. We feared a cold reception and a dead failure.
"Not at all," said Joseph. "It is always the same. Before nine o'clock the house will be full, with hardly an empty seat anywhere."
So it proved. About twenty minutes to nine the orchestra streamed in and took their places, laughed, talked and made jokes, as if the audience—now quickly appearing—had been so many cabbage-stalks. In various parts of the house there were notices forbidding smoking; but the musicians lighted their abominable pipes and cigars without ceremony, and soon ruined the atmosphere. We wondered how this would affect the singers, and when they came on they coughed, sneezed, and looked reproachful.
It was a large, well-appointed house, of excellent proportions. Half the town might surely find room here. Curtains and all such elements disturbing to the voice were conspicuous by their absence. Before nine o'clock every seat was filled, as Joseph had foretold.
Between the acts we were able to survey the little world of Gerona. Many clearly thought themselves members of a great world. Humility was not their leading virtue. From the construction of the house, every one was very much in evidence, and from our places in the front stalls we saw and heard perfectly. "Monarchs of all we survey," said H. C. after a long stare in all directions. "No, I don't quite mean that; it would be slightly embarrassing. I mean that we survey everything as though we were monarchs. It comes to the same."
Every species of temperament was represented; the solemn and sober, excited and flirting, prude and profligate. Extremes met. Some of the ladies made play with their eyes and fans, were full of small gestures and rippling laughter. Many were dressed "in shimmer of satin and pearls," their white arms and necks very décolletés. Thus we had both a play and an opera. It was quite as amusing to study the audience between the acts, as to watch the drama upon the stage. Ladies wereadmitted to the stalls, and the house looked more civilised in consequence. Many of the men in this polite Spain sat with their hats on until the curtain drew up. Altogether the house presented a very lively appearance.
"Who would have thought it!" said H. C. "The place overflows with wealth and rank. These people might be dukes and duchesses—and look the character much more than many of our 'Coronets and Norman blood.' Yet as we passed Gerona in the train it seemed nothing but an encampment for beggars. Beggars? Let me apologise. Beggars would want something more recherché. In these days that flourishing profession dines at eight o'clock and sleeps on down."
In the foyer, between one of the acts, we came into closer contact with this aristocratic crowd.
It was a very large long room, gorgeously fitted up; great mirrors giving back full-length reflections. Few ladies honoured it with their presence, but a crowd of short, dark, handsome Spaniards went to and fro, smoking cigarettes, wildly gesticulating about Margaret, abusing the unfortunate Siebel, openly passing their opinions upon the ladies of the audience. Mixing freely amongst them we heard many an amusing remark upon people we were able to identify on returning to our seats. At the end of the third act we began to feel like old habitués. A week in Gerona and we should be familiar with every one's history.
"A happy thought, coming here to-night," said H. C. "I am now quite at home amongst these people, and should like to call upon some of them to-morrow. That exquisite creature, for instance, with the lovely eyes, perfect features, and complexion of a blush rose. I believe—yes, I am sure—look—she is gazing at me with a very sweet expression!"
He was growing excited. We grasped his arm with a certain magnetic touch which recalled him to himself. Keepers have this influence on their patients.
"Look at the old woman next to her," he went on indignantly. "Can she be the mother of that lovely girl? She ought to blush for herself. Her dress-bodice ends at the waist. And behind her fan she is actually ogling a toothless old wretch who has just sat down near her."
Here, fortunately, the curtain went up, and H. C.'s emotions passed into another channel.
STREET IN GERONA.STREET IN GERONA.
The performance had equalled our modest expectations. One must not be too critical. If Faust was contemptible and Siebel impossible, Margaret and Mephistopheles saved all from failure. She was pretty and refined, with a certain touching pathos that appealed to her hearers. She sang with grace, too, but her voice was made for nothing larger than a drawing-room, and when the orchestra crashed out the dramatic parts, we had to imagine a great deal.
Siebel was the great stumbling-block and burlesque; her singing and acting so excruciating that when the audience ought to have melted to tears they laughed aloud. When Valentine died she clasped her hands, not in despair but admiration of the fine performance, looked at the audience as much as to say, "Would you not like him to get up and die again?" and when his body was carried off, skipped after it, as though assisting at some May-day frolic.
Faust was beneath criticism, and one felt angry with Margaret for falling in love with him. In reality she must have hated him. Mephistopheles, on the contrary, was admirable, and would have done honour to Her Majesty's in the days of Titiens and Trebelli.
The "Old Men's Chorus" was crowning triumph of the performance. Three decrepit objects came forward and quavered through their song. When it was ended the audience insisted upon having it all over again, whilst they kept up a running accompaniment of laughter, in which the old men joined as they retreated into the background.
Altogether it was a successful evening. Every one left in good humour, and many were charmed.
We went out into the night, glad to exchange the atmosphere. It looked doubly dark after the brilliancy of the house. Every light was out, every house buried in profound slumber. We turned to the bridge, and stood there until all the playgoers had streamed homewards, and silence and solitude reigned. Once more the chestnut-roasters had departed and their sacrificial altars were cold and dead. Down the boulevard not a creature was visible. Stalls and booths were closed, torches extinguished. The leaves of the trees gently rustled and murmured in the night wind. We almost felt as though we still saw Ernesto and his mother walking up and down in close companionship. It must have been their astral bodies. Both no doubt were slumbering, and perhaps the same vision haunted their dreams; broken windows and four-footed victims—seen from different points of view.
In the firmament a great change had taken place. The clouds had rolled away; not a vapour large as a man's hand remained to be seen; stars shone clear and brilliant; theGreat Bear ploughed his untiring way, and Orion, dipping westward, was closely followed by his faithful Sirius. All seemed to promise fair weather.
"What do you think of it, Joseph? Is your weatherwise astronomer for once proving a false prophet?"
"It looks like it," replied Joseph, gazing north and south. "No man is infallible," philosophically. "But our prophet has never been wrong yet, and I expect you will find the skies weeping in the morning."
"You are a Job's comforter, and ought to be called Bildad the Shuhite. Was not he the worst of the three, and would have the last word?"
Joseph shook his head. He was not acquainted with the Book of Job.
"I am jealous for the honour of my prophet," he laughed.
Standing on the bridge, we could see the dark flowing water beneath—a narrow shallow stream here, which reflected the flashing stars. The houses were steeped in gloom, all their quaint, old-world aspect hidden away. The night was growing apace, and it suddenly occurred to us that we had made a half-engagement with Delormais to hear passages from his life. Would he hold us to it? Or would reflection have brought a change of plans and an early pillow?
Surely there is a mental or psychological magnetism about people, neither realised nor understood, never sufficiently taken into account. As the thought flashed over us, a tall dark form in long cloak and round hat, full of dignity and power, turned the corner and approached the bridge. It was the priest.
"I knew it!" he cried in that sonorous voice which was like a deep and mellow diapason. "An unseen influence guided me to the bridge. You told me you were going to the opera. I felt that when it was over you would come here star-gazing and lose yourselves in this wonderful scene. And here, had I not sought you out, you would have remained another hour, forgetting the engagement to which I hold you."
"Nay, at this very moment recollection came to us," we returned. "We were wondering whether for once you had changed your mind and sought an early repose."
"My approach influenced you," said Delormais: "work of the magnetic power constantly passing to and fro between kindred spirits, as real as it is little estimated. No one believed in it more firmly than Goethe, who in spite of his contradictory life was in close touch with the supernatural. And amongst my own people, how many have declared the reality of this mysterious link between the material and spiritual. Even sceptical Voltaire admitted some invisible influence he could not analyse. Sceptical? Will you persuade me a man with so terrible a death-bed was ever sceptic at heart? It is impossible. But how could you think I should change my mind and forget my engagement? Uncertainty plays no part either in your character or mine. Let us to our rooms. There you will lend me your ears, and I will brew you black coffee to refresh you after your evening's dissipation. And if you like you shall bring your century-old flask, and I will not read you a homily. Or was it only the contents of the flask that was a century old?"
The hotel was at hand. We four alone possessed the street and awoke the silent echoes. Always excepting the ubiquitous old watchmen, who seemed to spend half their time in gazing at the great doorway, flashing weird lights and shadows with their lanterns. These they now turned upon us, but recognising the ecclesiastical figure, quickly lowered their lights, turned the spears of their staffs to the ground, and gave a military salute.
"As a member of the Church Militant such a greeting is perhaps not out of place," he laughed. "No general on this earth ever fought more valiantly than I to gain battles—but the weapons are wide as the issues. They fight for an earthly, I for a heavenly kingdom."
He spoke a few words to the watchmen; bade them be strong and of good courage; and we fancied—we were not quite certain—that he glided a small token of good-will into their hands.
Then we crossed the road, entered the courtyard, and passed up the broad marble staircase.
It was the hour for ghosts and shadows and unearthly sounds. Again we thought of the rich and rare crowd that hadpassed up and down in sacques and swords in the centuries gone by; every one of whom had long been a ghost and shadow in its turn. Again we saw clearly as in a vision that last happy pair who had separated—he to find death on the battlefield, she to rejoin him in the Land o' the Leal. Distinctly we heard the rustle of the gown, the fervency of their last embrace, the sighs that came in quick succession. So easily imagination runs away with us.
We were awakened to realities by José, who, heavy-eyed and dreamy, was politely wishing us good-night, hardly wakeful enough to reach his room.
"I will follow his example," said H. C. "The air of Gerona conduces to slumber. I verily believe you never sleep. To-morrow I shall hear that the good father's confessions terminated with the breakfast hour. Ah! I shall miss the black coffee—but I have a flask of my own, though its contents have nothing to do with the centuries."
Then Delormais turned to us, his eyes full of kindly solicitude.
"Are you equal to a vigil? Is it not too bad, after your hard day's work—pleasure is often labour—to ask you to give an old man an hour or two from your well-earned slumbers? Do you not also find the air of Gerona conducive to sleep? I warn you that at the first sign of drooping eyelid I dismiss the assembly."
"A challenge! Never was sleep less desired. Though the breakfast hour finds us here, as H. C. foretells, there shall be no want of attention. But do not forget the black coffee!"
We heard H. C.'s receding echoes through the labyrinthine passages; the closing of a door; then a voice gently elevated in song, utterly oblivious of small hours and unconscious neighbours. "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine," it warbled; "leave but a kiss within the cup, and I'll ne'er ask for wine."
Here recollection seemed to come to the voice; an open window looking on to a passage was softly closed, and all was silent. H. C. was evidently thinking of the charming face he had seen at the opera, all the more lovely and modest contrasted with the shameless old woman at its side.
Delormais led the way through the corridors. His light threw weird shadows around. A distant clock struck the hour of one. The hush in the house was ghostly. The very walls seemed pregnant with the secrets of the past. They had listened to mighty dramas political and domestic; heard love-vows made only to be broken; absorbed the laughter of joy and the tears of sorrow. All this they now appeared to be giving out as we went between them, treading quietly on marble pavement sacred to the memory of the dead.
We entered Delormais' sitting-room. At once he turned up two lamps, and lighting some half-dozen candles produced an illumination.
"One of my weaknesses," he said. "I love to take night walks and lose myself in thought under the dark starlit skies, but that is quite another thing. In my room I must have brilliancy."
"When you are a bishop you will so indulge this weakness that your palace will be called a Shining Light, its lord a Beacon of the Church."
A peculiar smile passed over the face of Delormais. We did not understand it at the moment, but knew its meaning later on.
Then he brought forward the coffee equipage, for which, if truth must be told, though slumber was never farther from us, we were grateful.
"I had it all prepared by our amiable host, and I have my own spirit-lamp, without which I never travel," said the priest. "There are times when I visit the most uncivilised, hope-forgotten places, and if I had not a few accessories with me, should fare badly."
The water soon boiled, an aromatic fragrance spread through the room; the clear black coffee was poured into white porcelain cups.
"But where is the supplement? I do not see the century-old flask," said Delormais.
"That is sacred to headache—or the charm would go; there are other fixed rules besides the Persian laws."
"I am glad to hear it. Then after all my little homily this morning was not needed. That is why you took it so amiably. Only the truth is painful."
He placed for us a comfortably cushioned armchair near the table, and one for himself. Our coffee equipage was between us, the steaming incense rising. A shaded lamp threw its rays upon the white china and crimson cloth, gently illumined the intellectual and refined face of Delormais. We could note every play of the striking features, every flash of the large dark eyes.
A sudden stillness came over him; he seemed lost in profound thought, his eyes took a deep, dreamy, far-away look. They were gazing into the past, and saw a crowd of events and people who had lived and moved and had their being, but were now invisible to all but the mental vision. The hands—firm, white, well-shaped and made for intellectual work—were spread out and met at the tips of the long slender fingers. The legs were crossed, bringing into prominence a shapely foot and ankle set off by a thin well-fitting shoe. In all matters of personal appointment Delormais was refined and fastidious.
For some minutes he appeared thus absorbed in mental retrospect. The man of life and energy had suddenly changed to contemplation. Apparently he had forgotten our presence, and the silence of the room was profound. One almost heard the rising of the incense from the coffee-cups, as it curled upwards in fantastic forms and devices, and died out. We were motionless as himself. Not ours to break the silence, though it grew strained. We had come to listen, and waited until the spirit moved him. Nor had we to wait long. He roused himself from his reverie; the dreamy light passed out of his eyes; his spirit seemed to come back to earth as he turned to us with a penetrating, kindly gaze.