MONISTROL.MONISTROL.
Away we went again and now began to ascend. Every moment widened our view and added to its splendour. Untilrecently all this had to be done by coach, a journey of many hours of courageous struggling. Now the whole thing is over in three-quarters of an hour, and it is good to feel that all the hard work is done mechanically. We had once gone through something similar in the Hex River Valley of South Africa, but in the Montserrat journey there was a more romantic element; the charm and glamour surrounding antiquity, the keen human interest attached to a religious institution dating from past ages. We easily traced the old zigzag carriage road up which horses had once toiled and struggled. Almost as zigzag was our present road, winding about like forked flashes of lightning.
The scene was almost appalling. Before us the ponderous Mons Serratus, with all its cracks and fissures, ready to fall and reduce the earth to powder. Its sharp, fantastic peaks against the clear sky looked like the ruins of some mighty castle. The mountain rises four thousand feet high and is twenty-four miles in circumference—a grey, barren mass of tertiary conglomerate, an overwhelming amount of rock upon rock seemingly thrown and piled against each other. In all directions are enormous cañons and gorges with precipitous ravines; one rent dividing the range having occurred, it is said, at the hour of the Crucifixion. No eye has ever penetrated the depths below.
Far up the mountain reposes the monastery, with its dependencies and cultivated gardens. Every new zigzag took us a little nearer than the last. Very high up we stopped at another small station. No doubt some sequestered nook held an unseen village, for again the old postman silently exchanged letter-bags.
He was a fine specimen of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey hairs and rugged features witnessed to a long and possibly active life. The head was cast in a splendid mould, to which the face corresponded. Such a man ought to have made his mark in the world. That he should end his days in playing postman to the monks of Montserrat seemed a sorry conclusion. The times must have got out of joint with him. As a leader in parliament or head of some great financial house, his appearance would have assured success. There must be a story behind this exterior, a mystery to unravel. But physiognomyseldom errs, and the expression of the face spoke in favour of honest purpose.
He was a notable man, a man to be observed passing him on life's highway. For a time we watched him closely. There was a certain unconscious dignity about him. His remarks to the conductor were above the chatter of ordinary people. Our carriage was a third class, though we had lavishly taken first; but in those small, closed compartments nothing could be seen. This carriage was large, open, airy; we breathed, and were in touch with our surroundings; our fellow-travellers were also more interesting than the turtle-doves who occupied the luxurious compartment in a blissfulsolitude à deux.
They were few and characteristic. First the conductor, who varied the monotony of his going by paying visits to the engine-driver and leaving the train to look after itself. Next, our postman, the study of whom would have been lost in any other compartment. Then a stout lady, who wore a hat that was quite a flower-garden, and substantial seven-leagued boots; a large basket laden with small nick-nacks was very much in evidence, to which she clung affectionately, and one felt it was all her living.
This modest pedlar was on her way to Montserrat to dispose of her stock-in-trade—not to the monks, who could have no interest in housewifes and pocket-mirrors, but amongst the visitors. A humble peasant, with an honest, upright look in her dark eyes; a certain patient resignation in their expression which often comes to those who live from day to day, uncertain whether the morrow will bring fast or feasting. She sat at the end of the large square carriage, under the short bit of roofing. Here the magnificent surroundings were less seen, but what mattered? She was of those to whom the realities of life mean much more than the beauties of nature.
Next came a military policeman duly accompanied by his gun and cocked hat, on his way to a three months' duty at Montserrat.
Thus the carriage contained a poet, who could be on occasion a Napoleon; a man of letters, though apparently of letters limited; an armed Government official of more or less exalted rank; a lady-merchant representing the great world ofcommerce; and a humble individual who, like Lost Lenore, shall be "nameless here for evermore;" all personally conducted by a paid menial who neglected his duty and jeopardised the lives of his passengers. No merit to him that the journey passed without accident, but a great escape for ourselves.
Of this small group of Catalonians, our postman alone was of the higher type and by far the most interesting.
"I see you are not of our country, señor," he remarked after exchanging letter-bags at the last station. "Your interest in the journey proves you unfamiliar with it. You may well marvel at this stupendous miracle of nature."
"We marvel at everything. The whole scene is overpowering. And, if we may venture to say so, you are yourself an enigma. In England we have a proverb which speaks of a round man in a square hole; might it not almost be applied to you?"
"In other words, you pay me the compliment of saying that I magnify my office," quickly returned the postman. "Well, it is true that I was not born to this, but it is not every one who has the wit to find it out. My father was an officer in the Spanish navy, and in the navy my first years of labour were spent. And now I am playing at postman—to such base uses do we come. Yet is my calling honourable.
"You would ask how I fell from my high estate, and politeness withholds the question. In reply I can only quote the old saying,cherchez la femme. They say that a woman is at the bottom of all mischief, and I believe it. On the other hand, there is no doubt that at her best she is a divinity. No, sir; I perceive what you would say; but I have nothing questionable to disclose; no intrigues or complications, or anything of that sort.
"My father died when I was twenty. He had been made admiral, and lived to enjoy his rank just four months. Unfortunately, all Admiral Alvarez had to bequeath to his son was his good name. Of fortune he had none. You will say that a good name is the greatest of all inheritance, and so it is; and a young man with health, strength, and a noble profession before him should be independent of fortune. I quite agree with you. But there are exceptions, and the exceptions are those who areborn under a conjunction of stars against which there is no fighting. If I had lived in the days of the Egyptians I should have been an astrologer, for I believe there is something in the science. Right or wrong, it possesses a mysterious fascination.
"At twenty-one I married, apparently with discretion. The lady I chose was young, handsome, and owned a fortune. Without the latter matrimony for me would have been a dream. My lieutenant's pay, which hardly sufficed for one, would have reduced two to the necessity of living upon love, air, or any other ethereal ingredient that may be had for nothing.
"For a time all went merrily. We were both well-favoured by Nature—perhaps I may be allowed to speak thus of myself when life is closing in—and fortune seemed to have been equally considerate. It was, however, too good to last. As I have said, I was not born under a lucky star. All through life I have just missed great opportunities. Even as a child I can remember that the ripe apples never fell to my share. If we drew lots for anything I was always next the winning number and might as well have drawn the lowest. My father, who really ought to have left me something in the way of patrimony, left me only his blessing.
"Well, señor, my wife, I repeat, was young and handsome. She was fond of gaiety, and having theentréeto a very fine society, her taste for pleasure was easily gratified. She became extravagant, and gradually fell into a state of nervous excitement which required constant dissipation. I was often away from home with my vessel, but not for long absences. They were, however, sufficiently frequent to render me careless and unsuspicious as to the true state of our finances. When I really learned this, it was too late. We were ruined. And not only ruined, but overwhelmed in debt.
"In the first moment of horror I bitterly upbraided my wife. She, poor thing, took her misfortunes and my anger so much to heart that she fell into a consumption, and died in less than a year. I was so affected by my troubles—more, I believe, for the loss of my wife, whom I really loved, than for the loss of my income—that I fell for a time into a despondent frame of mind. I had felt compelled to retire from my profession—aman in a state of debt and bankruptcy had no right to be holding a royal commission—and my enforced idleness did not help to mend matters. At length life, health, and youth—I was not yet thirty—asserted themselves. Melancholy flew away; energy, a wish to be up and doing something, returned.
"I looked around me. The prospect was a sad one. There was nothing to be done. No one wanted me.
"At length fortune, tired of frowning upon me, smiled awhile. I fell in with an old friend of my father's, a wealthy coffee-planter in Ceylon. He had come over for a holiday to his native country. For the father's sake, for the sake of old times and the days of his youth, he was kind to the son. He sympathised with my sorrows, which were not of my own making. About to return to Ceylon, he offered me a certain partnership in his business, promising greater things if I remained.
"How thankfully I turned my back upon Spain, the land of all my misfortunes, I could never say. I began a new and prosperous life in a new country. In course of time my old friend died, and I became senior partner in a flourishing concern. For twenty-five years I remained out in Ceylon. I had made a considerable fortune, and you will think that I had probably married again. No, señor. I gave up my life to work, and would not a second time tempt fate.
"At last, after an absence of a quarter of a century, a feeling crept over me that had every symptom ofmal du pays. As this increased, I realised my possessions and returned to my own country, a rich man. But, alas! youth had fled. Wealth did not now mean for me what it had meant at five-and-twenty. The first thing I did was to pay up all my debts with interest, and to stand a free, honourable and honoured man. What surprised me most was the comparative smallness of the sum which in the hour of our misfortunes I had thought so formidable.
"And now, señor, do you think that I could let well alone: or, rather, that fortune could still turn to me a smiling face? It seemed as though the land of my birth—my mother country—was to bring me nothing but sorrow. In searching to place my capital, and remembering that you should not have all youreggs in one basket, I invested some of it in certain bank shares. It was a flourishing concern, paying a steady nine per cent. That it should be unlimited was a matter of no importance. So prosperous a company could never fail. Yet, señor, in less than a year, fail it did for an amount which swept away every penny of my fortune, and left me stranded high and dry on the shores of adversity.
"This time my ruin was more complete than before, for I was getting old and could not begin life afresh. Yet—perhaps for that very reason—I felt it less, and bore it philosophically. I had brought no one down in my reverses. There was no one to upbraid me, and more than ever I felt thankful that I had never married again. I obtained a situation in the Post Office of a light description, which would just enable me to live. Three years ago, a small windfall came to me: a sum of money that, safely invested, assures me comfortable bread and cheese for the remainder of my days. No more flourishing banks with unlimited liabilities. And now here I am, in daily charge of the mail-bags between Monistrol and Montserrat. A humble office you will say, but not ignoble. After the free life of Ceylon, with all its magnificent scenery, I felt it impossible to live shut up in a town, and especially requested this post might be given me. In the midst of this wild grandeur, which really somehow reminds me of parts of Ceylon, I am happy and contented. Bricks and mortar are my abomination; they weigh upon one's soul and crush out one's vital power. I love to breathe the morning air with the lark. At best I can live but a few years more, and I will not spend them in regretting the past. On the whole, I consider that I am rather to be envied than pitied. That I am no longer obliged to work for my bread gives an additional zest to my occupation.—We are approaching Montserrat. Is it not a sublime scene?"
It was indeed nothing less. We rose above the vast magnificent valley, until at last it looked dream-like and intangible. We seemed to overhang bottomless precipices. On a plateau of the great mountain reposed the monastery and its dependencies. Luxuriant gardens flourished, paradise of the monks—a strange contrast of barren rocks and rich verdure. Here dwelt a wonderful little world of its own, never desertedeven in winter, and in summer crowded with people who spend hours, days, weeks breathing the mountain air, living a life of absolute freedom from all restraint.
No monastery can be more romantically placed; perhaps none ever equalled it; yet of late years some of its romance and beauty has disappeared. The lovely old buildings that were a dream of Gothic and Norman refinement, of architectural perfection, have given place to new and hideous outlines. Nothing remains to show the glory of what has been but one side of a cloister through whose pointed arches you gaze upon a perfect Norman doorway—a dream-vision. A railway has brought Montserrat into touch with the world, and to accommodate the crowd of visitors, a new Hospederia has been built containing a thousand rooms, resembling an immense and very hideous prison. The passages are long, dark, narrow and cold. Rooms open on each side—single rooms and sets of rooms. The latter are furnished with a kitchen; so that a family or party of friends may come here with bag and baggage, pots, pans and all kitchen equipage, servants included, and encamp for as long or as short a time as may please them.
Our train stopped at the little station under the very shadow of the mountain. This was the more crowded part of the settlement, and on the left we noticed what looked like a party of gipsies encamped, enjoying an open air feast with much laughter and merriment. The monastery buildings were at the other end of the plateau.
We left the station under the pilotage of our friend the postman, carrying his mail-bag. Before us, raised on a terrace, was a long row of buildings old and new, of every shape and size. These were the dependencies, and helped to form the little world of Montserrat. Towering behind, up into the skies, were the precipitous sides, peaks and pinnacles of the great mountain.
"There lies the Post Office," said our man of letters, "and that is my destination. If you have any intention of remaining the night, you should first pay a visit to the little house on the right. The funny little monk who attends to visitors will receive you, conduct you to the Hospederia and give you rooms. In summer every room is often occupied to overflowing,but now you will have the place to yourselves—you and the ghosts—for I maintain that it is haunted. I will not say farewell, señor; we shall frequently meet during the day. There is small choice of ways in this little settlement; but for all that you will find that Montserrat is one of the glories of Spain."
He went his way, and we wondered what news from the outer world could now have any interest for the monks who were as dead to that world as though they reposed under their nameless graves in the little cemetery.
Monk's face—Superfluous virtue—"Welcome to Montserrat"—Mean advantage—Exacting but not mercenary—Another Miguel—Missing keys—Singular monk—Hospederia—Uncertainty—Monk's idea of luxury—Rare prospect—Haunted by silence—Father Salvador privileged—Monk sees ghosts—Under Miguel's escort—In the church—Departed glory—The black image—Gothic and Norman outlines—Franciscan monk or ghost?—Vision of the past—Days of persecution—Sensible image—Great community—Harmony of the spheres—Sad cypresses—Life of a hermit—Monk's story—Loving the world—Penitence—Plucked from the burning—Talent developed—A world apart—False interest—Salvador—Temptation and a compromise—Salvador extemporises—"All the magic of the hour"—Salvador's belief—Waiting for manifestations.
Monk's face—Superfluous virtue—"Welcome to Montserrat"—Mean advantage—Exacting but not mercenary—Another Miguel—Missing keys—Singular monk—Hospederia—Uncertainty—Monk's idea of luxury—Rare prospect—Haunted by silence—Father Salvador privileged—Monk sees ghosts—Under Miguel's escort—In the church—Departed glory—The black image—Gothic and Norman outlines—Franciscan monk or ghost?—Vision of the past—Days of persecution—Sensible image—Great community—Harmony of the spheres—Sad cypresses—Life of a hermit—Monk's story—Loving the world—Penitence—Plucked from the burning—Talent developed—A world apart—False interest—Salvador—Temptation and a compromise—Salvador extemporises—"All the magic of the hour"—Salvador's belief—Waiting for manifestations.
WEturned to the right, and entering the building indicated, passed into a bare, unfurnished room. Through a square hole in the wall, not unlike a buttery-hatch, a monk's face peered at us with large coal-black eyes, startling in their effect; a small, spare monk, with unshaven face, round head and black hair, habited in the ugly dress of the Jesuit order. It struck us rather unpleasantly that everything about him was black, not the eyes and hair only. He evidently belonged to a sect who thought washing superfluous, if not sinful.
"Ah!" he exclaimed in quite friendly tones. "Welcome to Montserrat! I am very happy to see you."
"We might be chums of a lifetime," said H. C., shuddering, as the well-disposed ecclesiastic advanced a dusky hand; for we saw it coming and meanly put him in the foreground. In spite of his Napoleon manner, he had to shake it. The little monk was not to be frowned down.
"I am very happy to see you," he repeated. "You are welcome. Our visitors are few at this time of the year. Every visitor adds his quota to our common fund. However small, itis acceptable. Do not think me mercenary. The fathers and brothers must live, and they do a great deal of good. Even up here, out of the world, you have no idea how much may be done. And we have many branches. But the beauty of Montserrat is supreme, and you know that it is world-wide. Now you want rooms," continued the eloquent little monk. "I will go across with you to the Hospederia. But first you must record your names in this book. Miguel," to a young man in attendance, "where are the keys? They are not here. Why are they not here? How often am I to report you to the Father-Superior for carelessness?"
The keys were guiltily produced by Miguel.
"I thought so," cried the monk. "Suppose, now, you had gone down to Monistrol with the keys in your pocket! We must have got through a window like thieves and vagabonds. A very undignified proceeding. The Reverend Father would have stopped your butter for a month. As it is, I must overlook it, I suppose; you are so very fond of butter. Now, gentlemen—— Dear me, what beautiful writing you English always have!" scanning the book, in which, with the aid of a very bad pen, we had hieroglyphically scratched our names. "Now, gentlemen, I am at your service. We will take our little pilgrimage. You have a choice of rooms. There is not a soul in the Hospederia—a thousand rooms, every one empty. Miguel, attend us; you will have to make up beds for these gentlemen."
The pilgrimage was certainly a short one. We gave the little monk as wide a berth as politeness and the way permitted. To keep step with him was impossible. He had a curious motion which resembled more the trotting of a young colt than the walk of a human being. As he skipped across the road, a small, animated mass of quicksilver, full of peculiar life and energy, it was difficult to keep becomingly grave. The great Hospederia was in front of us, huge, modern, unsightly, depressing. The monk jingled the great keys as though they made pleasant music in his ear. Then he applied one of them to the huge lock and the heavy door rolled back on its hinges.
If the exterior had looked depressing, it was cheerfulness itself to the interior. A chilling, silent, uninhabited, ghostly atmosphere met us at the very threshold. Our postman mightwell say it was haunted. Voices and footsteps echoed in the long, bare, gloomy corridors. A monk's cell could scarcely have been more guiltless of comfort. We had hardly made up our minds whether to stay the night or not, and our proposed lodging kept us still more undecided. As far as sunrise was concerned, at this time of the year the effects were doubtful. More often than not a thick mist enshrouded the whole visible world like a white sea. We might remain, have our trouble and discomfort for our pains, and nothing more.
"Here," said the monk, throwing open the door of a small room, and pointing to a bed hard as pavement, "you may sleep in comfort, even luxury. And," opening the window, "what a prospect!"
True enough as regarded the outlook. Such an assemblage of vale, mountain and river could hardly be surpassed. The luxury of the bed, on the other hand, was a distinct effort of the imagination. We would not, however, disturb the sensitiveness of the little monk by arguing the matter, and indeed, it would have been difficult to lower his self-complacency. Two rooms belonging to a suite were duly apportioned to us. The bare kitchen between them looked cold and lifeless. These rooms would be prepared, and any one remaining here for the night might reasonably consider it a penance for his sins. It would be rather a gruesome experience to find ourselves in sole possession of this vast building of a thousand rooms. An army of ghosts—the ghosts of dead-and-gone monks—would certainly come down upon us, and H. C.'s most Napoleon manner would have no effect whatever. Like the little monk, ghosts are not to be frowned down.
"A pity to disturb this Hospederia, which may be considered closed for the season," we remarked. "My poet friend is very much afraid of ghosts, and this place might very well be haunted. It is certainly haunted by silence. Why not give us cells in the monastery, where, in presence of the Father-Superior, ghosts would hardly venture to intrude?"
"An excellent idea," said H. C., looking blue and shivery. "This place is more gloomy than the grave."
"In the darkness one place is very much the same asanother," said the monk. "No one is allowed even within the walls of the monastery without an order from the Holy Father at Rome, the Archbishop of Toledo, or some equally great authority. Father Salvador is the only one who can prevail with our Superior. As for ghosts, I have seen them with my own eyes on All Souls' Eve, at midnight, in the monastery graveyard, and oh! how frightened I was! How I shivered in my sandals! They were the ghosts of two monks who had committed suicide within a year of each other in their cells. Of course, they were quite mad, and they left a letter behind them—both of them—to say they could bear their solitude no longer. In the dead of night they heard groans, and saw shapes like immense bats flying about. Each bat had four wings, two tails, fiery eyes and forked tongues. They were quite insane. But there are no ghosts here, sirs. For the matter of that, the building is far too modern. Ghosts have excellent taste and cultivate the antique. There, that is settled. Everything is at your disposal—the whole building. Now, Miguel, show the gentlemen where they can dine. I have heard that the fare in the restaurant is equal to anything in Madrid. I am your most humble servant and delighted to see you. Welcome to Montserrat."
Upon which the little monk skipped once more across the road with the same acrobatic motion, and disappeared within his sanctum.
Under Miguel's escort—who had had so narrow an escape from losing his butter, and doing a month's fasting out of Lent—we found the dining-room. Several dining-rooms indeed, of great size, one above another, apparently quite prepared to entertain the Hospederia with its full complement of guests. The manager informed us that we could have any meal we liked at any appointed hour; he was equal to the largest dinners at the shortest notice; and having settled this part of the programme to H. C.'s satisfaction, we dismissed Miguel and took to exploring.
As Don Alvarez had said, we could not go very far wrong. One road led to the summit of Mons Serratus, another down into the world; a third round the mountain into another part of the world. This was still traversed by a coach and four,and presently we had the pleasure of seeing it start with great preparation and ceremony. For the moment we contented ourselves with the immediate precincts.
CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.
The convent buildings stood on a plateau at the far end of the settlement. Almost buried under the side of the mountain was the immense church or chapel in which the monks attend mass. One may see them at stated hours in the choir behindthe great irongrillethat separates them from the outer worshippers. There are now only about twenty fathers, for the monastery was suppressed some sixty years ago, only a few being allowed to remain. It is of very ancient origin, and rose from small to great things, and again has fallen from its high estate. The foundation is due to a black image of the Virgin; a small figure in black wood supposed to have been specially carved by St. Luke, and specially brought to Spain by St. Peter. If in St. Luke's best style, he was certainly not a Michel Angelo. The image, however, is highly prized by the religious order, as having worked countless miracles and brought them fame and wealth.
In crossing towards the chapel we met our funny little monk. "Ah, you are going into the church?" he cried. "You will find the fathers at prayer—it is nearly the hour for the refectory. And you will see the black Virgin—the beautiful black image—carved by St. Luke—carried by St. Peter—blessed by twelve popes! No wonder she performs miracles. Withered arms and legs come to life again. I have seen old people turn young. Once when I looked at her she blinked with both eyes. It is true I am short-sighted, but I am certain of the fact: as certain as that I saw ghosts in the graveyard on All Souls' Eve. Señor, that wonderful black image is the one great thing to see at Montserrat. The cleverness of the railway, the beauty of the landscape, the grandeur of the mountain, the splendour of the church—all this is very well in its way; but it is as nothing compared with the black image. Go and study it, and if you look long enough perhaps she will blink her eyes at you too, or bow her head. It is quite possible."
Then he skipped through the quadrangle back to his den.
This quadrangle was very interesting; large, quiet, and solidly built: an outer court to the holy of holies, which was the church itself. Under the mountain-side, its covered passages ever seemed in deep gloom and shadow; a death-in-life atmosphere hung about it. In days gone by it was one of the loveliest nooks in the world, for the ancient buildings were beautiful and refined. Gothic cloisters and Norman doorways mingled their outlines in close companionship without rivalry,and the beholder was charmed at finding himself in an element where nothing jarred.
All has disappeared to make way for the modern traveller, whose name is legion. Nothing remains but the one little Gothic fragment, with its pointed windows and slender shafts. A lady in a mantilla graced them as we stood looking at the Norman archway beyond: the more interesting of the turtle-doves who had travelled with us from Monistrol. Her mate was attending to the vulgar side of life, arranging a select repast with the restaurant manager at the farther end of the settlement. We saw him come out and advance towards her with that degree of fervour which generally marks thelune de miel. She, too, went to meet him half-way—and they disappeared out of our lives.
As we looked at the Norman doorway it was suddenly filled with the figure of a monk. Nothing could have been more appropriately romantic and picturesque. He was clothed not as a Jesuit, but in the far more becoming dress of a Franciscan. His cowl was thrown back, revealing a pale, refined face and well-formed head, on which the hair seemed to be arranged almost like a circlet of leaves—the crown of the poet. He stood still and motionless as though carved in stone. In his hand he held a breviary. A girdle was round his waist confining the long brown robe. As far as we could see, he appeared unmindful of his surroundings, lost in a dreamy gaze which penetrated beyond the skies. It was the attitude and expression of a visionary or mystic.
What was this monk in the strange garb? Who was he? What brought him apparently at home amidst the Jesuits, he who evidently belonged to another order? Had he thrown in his lot amongst them? Or did he live, a solitary being, in one of the surrounding hermitages?
Whilst we looked he slowly turned, and, with bent head and lingering steps, as though in deep contemplation, passed out of sight. Nothing remained but the empty doorway with a vision of arches beyond; a few ruined walls stained with the marks of centuries, to which patches of moss and drooping creepers and hardy ferns added grace and charm. We were alone, surrounded by intense quiet and repose. Sunshine wasover all, casting deep shadows. No sound disturbed the stillness, not even the echo of the monk's receding footsteps. So silent and motionless had been his coming and going, we asked ourselves whether he was in truth flesh and blood or a mid-day visitor from the land of shadows. How remote, how out of the world it all was!
Suddenly, as we looked upwards, an eagle took majestic flight from one of the mountain peaks, and, hovering in the blue ether, seemed seeking for prey. But it was not the time of the lambs, and with a long, sweeping wing, it passed across the valley to an opposite range of hills.
The great church was before us with its dome, of Roman design and sufficiently common-place. But, after all, what mattered? Its effects and those of the hideous Hospederia were lost in their wonderful surroundings, just as a drop of water is lost in the ocean.
On entering the church this comparison disappeared. There was an expanse about its aisles, largeness and breadth in the high-domed roof, that produced a certain dignity, yet without grace and refinement. No magic and mystery surrounded them, and the dim religious light was the result, not of rich stained glass admitting prismatic streams, but of an obscurity cast by the shadows of Mons Serratus. For great effects one had to go back in imagination to the days when the monks were many and assembled at night for service. It is easy to picture the impressive scene. Beyond the ever-closed screen, within the great choir, a thousand kneeling, penitential figures chanting the midnight mass, their voices swelling upward in mighty volume; the church just sufficiently lighted to lend the utmost mystery to the occasion; a ghostly hour and a ghostly assemblage of men whose lives have become mere shadows. On great days countless candles lighted up the aisles and faintly outlined the more distant recesses. The fine-toned organ pealed forth its harmony, shaking the building with its diapasons and awakening wonderful echoes in the far-off dome.
CLOISTERS OF MONTSERRAT.CLOISTERS OF MONTSERRAT.
All this may still be seen and heard now and then, but with the number of monks sadly curtailed. It is said that they now never exceed twenty. When their day of persecution came they escaped to their mountain fastness, climbing higherand ever higher like hunted deer, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the rocks; fear giving them strength to reach parts never yet trodden by the foot of man, whilst many a less active monk slipped and fell into the bottomless abyss, his last resting place, like that of Moses, remaining for ever unknown. The troops of Suchet followed the refugees, found them out, and put an end to many a life that, if useless, was also harmless. Not a few of the survivors became hermits, and on many a crag may be found the ruins of a hermitage, once, perhaps, inhabited by a modern St. Jerome, though the St. Jeromes of the world have been few and far between.
Some sort of religious institution existed here in the early centuries, long ages before Ignatius Loyola founded the order of the Jesuits. In the eighth century the famous black image was hidden away in a cave under a hill to save it from the Moors. Here it miraculously disclosed itself a hundred years later to some simple shepherds. These hastened to the good Bishop, who took mules, crook and mitre, and came down with all the lights of the church and all the pomp of office to remove the treasure to Manresa.
Apparently the image preferred the fresh mountain air to the close, torrent-washed town with its turbid waters, for having reached a certain lovely spot overlooking the vast plain, it refused to go any farther. As it could not speak—being a wooden image—it made itself so heavy that mortal power could not lift it. This was the first of a long succession of miracles. On the spot where the image rested, the Bishop with crook and mitre, and bell and book, and Dean and Chapter, held solemn conclave and there and then went through a service of Consecration. A chapel was built, and the image became the object of devoted pilgrimages.
All traces of the chapel have disappeared long since. Nothing now marks the spot but an iron cross which may be seen far and near. Approaching, you may read the inscription:Aqui sè hizo inmovil la Santa Imagen. After this a nunnery was founded, which in the tenth century became a Benedictine convent.
Ages rolled on, and it grew famous. When destroyed by the French it held as many as 900 monks: a great religiouscommunity, wealthy and powerful. But the mighty are fallen. The few remaining monks, more exclusive in their retirement than the great body of their predecessors, have a school attached to the monastery in which much time is given to the study of music. It is going far out of the world for instruction, but Nature herself should come to their aid. Amidst these lonely solitudes the Harmony of the Spheres might well be heard.
Passing through the great quadrangle, we entered a narrow passage between the church and hill-side, reminding one a little of some of the narrow streets of Jerusalem. Here, too, we found some arches and buttresses framing in the sky, arch beyond arch. At the end of all we came out once more upon the open world, and what a scene was disclosed!
In front of us was a small chapel attached to a little hermitage. Beside it ran a long avenue of sad and solemn cypresses. It might have been the cemetery of the dead-and-gone monks, but no small mounds or wooden crosses marked where the dead reposed. This mournful avenue extended to the brow of the hill, where we overlooked vast wild precipices. Cañons and gorges opened beneath us and above us in appalling magnitude. The stupendous valley stretched right and left in the distance. Far on the other side reposed a chain of snow-clad hills. Villages lay about the plain and hill-sides. In the far-off hollow slept the little town of Monistrol, its blue smoke mingling with the clearer atmosphere. Through all the valley the river ran its winding, silvery course on its way to the sea.
The plateau on which we stood held the monastery buildings. Near us stretched the gardens of the monks in cultivated terraces, and above them, winding round the mountain was the white road leading out into the world lying to the south of Montserrat. Again, as we looked, another eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow majestic flight across the valley, no doubt on the track of its mate, perhaps to find out why he tarried so long. A string of boys in caps and black cloaks left the convent and wound round the white road, conducted by a few of the monks whose duty it was to keep watch and ward over the students. These passed out of sight, and once more we seemed alone with nature.
But on turning back down the cypress avenue, sittingagainst the little chapel we saw the Franciscan monk who had lately filled the Norman archway. Though his breviary was open, he was not reading. His eyes—large, dark, dreamy eyes that ought to belong to a genius—were looking out on the mountain and the far-off sky, lost in profound contemplation.
CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.
Of what nature were his thoughts? Introspective or retrospective? Was he thinking of days that were past, or of the life to come? Were regret and remorse his portion, or resignation to his present surroundings? Was he dwelling upon some terrible Might-have-been? He looked inexpressibly lonely, as though he and the world had parted company for ever, but there was something singularly interesting about him.It seemed difficult to intrude upon his solitude, as impossible to pass without speaking.
Some influence compelled us to stop. His face was pale and refined. He was so thin as to be almost cadaverous; not an ounce of flesh had he to spare on his bones; there was a certain look of hunger in his large magnificent eyes; not a hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, but, as it seemed, for peace of mind and repose of soul. Grazing at the skies, he appeared to be asking questions of the Infinite Beyond. Where was the kingdom of Heaven and what was it like? When there came for him the great apocalypse of the soul how would it find its way to the realms of paradise?
We stopped in front of him, and he started as though he had only that moment became aware of our presence. He did not seem to resent the intrusion, but looked up with a searching inquiring glance, which presently changed to a smile beautiful and almost childlike in its confidence: sad, beseeching, as though it were in our power to interpret to him the hidden mysteries of the unseen; the perplexing problems of life; the doubts and difficulties with which his questioning heart contended.
"You have indeed found a quiet corner for contemplation," we remarked after he had greeted us with a subdued: "May Heaven have you in its holy keeping."
SALVADOR THE MONK.SALVADOR THE MONK.
"It is all my want and all my desire," he replied, in a voice that was full of melody. "I live the life of a hermit. Near at hand I have my small hermitage, and I also have my cell in the monastery, occupying the one or the other as inclination prompts me. For you see by my dress that though this is my home, where I shall live and die, I do not belong to the Jesuits. I am really a Franciscan, but have obtained a dispensation, and I live here. I love to contemplate these splendours of nature; to read my breviary under the blue sky and the shadow of our great mountain. Here I feel in touch with Heaven. The things unseen become real and tangible, doubts and difficulties vanish. My soul gathers strength. I return to my cell, and its walls crush all life and hope out of me; weigh upon me with an oppression greater and deeper than that of yonder giant height. I feel as though I should die, orfall away from grace. There have been times when they have come to my cell and found me unconscious. I have only revived when they have brought me out to the fresh air, this freedom and expanse. The good Father-Superior recognises my infirmity and has given me the hermit's cave. I will show it to you if you like. It is quite habitable and not what you might imagine, for it is a built-up room with light and air, not a cavern dark and earthy. I love solitude and am never solitary. Once I loved the world too much; I lived in the fever of life and dissipation. Heaven had mercy upon me, and you behold a brand plucked from the burning. When my heart was dead and seared, and love and all things beautiful had taken wing, I left the world. The profligate became a penitent. I took vows upon me and joined the Franciscan Order. But I should have died if I had not come up here, where I have found pardon and peace. That was twenty years ago. Yet I am not fifty years old, and am still in the full vigour of manhood. It may be long before a small wooden cross marks my resting-place in the cemetery. When the last hour comes I shall pray them to bring me here, that amidst these splendours of nature my soul may wing its flight to the greater splendours of paradise. I feel that I could not die in my cell."
"How is it you are allowed so much freedom?" we asked. "We thought that here you were all more or less cloistered. It was our wish to see the interior of the monastery, but the lay monk who receives visitors said it was not permitted."
"A strict rule," returned the monk; "but if you are staying here a couple of days, I could take you in. To-morrow is a great fast; to enter would be impossible; the day after it might be done."
"Unhappily we cannot remain. To-morrow at latest we return to Barcelona. But, if we may ask it again without indiscretion, whence have you this indulgence and power?"
"The secret lies in the fact that I possess a talent," smiled the monk. "I was always passionately fond of music, and as a pastime studied it closely and earnestly. Here I have turned it to account. Whether it was the necessity for an occupation, or that it was always in me, I developed a strange faculty for imparting knowledge to others. I fire them withenthusiasm, and they make vast progress. My name, I am told, has become a proverb in our large towns. It has been of use to the monastery: has enlarged the school, added to the revenues. In return I have obtained certain privileges; a greater freedom of action. Otherwise my power would leave me. This is why I can promise to open doors to you that are usually closed to the world. Yet in what would you be the better? Curiosity would hardly be satisfied in viewing the bare cells and long gloomy passages, the cold and empty refectory, where perchance you might see spread out a banquet of bread and water, a little dried fish or a few sweet herbs."
"There is always something that appeals to one, strangely attractive, in the interior of a monastery," we returned.
"I know it," replied the monk, whose new name he told us was Salvador. "It is a world apart and savours of the mysterious. It possesses also a certain mystic element. Thus the atmosphere surrounding it is romantic and picturesque, appealing strongly to the imagination. Sympathy goes out to the little band of men who have bound themselves together by a vow, forsaken the world and given up all for religion. But if you were called upon to share that life only for a month, all its supposed mystery and charm would disappear. It only exists in the sentiment of the thing, not in the reality. It lies in the beauty of the solitary mountains in which the monasteries are often placed; or the splendid architecture they occasionally preserve. In the dull monotony of a daily round never varied, you would learn to dread the lonely cell—even as I once dreaded it more than death itself. Hence my freedom. It will soon be our refectory hour," looking at a small silver watch he carried beneath his robe. "I must return or fast."
Then there came to us a bright idea. "Why leave us?" we said. "Or if you must do so now, why not return? Would you not be allowed to dine with us this evening? You would tell us of your past life before you became a monk, and of your life since then. It must contain much that is interesting. In the evening shadows you would guide us about the mountain paths, tell us of the evil days that fell upon the monks and their flight into the hills."
Salvador the monk smiled. "You tempt me sorely," he replied. "I should like it much. Such a proposal has never been made to me since I put on cloak and cowl. It would be like a short return to the world—a backward glance into the life that is dead and buried. Then imagine the contrast between your sumptuous repast and the bread and sweet herbs with which we keep our bodies alive. I fear it would not be wise to awaken memories. No, I must not think of it. But to-night I shall dream that I have been to a banquet and walked with you in quiet paths, taking sweet counsel. Oh, I am tempted. What a break in my life to spend a whole day with you, and become once more, as it were, a citizen of the world! But I will make a compromise. If you go up the mountain to-morrow morning to see the sun rise, I will accompany you. Though a fast day, I can do this; and I may take a modest breakfast with you."
This decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to deny him. He folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart.
"You will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though to-day I may not ask you to pass beyond."
So we wended back through the arches in the narrow passage between the hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. We reached the great quadrangle, lonely and deserted.
"Let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "I will show you our little private door."
The great building was silent and empty. Our footsteps woke weird echoes in the distant aisles. Salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we passed into the choir.
"Here we attend mass," said our guide; "a small community of monks, though I am more often at the organ. In days gone by, when they numbered nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful institution—a magnificent sight and sound. No need then to add to the funds by teaching. All the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are more useful. Nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its repose is no longer unbroken. With a railroad at our verydoors, who can say that we are now out of the world? Ah!" as a man crossed the choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. Would you like me to give you some music?"
"It would be enchanting. But your repast—would you not lose it?"
"I have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for the end." He beckoned to the man, who approached. "Hugo, have you dined?"
"Si, Padre Salvador."
"Then come and blow for me a little."
He bade us seat ourselves in the stalls, where the organ was best heard. We listened to their receding footsteps ascending the winding staircase leading to the organ loft. In a few minutes we had lost all sense of outward things. The loveliest, softest, most entrancing music went stealing through the great building. Salvador was evidently extemporising. All his soul was passing into melody. Divine harmonies succeeded each other in one continued flow. It was music full of inspiration, such as few mortals could produce; fugitive thoughts more beautiful by reason of their spontaneity than any matured composition ever given to the world. Here indeed was a genius.
Never but once before had we heard such playing. Many years had gone by since one evening on the Hardanger Fjord, we glided through the water under the moonlight and listened to such strains as Beethoven himself could not have equalled. Many a hand oft-clasped in those days lies cold and dead; life has brought its disillusions; the world has changed; but even as we write the glamour of that moonlit night surrounds us, those matchless strains still ring in our ears, lifting us once more to paradise.
This monk's music brought back all those past impressions; "all the sorrow and the sighing, all the magic of the hour." We listened spell-bound, enraptured; and again we were in paradise. No wonder he inspired his pupils to accomplish the impossible. It lasted only a quarter of an hour, but during that time we never stirred hand or foot, scarcely breathed. Ordinary life was suspended; we were conscious only of souland spirit. When this divine influence ceased we were hardly aware of the silence that succeeded. The monk had thrown us into a trance from which it was difficult to awaken. Only when his cloaked and cowled figure once more entered the choir and quietly approached us did we rouse to a sense of outward things.
"I see my music has pleased you," he said. "I do not affect to depreciate its power, since it influences me no less than others. For the time being I am lost to myself. All my soul seems expressing thoughts that words could never utter. No credit is due to me for a power outside and beyond me. The moment I sit down to the organ, Saint Cecilia takes possession of me, and I merely follow whither she leads. Of all arts, it is the most divine. Now before we separate let me take you into the Chapel of the Virgin. The image, you know, is considered the great treasure of the monastery."
In his voice there seemed almost an inflection of doubt or amusement. "And you also look upon it in this light?" we asked. "You believe in all the miracles, legends and traditions time has gathered round the image?"
"I must not talk heresy," smiled the monk; "but I believe more in my music."
We had entered the small chapel, where a light was burning before the celebrated image, black and polished as ebony; an image less than two feet high, seated in a chair, with an infant in its arms. The workmanship was rough and rude, the face ugly and African. There was nothing about it to raise the slightest emotion, for it was not even artistic.
"On this very spot," said the monk, "Ignatius Loyola is said to have waited for hours in rapture watching the image and receiving manifestations, after which he founded the Order of the Jesuits. He laid his sword upon the altar, declaring that he had done with it for ever, and henceforth his life should be devoted to paths of peace. In like manner I have stood here for hours, waiting for inspiration, for some manifestation, some token, though it should be only borne in upon the mind with no outward and visible sign. And I have waited in vain. Nothing has ever come to me. But I seat myself at the organ and seem wafted at once into realms immortal; my soulawakens and expands; I feel heaven within me. It is my one happiness and consolation; that and being alone with nature."
He conducted us back to the screen.
"Then we cannot prevail upon you to be with us this evening?" we said in a final effort. "You will not give us all the experiences of your past life, spiritual and otherwise?—all you went through in your transition state?"
"Tempt me not," returned the monk. "Your voice would persuade me against my reason. I must not return to the sweets of the world even for an evening. Think of the going back afterwards. But to-morrow morning before dawn breaks in the east I will be with you."
He bade us farewell and closed the gate. We watched the solitary figure glide down the choir until it disappeared. The quiet footsteps ceased to echo, and we stood alone in the church. The silence was painful and the building had no power to charm. We passed out to the great quadrangle and soon found ourselves in a very different scene.