Gipsies—Picturesque scene—Love passages—H. C. invited to festive board—Saved by Lady Maria's astral visitation—The fortune-teller—H. C. yields to persuasion—Fate foretold—Warnings—Photograph solicited—Darkness and mystery—Night scene—Gipsies depart—Weird experiences—Troubled dreams—Mysterious sounds—Ghost appears—H. C. sleeps the sleep of the just—Egyptian darkness—In the cold morning—Salvador keeps his word—Breakfast by candlelight—Romantic scene—Salvador turns to the world—Agreeable companion—Musician's nature—Miguel and the mule—Leaving the world behind—Darkness flies—St. Michael's chapel—Sunrise and glory—Marvellous scene—Magic atmosphere—Salvador's ecstasy—Consents to take luncheon—Heavenly strains—"Not farewell"—Departs in solitary sadness—Last of the funny monk.
Gipsies—Picturesque scene—Love passages—H. C. invited to festive board—Saved by Lady Maria's astral visitation—The fortune-teller—H. C. yields to persuasion—Fate foretold—Warnings—Photograph solicited—Darkness and mystery—Night scene—Gipsies depart—Weird experiences—Troubled dreams—Mysterious sounds—Ghost appears—H. C. sleeps the sleep of the just—Egyptian darkness—In the cold morning—Salvador keeps his word—Breakfast by candlelight—Romantic scene—Salvador turns to the world—Agreeable companion—Musician's nature—Miguel and the mule—Leaving the world behind—Darkness flies—St. Michael's chapel—Sunrise and glory—Marvellous scene—Magic atmosphere—Salvador's ecstasy—Consents to take luncheon—Heavenly strains—"Not farewell"—Departs in solitary sadness—Last of the funny monk.
ITwas the other end of the settlement. All the houses were behind us; the railway station was in a depression at our left. The plateau expanded, forming a small mountain refuge, sheltered and surrounded by great boulders that were a part of Mons Serratus towering beyond them. Grass and trees grew in soft luxuriance. Under their shadow a picnic party had encamped; noisy Spaniards who looked very much like gipsies; an incongruous element in these solemn solitudes, yet a very human scene. They were scattered about in groups, and the bright handkerchiefs of the women formed a strikingly picturesque bit of colouring. Baskets of rough provisions were abundant. A kettle hung on a tripod and a fire burnt beneath it, from which the blue smoke curled into the air and lost itself in the branches of the trees. The people were enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. Here and there a couple had hoisted a red or green umbrella, which afforded friendly opportunities for tender love passages. Some were drinking curiously out of jars with long spouts shaped like a tea-kettle. These they held up at arm's length and cleverly letthe beverage pour into their mouths. Practice made perfect and nothing was wasted. Chatter and laughter never ceased. They were of humble rank, which ignores ceremony, and when H. C. approached rather nearly, he was at once invited to join their festive board and make one of themselves.
One handsome, dark-eyed maiden looked at him reproachfully as he declined the honour—the astral body of Lady Maria in her severest aspect having luckily presented itself to his startled vision. The siren had a wonderfully impressive language of the eyes, and it was evident that her hand and heart were at the disposal of this preux chevalier.
"Señor," she said, "I am a teller of fortunes. Show me your hand and I will prophecy yours."
H. C. obligingly held it out. She studied it intently for about half a minute, then raised her eyes—large languishing eyes—and seemed to search into the very depths of his.
"Señor, you are a great poet. Your line of imagination is strongly influenced by the line of music, so that your thoughts flow in rhyme. But the line of the head communicates with the line of the heart, and this runs up strongly into the mount of Venus. You have made many love vows and broken many hearts. You will do so again. You cannot help it. You are sincere for the moment, but your affections are like champagne. They fizz and froth and blaze up like a rocket, then pass away. You will not marry for many years. Then it will be a lady with a large fortune. She will not be beautiful. She will squint, and be a little lame, and have a slight hump—you cannot have everything—but she will be amiable and intellectual. I see here a rich relative, who is inclined in your favour. It is in her power to leave you wealth. Beware how you play your cards. I see by your hand that you just escape many good things by this fickle nature. I warn you against it, but might as well tell the wind not to blow. There is one thing, however, may save you—the stars were in happy conjunction at your birth. The influence of the house of Saturn does not affect you. I see little more at present. Much of your future depends on yourself. To you is given, more than to many, the controlling of your fate. You may make or mar your fortune. No, señor," as H. C. laughed and tried to glidea substantial coin into her hand, "I do not tell fortunes for money to-day. It is afestawith our tribe, almost a sacred day, the anniversary of a great historical event. To-day we do all for love; but I should much like your photograph."
VALLEY OF MONTSERRAT.VALLEY OF MONTSERRAT.
H. C. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put aside for the Madrid houri who married the Russian nobleman. This he presented with much grace to the enraptured Sibyl. Their heads were very close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air. We happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the Sibyl's face seemed flushed and conscious, and H. C.'s poetically pale complexion had put on a delicate pink. This was a little too suspicious—even to our unsuspecting mind—and with a hasty bow to the interesting assembly, and wishing them all good appetites and fair fortunes, we went on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst H. C. for the next ten minutes fell into silence.
The day wore on to evening. We watched the shades of night gathering over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything grew hazy and indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery. The outlines of Mons Serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. The stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their awful and majestic silence. The great constellations were strongly marked. Here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the various houses of the settlement. Where the gipsy party had encamped, silence and solitude now reigned. A black mark told where the tripod had held the kettle and betrayed what had been. The whole encampment had returned to the lower world by the evening train. We had watched them enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. Their spirits had not failed. As the train moved off they sent up a shout which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. Presently, when the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from the world for a season. We were taking a last look at the Gothic arches, through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. The night was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. It might have beena dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. Throughout the little settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed; here and there a light still glimmered. We caught sight of another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted with his ground—perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. We wondered whether it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven.
As we passed out of the arches we came upon our funny little monk, who, having ended all his duties, was going to his night's rest. He caught sight of us and gave a brisk skip.
"Welcome to Montserrat," he cried once more. "I am delighted to see you." From long habit he evidently used the form unconsciously—it was his peculiar salutation. "You are about to retire, señor. Let me conduct you to your rooms. I should like to see you comfortably settled for the night."
From his tone and manner he might have been taking us to fairyland; beds of rose-leaves; a palace fitted up with gold and silver, where jewels threw out magic rays upon a perfumed atmosphere. He swung back the great gates of the Hospederia. We passed into an atmosphere dark, chilling, and certainly not perfumed. Mysterious echoes died away in distant passages. The little monk lighted a lantern that stood ready in the corridor, and weird shadows immediately danced about. One's flesh began to creep, hair stood on end. In this huge building of a thousand rooms we were to spend a solitary night. It was appalling. As the monk led the way passages and staircases seemed endless: a labyrinth of bricks and mortar. Should we survive it: or, surviving, find a way out again?
A FEW OF THE GIPSIES AT MONTSERRAT.A FEW OF THE GIPSIES AT MONTSERRAT.
At last our rooms. Small candles were lighted that made darkness visible. We should manage to see the outline of the ghosts that appeared and no more. The little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams. Pleasant dreams! Never but once before—and that in the fair island of Majorca—did we spend such a night of weird experiences. If we fell asleep for a moment our dreams were troubled. We awoke with astart, feeling the very thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. The corridors were full of mysterious sounds: our own particular room was full of sighs. Ghostly hands seemed to pass within an inch of our face, freezing us with an icy cold wind that never came from Arctic regions. Once we were persuaded an unearthly form stood near us; to this day we think it. We were wide awake, and when we sat up it was still there. The form of a monk in cloak and cowl. A strange phosphoric light seemed to emanate from it, making it distinctly visible. The face was pale, sad and hopeless. Large dark eyes were full of an agony of sorrow and disappointment. It was evidently the ghost of a monk who had repented his vows and learned too late that even a convent cell cannot bring peace to the soul. A strange thrill passed through us as we gazed, yet of fear or terrors we felt nothing. The sadness and beauty of the face held us spell-bound. We found courage to address it. "Spirit of the dead and gone, wherefore art thou here? Why wander in this unrest? Can we do aught to ease thee of thy burden? Will our earthly prayers and sympathy avail thee in thy land of shadows?"
No doubt there was a slight suspicion of rhythm in the words that would have become H. C. rather than our more sober temperament; but they came of their own accord, and we did not wait to turn them into better prose. We listened and longed for a reply, but none came. Nothing but a deep-drawn sigh more expressive of sorrow than all the words that ever were coined. The singular part of it was that whilst the apparition was visible, all the mysterious sounds and echoes in the passages ceased, and began again when it disappeared.
As disappear it did. No word was spoken; no sign was made. For one instant a mad thought had passed through our brain that perhaps it was about to conduct us to some buried treasure: some Aladdin's lamp, whose possession should make us richer than Solomon, more powerful than the kings of the earth. But the strange light grew faint, the outlines shadowy, until all faded into thin air. The room was once more empty; and we held no treasure. It was a long and troubled night. Rest we had none. Yet next morning H. C.—whose poetical temperament should have made him susceptible to all theseinfluences—informed us that he had slept the dreamless sleep of the just. He had heard and seen nothing. This seemed unfair, and was not an equal division of labour.
Before daylight we were up and ready for our pilgrimage. It required some courage to turn out, for the world was still wrapped in Egyptian darkness. In the east as yet there was not the faintest glimmer of dawn. In the house itself a ghostly silence still reigned. Apparently throughout the little settlement not a soul stirred. Nevertheless it was the end of the night, and before we were ready to sally forth there were evidences of a waking world. We went down through the dark passages carrying a light, which flickered and flared and threw weird shadows around.
We opened the door and passed out into the clear, cold morning. The stars still shone in the dark blue sky. Through the gloom, passing out of the quadrangle, we discerned a mysterious figure approaching: a cowled monk with silent footstep. It was Salvador, true to his word.
"We are both punctual," he said, joining us. "I think the morning will be all we could desire."
It had been arranged that breakfast should be ready at the restaurant. Salvador had refused to dine with us, he did not refuse breakfast. The meal was taken by candle-light, and he added much to the romance of the scene as he threw back his cowl, his well-formed head and pale, refined face gaining softness and beauty in the subdued artificial light. Salvador had the square forehead of the musician, but eyes and mouth showed a certain weakness of purpose, betraying a man easily influenced by those he cared for, or by a stronger will than his own. Perhaps, after all, he had done wisely to withdraw from temptation.
This morning his monkish reticence fell from him; he came out of his shell, and proved an agreeable companion with a great power to charm. Once more for a short time he seemed to become a man of the world.
"You make me feel as though I had returned to life," he said. "It is wonderful how our nature clings to us. I thought myself a monk, dead to all past thoughts and influences; I looked upon my old life as a dream: and here at the first touchI feel as though I could throw aside vows and breviary and cowl and follow you into the world. Well for me perhaps that I have not the choice given me. Why did you not leave me yesterday to my solitude and devotions, and pass on, as others have done? You are the first who ever stopped and spoke. To-day I feel almost as though I were longing once more for the pleasures of the world."
MONS SERRATUS IN CLOUDLAND.MONS SERRATUS IN CLOUDLAND.
We knew it was only a momentary reaction. He had the musician's highly nervous and sensitive organisation. Our meeting had awakened long dormant chords, memories of the past; but the effect would soon cease, and he would go back to his monkish life and world of melody, all the better and stronger for the momentary break in the monotony of his daily round.
We did not linger over breakfast. At the door a mule stood ready saddled. This also went with us in case of need. H. C.and the monk were capable of all physical endurance. Like Don Quixote they would have fought with windmills or slain their Goliaths. Nature had been less kindly to us, and the mule was necessary.
It would be difficult to describe that glorious morning. When we first started, the path was still shrouded in darkness. We carried lighted lanterns, and Miguel, following behind with the mule, looked a weird, picturesque object as he threw his gleams and shadows around. Our path wound round the mountain, ever ascending. One by one the stars were going out; in the far east the faintest glimmer was creeping above the horizon. This gradually spread until darkness fled away and light broke. We were high up, approaching St. Michael's chapel, when the sun rose and the sky suddenly seemed filled with glory.
It was a scene beyond imagination. The vast world below us was shrouded in white mist. Under the influence of the sun this gradually rolled away, curling about the mountain in every fantastic shape and form, and finally disappeared like a great sea sweeping itself from the earth. The whole vast plain lay before us. Towns and villages unveiled themselves by magic. Across the plains the Pyrenees rose in flowing undulations, their snow-caps standing out against the blue sky. The winding river might be traced in its course by the thin line of vapour that hung over it like a white shroud. The whole Catalonian world, all the sea coast from Gerona to Tarragona, came into view, with the blue waters of the Mediterranean sleeping in the sunshine. In the far distance we thought we discerned our lovely and beloved Majorca, and were afterwards told this was possible.
All about us were deep, shuddering crevices, into which one scarcely gazed for horror. Immense boulders jutted out on every hand; some of them seeming ready to fall and shake the earth to its centre. Wild and barren rocks gave foothold to trees and undergrowth more beautiful than the most cultivated garden; nothing lovelier than the ferns and wildflowers that abounded.
As the sun rose higher, warmth and brilliancy increased until the air was full of light. We breathed a magic atmosphere.
"This is what I delight and revel in," cried Salvador themonk. "This lifts me out of myself. It is one of the glories of Spain, and makes me feel a new being with one foot on earth and one in heaven. Can you wonder that I should like to inhabit yonder cave? Day by day I should watch the sun rise and the sun set, all the hours between given to happiness and contemplation. As I look on at these effects of nature my soul seems to go out in a great apocalypse of melody. The air is filled with celestial music. Yet no doubt our Principal is right, and in the end the influence would not be good for me. I am a strange contradiction. There are moments when I feel that I could go back to the world and take my place and play my part in all its rush and excitement; other moments when I could welcome the solitude of the desert, the repose of the grave."
It was almost impossible to turn away from the scene, undoubtedly one of the great panoramas of the world. Here, indeed, we seemed to gaze upon all its kingdoms and glories. Without the least desire to become hermits, we would willingly have spent days upon the mountain. As that could not be we presently commenced our long descent, winding about the mountain paths, gathering specimens of rare wildflowers, and gazing upon the world below. We made many a halt, rested in many a friendly and verdant nook, and took in many an impression never to be forgotten. On returning to the settlement we felt we had been to a new world where angels walked unseen. It was difficult to come back to the lower levels of life. We had quite an affection for our patient mule, that looked at us out of its gentle eyes as though it knew quite well the service rendered was as valued as it was freely given.
Salvador joined us at luncheon: we would not be denied.
"It is a fast-day," he said; "how can I turn it into a feast?"
"You are a traveller, and as such are permitted an indulgence."
He smiled. "It is true," he returned. "I perceive that you know something of our rules." Nevertheless he was abstemious almost to fasting. "And yet it has been indeed a feast compared with my daily food," he said when it was over. "Now would you like to go into the church and have some music? My soul is full of the melody I heard on the mountain."
So it happened that presently we were listening to such strains as we never shall hear again. Once more we were lifted to paradise with melody that was more heavenly than earthly. Again his very soul seemed passing out in music. Had he gone on for hours we should never have moved. But it came to an end, and silence fell, and presently we had to say farewell.
"I cannot say it," he cried in a voice slightly tremulous. "It has been a day of days to me, never to be repeated. Another glimpse of the world, and a final leave-taking thereof. I will never again repeat this experience—unless you return and once more ask me to guide you up Mons Serratus."
This was very improbable, and he knew it. He grasped our hand in silence, essayed to speak, but the farewell words died unuttered. Then he silently turned, drew up his cowl and left us for ever. We watched him disappear within the shadows of the church, heard a distant door closed, and knew that in a moment he would have regained the solitude of his cell.
We went back to the world. As we crossed the quadrangle the little lay brother who had first received us caught sight of and skipped towards us.
"Welcome to Montserrat. I am most happy to see you," he cried. "So you have been to the top of the mountain to see the sun rise. And our good Salvador has been your guide. He is lucky to get so many indulgences, but he deserves them. What would the school do without him?—lose half its pupils. And what would the convent do without the school?—starve. Did you sleep comfortably in your beautiful rooms?"
We thought it hardly worth while to relate our ghostly visitations, and left him with the impression that, like H. C., we had slept the sleep of the just.
"And now you are going back to Barcelona," he said. "Well, there is nothing more to be seen. After looking upon the beautiful black Virgin and sunrise from St. Michael's chapel, you may depart in peace."
And in peace we departed when the time came, wondering whether we should ever again look upon this little world and listen to the divine harmonies of Salvador of Montserrat.
Manresa—Tropical deluge—Rash judgment—Catalan hills and valleys—Striking approach—Taking time by the forelock—Primitive inn—Strange assembly—Unpleasant alternative—Sebastien—Manresa under a cloud—Wonderful outlines—Disappointing church—Sebastien leads the way—Old-world streets—Picturesque and pathetic—Popular character—"What would you, señor?"—Sebastien's Biblical knowledge at fault—Lesson deferred—A revelation—La Seo—Church cold and lifeless—Cave of Ignatius Loyola—Hermitage of St. Dismas—Juan Chanones—Fasting and penance—Visions and revelations—Spiritual warfare—Eve of the Annunciation—Exchanging dresses—Knight turns monk—Juan Pascual—Loyola comes to Manresa—Fanaticism—Vale of Paradise—"Spiritual Exercises"—Founding the Jesuit Order—Dying to self—The fair Anita—In the convent chapel—Two novices—Vision of angels—The White Ladies—Agonising moment—Another Romeo and Juliet—Back to the hotel—Sebastien disconsolate—"To-morrow the sun will shine"—Building castles in the air—A prophecy fulfilled.
Manresa—Tropical deluge—Rash judgment—Catalan hills and valleys—Striking approach—Taking time by the forelock—Primitive inn—Strange assembly—Unpleasant alternative—Sebastien—Manresa under a cloud—Wonderful outlines—Disappointing church—Sebastien leads the way—Old-world streets—Picturesque and pathetic—Popular character—"What would you, señor?"—Sebastien's Biblical knowledge at fault—Lesson deferred—A revelation—La Seo—Church cold and lifeless—Cave of Ignatius Loyola—Hermitage of St. Dismas—Juan Chanones—Fasting and penance—Visions and revelations—Spiritual warfare—Eve of the Annunciation—Exchanging dresses—Knight turns monk—Juan Pascual—Loyola comes to Manresa—Fanaticism—Vale of Paradise—"Spiritual Exercises"—Founding the Jesuit Order—Dying to self—The fair Anita—In the convent chapel—Two novices—Vision of angels—The White Ladies—Agonising moment—Another Romeo and Juliet—Back to the hotel—Sebastien disconsolate—"To-morrow the sun will shine"—Building castles in the air—A prophecy fulfilled.
ONLYa few miles from Montserrat and within sight of some of its mountain peaks, you find the wonderful old town of Manresa. Thither we wended our way one gloomy morning.
From the skies came a constant downpour of almost tropical rain. We were well sheltered and comfortably housed in Barcelona, but H. C. declared Joseph's friend was a true prophet after all, the rainy season had set in, and if we waited for the weather, we might wait for ever.
Acting upon this rash judgment we departed under lowering skies. Water ran down the streets like small rivers, and the omnibus waded to the station.
"Such days have their beauty," said H. C. in his best artistic style. "The effect of atmosphere is very fine. And after all we are not made of sugar."
"We need be to bear this infliction calmly," was the reply; a sarcasm lost upon H. C. who was diligently studying the clouds.
The very train seemed to struggle against the elements as it made way through the Catalan hills and valleys, and we certainly acknowledged a peculiar charm as we saw them half veiled through the mist and the rain that yet was distinctly depressing. On nearing Manresa, it lightened a little: the clouds lifted and the rain ceased, but only for a short respite.
Nothing could be more striking than the approach to the old town. Perched on a hill, outlined against the grey sky was the famous old cathedral, rising upwards like a vision. Far down at the foot of the hill ran the rapid river, winding through the country between deep banks. A splendid old bridge added much to the impressive scene, about which there was a wildness that seemed very much in harmony with the grey and gloomy skies.
As we crossed the bridge outside the railway station, a young man, well built, handsome, with a fresh colour and honest face, came up and offered to bring us a carriage or personally conduct us to the hotel. Few people visit Manresa; omnibuses are unknown, and carriages only come out when ordered. We chose to walk, in spite of the rain, which was coming down again with vengeance. The services of the guide were accepted, and we soon found that he filled the important office of general factotum to the hotel.
"Ah, señor," taking us into his confidence in the first five minutes, "if you would only petition the padrone in my favour and get him to promote me to the dining-room! As it is, I fetch and carry all day long and scarcely earn money enough to pay for the boots I wear out."
We certainly thought no time was being lost in enlisting our sympathies, and mildly suggested the padrone might not thank us for meddling with his own affairs.
The streets were very steep, stony and winding. Water streamed from the houses and ran down the hills, and the place altogether looked very hope-forsaken, for it especially needed sunshine. Yet in spite of all we found it very interesting, and its situation is so striking that it could never be otherwise. We waded on and thought the rain would never cease or the walk ever end.
At last the inn, which would hardly have been found without our guide. He pointed to it with pride, but we could not riseto the sentiment. The entrance was small, and we soon found ourselves mounting a narrow wooden staircase which had neither the fashion of Barcelona nor the dignity of Gerona. The first landing opened to a long low room of many windows, looking old enough to have seen the birth and death of many a century. This was given over to the servants of the house, and the humbler folk whose rank entitled them to a place below the salt. They were seated at round tables—but certainly were not knights—in detachments of eight or ten, and their boisterous manners and loud voices kept us at a respectful distance, without any desire for a nearer approach. For ourselves, we had to go a stage higher in the world, represented by the second floor. Here we found the quality at breakfast—the substantial mid-day meal: a worthy crew hardly a degree better than those we had just interviewed. They proved, indeed, the roughest specimens we had yet met in Catalonia: an assemblage of small farmers, pedlars and horse-dealers. Had the landlord added house-breakers to his list, one or two might have answered to the description.
But as travelling, like adversity, makes us acquainted with strange companions, and we cannot always choose our types, we sat down to table with a good grace. The only alternative was to fast, a penance in which H. C. had no faith whatever. To-day this motley assemblage seemed peculiarly objectionable, without any of the redeeming points such people often have: honest, straightforward speech, directness of purpose and modesty of manner which are a certain substitute for cultivation, and atone for the want of breeding. Nothing of this was perceptible to-day.
The room like the one beneath was long and low, but lighted only by one window at the end, so that we were in a semi-obscurity still further increased by the weeping skies. A redeeming feature was the civility of the inn people, a fault their slowness. To make matters worse, the food was coarse and ill-served, and we had to pass almost everything. Long before déjeuner came to an end we left them to it and went forth to explore. We had very little time to spare, having arranged not to spend the night in Manresa: a lucky arrangement on our part, for picturesque and striking as the place really is, its resources are soon exhausted. A wet evening in suchan inn would have landed one in the profoundest depths of melancholy.
On leaving the table we found that for the moment the rain had ceased. Our guide evidently thought it his duty to look after us, and no sooner caught sight of us as we passed downwards than he sprang up, leaving upon his plate a delicious piece ofblack-pudding. In vain we offered to wait whilst he finished his bonne-bouche. "You are very good, señor, but it is not necessary," he replied. "I am very fond of black-pudding, but this was my third helping, and really I have had enough."
This seemed probable. "Apparently the supply equals the demand," we said. "You must have a liberal master in the landlord of the inn."
"Yes, that is true," returned Sebastien—for such he soon told us was his name. "But we only have black-pudding once a week, and we ought to have it twice. We are agitating for it now, and as the padrone knows the value of a good servant I expect we shall get it."
Sebastien would not leave us again and became our shadow, sublimely indifferent to the rain which every now and then came down in waterspouts. To this day we feel that we saw Manresa under a cloud. It was a study in grey; and if we paid it another visit in sunshine we should probably not know it again. For this H. C. was responsible in preaching up his rainy season: the true fact being that the next day and for ever after we had blue skies and cloudless sunshine.
Manresa is rich in outlines. Its church towers stand out conspicuously on the summit of the rock on whose slopes much of the town is built. On leaving the inn we saw before us one of the old churches standing in solemn repose, grey and silent above the houses. The interior proved uninteresting in spite of the nave, wide after the manner of the Catalan churches. Sebastien thought every moment spent here waste of time. "It is cold and ugly," he declared, constituting himself a judge—and perhaps not far wrong. "It makes me shiver. But when the altar is lighted up on a Sunday evening, and the place is full of people, and the organ plays, and the priest gives the Benediction, then it is passable."
We felt inclined to agree with him, and wished we couldsee the effect of a Benediction service, but as this was not possible we left the church to its silent gloom and shadows, Sebastien cheerfully leading the way.
MANRESA.MANRESA.
The streets, decayed and old-world looking, had a wonderfully picturesque and pathetic element about them, and on a bright day would have been full of charm. A canal ran through one of them, spanned by a picturesque single-arch stone bridge. On each side the houses rose out of the water, reminding one of Gerona or a Venetian street; handsome, palatial, full of interesting detail; a multitude of balconies, many of rich wrought ironwork; many a Gothic window with deep mullions; many an overhanging casement, from which you might have dropped into the running stream. Waterspouts stood out like gargoyles, and slanting tiled roofs were full of colouring. Towering above these rose a lovely church tower,splendid with Gothic windows, rich ornamentation and an openwork parapet, with a small round turret at one corner.
We stood long on the bridge, gazing at the wonderful scene, all its infinite detail and harmony of effect; the deep shadows reflected in the dark water which needed so much the blue sky and laughing sunshine. It was evident that Sebastien could not understand what kept us spell-bound. He stood by in patience, now looking intently as though trying to learn what was passing in our minds, now directing his attention to the water and the houses, as though to guess the secret of their fascination. Apparently he was hail-fellow-well-met with every one in the town—that dangerous element, a popular character; for not a creature passed us, man or woman, youth or maiden, but he had something to say to them.
"You seem to know every one, Sebastien," we remarked, as we took our kodak out of the case he had slung over his shoulder, in the wish to carry away with us some of these splendid outlines.
"What would you, señor? The town is not large, the inhabitants do not change, and I was born and bred here. I am fond of company, and make friends with them all. I wanted to be a soldier and go out and see the world, but they said my sight was not strong enough, and they would not have me; so I turned to and took service in the hotel. I am comfortable enough, and just earn my living, without a trifle over for the old mother, but I don't see much prospect of rising unless I am promoted to the dining-room."
"Your eyes look quite strong," we said; large blue eyes, bright and clear, without a sign of weakness about them.
MANRESA FROM THE RIVER: MORNING.MANRESA FROM THE RIVER: MORNING.
"They are as strong as yours, señor—if I may say so without offence. I never could make out what they meant. Sometimes I have thought my old mother was at the bottom of it, and because I was her only child, went to the authorities and begged them to spare me. I don'tknowthat she did, but I have my suspicions. One day I taxed her with it point-blank. She was very confused for a moment, and then told me not to be foolish—the authorities wouldn't pay attention to such as her, even if she had gone to them. I'm not so sure of that. It is well known the old mother has seen better days, andwhen she goes out dressed in her best, with her black lace mantilla over her head, which she has had ever since she was a young woman, why, she commands respect, and I can quite believe the authorities would listen to her."
"Why not try again with those eyes of yours?" we suggested. "You cannot be more than nineteen."
"Not more than nineteen!" returned Sebastien, opening the said eyes very wide. "Why, señor, I am twenty-three, going on for twenty-four. I know I look young, and do what I will I can't help it, and can't make myself look any older. I have tried hard to grow a moustache, but it is only just beginning to sprout."
He laughed, and we laughed with him, for the down upon his upper lip was of the most elementary description. He looked youthful in every way, but we cheered him with the reflection that it was a fault time would inevitably rectify.
"I have one consolation," he said. "At the fonda I get as much black-pudding as I want—once a week; in the army they don't give black-pudding at all. So if I have lost something, I have gained something too."
"Sebastien, we are ashamed of you! Would you sacrifice your birthright for a mess of pottage?"
"What does the señor mean?" asked Sebastien, looking puzzled.
"Have you never heard of Esau?"
"Never, señor. Was he a Spaniard or an Englishman? And was he, too, fond of black-pudding?"
It was impossible to help laughing; but we passed over the question, feeling that a course of Bible history begun on the bridge would come to an untimely end. So we left him to his ignorance and his preference for black-pudding, passed away from the canal, the old bridge and ancient outlines, and climbed about the steep decayed streets. The rain poured through the water-spouts, and every now and then we came in for an unwelcome shower-bath. This highly amused Sebastien, who never enjoyed the fun more than when he himself was victim.
Suddenly we found ourselves confronted by one of those views which come upon one as a revelation of what nature sometimes accomplishes. We had seen nothing equal to it,nothing to resemble it since the days of Segovia. In sunshine the likeness might have been still more striking.
We had passed by a steep descent into the lower part of the town and stood upon the hill side. To our right rose the great collegiate church of La Seo, crowning a massive and majestic rock. Houses stretched far down the slopes, and the church rose above them in magnificent outlines. It was built of yellow greystone that harmonised wonderfully with the grey skies. For the time being these had ceased to weep, and everything was bathed in a thin mist, which rolled and curled about and threw a wonderful romance and glamour over the scene, especially refining and beautifying.
Still below us, on the left, ran the broad river, with its dark, almost blood-red waters flowing swiftly under the high, picturesque bridge. We traced its winding course between deep banks far out into the country; just as we had traced it from the heights of Montserrat, not far off as the eagle flew. Here too everything was veiled in a thin mist.
The rock on which the church stood consisted of a series of hollows, where grew lovely hanging gardens and flowering trees. The church with its striking outlines looked massive enough to defy the ages. It was of the true fourteenth century Catalan type, and took the place of a church that had existed here in the tenth century. Its buttresses are especially large and prominent. The lofty tower stands over the north aisle. Four arched stone ribs crown the steeple, within which a bell is suspended. A fine Romanesque doorway leads into the modern uninteresting cloister. Other fine doorways lead into the interior of the church. Its great size, high and wide, is impressive, but the details are trivial. The capitals of the enormous octagonal columns are poor, and the arches they support, thin and almost contemptible, take immensely from the general effect.
Here also, there was no need to remain long. With the charms of Barcelona cathedral lingering in the mind as a dream and a world's wonder, the collegiate church of Manresa, with all its loftiness and expanse, was cold and lifeless, without sense of beauty or devotion. In its striking situation lies the chief merit of the town.
MANRESA FROM THE HILL-SIDE: EVENING.MANRESA FROM THE HILL-SIDE: EVENING.
We went down the banks, stood on the shallows and watched the deep red waters rushing through the bridge. Beyond it was a slight fall over which the waters poured in a crimson stream. Near the bridge stood a large, ancient crucifix. On the farther bank of the river rose the outlines of the Cave of Ignatius Loyola. Above the cave has now been built a great church, and the cave itself, reached by a short passage in its north-east corner, has been turned into a votive chapel, to which pilgrims flock at stated times.
Manresa is of course for ever associated with the name of Loyola. He had been staying some time at the Monastery of Montserrat, preparing his mind for the great change he intended to make in his life. As he wandered about the mountain in his cavalier's dress, he must have looked far more fitted to lead an army than to become a member of the Church militant.
One of his most frequent visits was to the Hermitage of St. Dismas, high up amongst the rocks. Here dwelt a saintly priest, Juan Chanones, who gave Loyola much holy counsel. It must needs be that Loyola earnestly weighed the cost of what he contemplated; impossible but there were moments when the tempter placed before him in the strongest colours imaginable the allurements of the life he was renouncing. When the final die was cast there must be no turning back, no lingering regrets. Loyola was one of the last men to be vacillating or lukewarm; with him it was ever one thing or the other; and so in the quiet monastery, far out of the world, he considered well his decision.
Chanones was the very man for such a crisis. The hermit was one who imposed upon himself every possible penance. He fasted, wore a hair shirt, and spent many hours of the twenty-four in long prayers and devotions. Loyola had begun by confessing to him the whole of his past life, and confiding his hopes and aspirations for the future: how he wished to become a monk and devote his days to religion. He was already a mystic, full of ecstasies, seeing visions and dreaming dreams. Chanones strengthened his resolutions and fired him yet more with the spirit of mysticism.
Under his influence, the night before leaving the monastery he hung up his sword and dagger beside the image of theVirgin as a sort of votive offering, declaring that henceforth he had done with the world and with wars. His only warfare should be spiritual: fighting against the powers of darkness and the influence of evil. He spent the whole night in prayer before the altar; where according to his mystic moods, visions and revelations had been vouchsafed to him.
But earlier in the evening a slight event had happened.
It was the eve of the Annunciation, in the year 1522. Loyola had come down from the hermit's cave dressed in the rich garb of a cavalier which as yet he had not thrown off. In the Hospederia of the monastery were many poor pilgrims; beggars dressed in rags. Meeting one of these, Loyola persuaded him to exchange his rags for his own splendid dress. Disguised in his sackcloth gown and girdle, few would have recognised the once magnificent knight. His head, accustomed to a helmet, was now bare. His left foot was unshod, on his right he wore a sandal of grass. He was lame from that wound in his leg which had been the turning-point of his career. Never perfectly healed, of late it had become inflamed and painful. In this garb he spent his last night at Montserrat.
Next morning he went forth at daybreak with a few companions, one of whom was Juan Pascual. They had not proceeded many miles before they were overtaken by a hasty messenger who asked Loyola if it was he who had presented a beggar with the rich dress of a cavalier. The story had been doubted and the man put into confinement. Loyola declared that it was true, lamented the trouble he had brought upon the beggar, and prayed he might be liberated; adding that he had made the exchange from motives of penance and religion, as well as disguise. The messenger returned to the convent, and the little band of pilgrims continued on their way.
They journeyed slowly, but the distance was not great. At noon they were overtaken by the mother of Pascual, who in company with others, was returning from celebrating the Feast of the Annunciation at Montserrat. This lady, Inez, directed him to the hospital of Santa Lucia, where he would obtain relief for his leg, which threatened to become troublesome if not dangerous. Inez quickly discovered that Loyola was noordinary pilgrim, and supplied him with food from her own table during the five days he remained in the hospital.
The day after his arrival he went up to the great church of La Seo, and remained in prayer for five hours, seeking direction for his movements. At the end of five days he left the hospital for a room found him by Inez. Here he at once adopted that spirit of fasting and penance which knew no moderation and with him became fanaticism. The food sent by Inez he gave away, and lived upon black bread and water. He constantly went bare-headed and bare-footed, wore a hair shirt like Chanones, and occasionally added to his sufferings by putting on a girdle made of the leaves of the prickly gladiole. He neglected himself in every way, never cutting his nails or combing his hair and beard; so that he who had once been the most fastidious of cavaliers now became a byword to those who met him and gazed in contempt and derision. He spent much time at the hospital nursing the sick, devoting himself to the most forbidding cases.
This life continued for four months, and then he withdrew to the cave which he declared had been miraculously revealed to him. It overlooked a valley called by the people the Vale of Paradise, and its existence was known to few.
The cave was dark and small and belonged to a friend of Loyola's who lived to be a century old. Here he existed in great seclusion, spending seven hours of every day in prayer, and often remaining on his knees all night. It was here that he chiefly composed his "Spiritual Exercises," which contain so much beauty and devotion. Here also came to him the first idea of the Order of Jesus, which he afterwards founded. But it must be remarked that the Jesuit Society as framed by Ignatius Loyola was a more simple and unworldy institution than it afterwards became. His own rules seem to have been very pure and without guile or worldly ambition; his mind embraced only heaven and the things which concerned heaven. If Loyola were to return to earth, he would be the first to condemn many of its principles and practices and to say: "These are none of mine."
That he became spiritual as perhaps has been given to few cannot be doubted by any one who had read his writingsand studied his life. We of another creed cannot be in touch with him on many points, but all must profoundly admire his absolute death to self, the perfect resignation of all his thoughts and wishes to the Divine guidance.
In Manresa, we have said that his penances amounted to fanaticism. His prayers and fastings so weakened the body, that frequently for hours and sometimes for days he would lose consciousness, and fall into death-like swoons. He retired to his cave and was tormented by a morbid recollection of his past sins. For many months he was filled with horror and knew nothing of peace of mind or spiritual consolation. He was haunted by terrible voices and visions; and it was only after body and soul had, as it were, been torn asunder, and he had gone through all the agonies of a living spiritual death, that at last peace and light, the certainty of pardon and the Divine favour, came to him.
After that his past life seems to have been placed behind him and knew him no more. He became a teacher of men; a great spiritual healer in whom the heavy-laden found comfort and encouragement; a profound reader of the human heart, to which he never ministered in vain. Perhaps one of his greatest weapons was humility, by which he placed himself on a level with all who came to him, and which enabled him to apply in the right way all the deep and earnest sympathy that was in him.
His visions, the voices he heard, the so-called miracles he witnessed, were no doubt delusions due to the highly wrought imagination and ecstatic state of the mystic; but with Loyola they did not end here. They bore fruit. He was practical as well as theoretical: and dead as he became to self, a little of the sensible, matter-of-fact discipline of his early training must have clung to him to the last. His after life was full of activity and action. It would be difficult to say where he did not go, what countries he did not visit with practical issues, in days when men could not easily run to and fro on the earth as they do now.
Loyola died as he had lived, full of faith and hope. He had caught the malarial fever in Rome, and was not strong enough to fight against it. In August, 1556, the end came, when he was sixty-five years old; but in everything exceptyears he might have gone through a century of time. His physical powers were worn out with hard work and abstinence; and perhaps the greatest miracle in connection with Ignatius Loyola was the fact that he lived long after the vital forces should have ceased to hold together. After his death the doctors found it impossible to discover what power had kept him alive during his later years, but agreed that it was nothing less than supernatural.
Thus Manresa is for ever connected with the name and fame of Ignatius Loyola the saint.
Crossing the bridge and winding through a very ancient and dilapidated part of the town, we presently reached the church, which struck us as being new and gaudy, with very little to recommend it. But we had come to see what had once been the cave, and wished we could have found it in its original state. Certainly the saint himself would never recognise it as the old earthy cavern, nine feet by six, whose mouth was concealed by brier bushes, and where he was wont to pass long days and nights in prayer and penance. The walls are now lined with marble; a light burns before the altar; some poor sculpture represents Loyola writing his book and performing his first miracle.
The view from his cave must have been magnificent even in his day. There in front of him ran the famous river, and there stood the old bridge. Beyond it rose the rock with its hollows and gardens; and towering above were the splendid outlines of the collegiate church. Beyond all in the distance rose the chain of the Pyrenees, undulating and snow-capped; whilst in one distant spot, standing alone, cleaving the sky with their sharp outlines, appeared the peaks and pinnacles of Mons Serratus; the monastery resting half way down on its plateau, far more beautiful and perfect than it is to-day. Upon this the hermit Loyola—as he might at that time be called—would fix his eyes for hours day after day, seeking inspiration for his "Exercises," perhaps occasionally dreaming of the days when he still wore his cavalier's dress, and had not yet renounced all the pomps and vanities of the world. But as we have said, he was not a man of two minds; having put his hand to the plough,as far as we know he never turned back even with the faintest regret or longing for the pleasures deliberately placed from him.
Sebastien our guide was evidently a good Catholic, having a great reverence for Loyola, with whom he was more familiar than with Esau. He watched us narrowly as we entered the chapel, and was evidently disappointed at the little impression made upon us: expecting a drop-down-deadness of manner, when we stood before the effigy of the saint, which unfortunately only excited a feeling of irritation at the badness of its workmanship.
So we were not sorry to find ourselves once more under the skies, dark and lowering though they were. Here indeed the magnificent view, the splendid outlines of Manresa, all slightly veiled in that charming mist, might well appeal to all one's sense of the beautiful and the sublime, and raise emotions the poor votive chapel could never inspire.
As we went back into the town, for the moment it seemed very much haunted by the presence of Loyola. Passing a picturesque little house in the centre of a small garden, Sebastien suddenly stopped in front of it and gave a peculiar call, whilst a flush of expectation rose to his face. Surprised at the movement we waited for the sequel. This quickly followed in the opening of a casement, at which appeared the charming head of a young woman.
"Sebastien!" she cried, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "Have you come to see me?"
"Yes, since I see you now," returned Sebastien. "But I cannot come in, Anita. I am guiding these gentlemen through the town, and have to show them everything; they would be lost without me. We have just been to the chapel of the saint, where I said a short prayer for our speedy marriage. Ah! when will it be?"
"Patience, patience!" cried the fair Anita. "I am getting on well, and you must make el padrone advance you to the dining-room. Oh, it will all come right. Then we are both young and can afford to wait."
We thought it a pity so interesting a conversation should be carried on in a public thoroughfare, and at a tantalising distance, and offered Sebastien five minutes' interval if he likedto go in and pay his respects to his ladye-love. But he declined, and wafting a warm salute to the fair vision of the casement, intimated he was again at our service.
"She is the sweetest girl in Manresa," said Sebastien quite openly, "and I am a lucky fellow to have won her. Unfortunately we are both poor. But Anita is with a dressmaker, and will soon be able to start on her own account: we shall not have much difficulty in getting on, if the padrone will only advance me—as indeed I deserve."
We congratulated Sebastien upon his good fortune and wished him promotion and success: and looking at his straight-forward open face, so singularly free from guile, we thought the fair Anita was by no means to be condoled with, however humble their prospects.
Then we made way into the upper part of the town, and presently Sebastien turned into a chapel attached to a convent.
It was a small building of no pretension, but with a marvellous repose and quietness about it. A screen divided the body of the church from the altar, and immediately before the altar, separated from us by the screen, was a strange and striking vision.
Two young girls who might have been some eighteen years old, knelt side by side at the foot of the steps, motionless as carven images and dressed in white. Their veils were thrown back, but their faces, turned towards the altar, were invisible. Their posture was full of grace, and their dress, whether by accident or design, was becomingly arranged and fell in artistic folds. All the time we looked they moved neither hand nor foot, and might have been, as we have said, carved in stone. We almost felt as though gazing upon a vision of angels, so wonderfully did the light fall upon them as they knelt: whilst in the body of the church we were in semi-obscurity.
Presently a bell tinkled, a side door opened, and two other young girls very much of the same age and dressed in exactly the same way, entered. The two at the altar rose, made deep, graceful curtsies, and veiling their faces, passed out of the chapel. Those who entered at once threw back their veils. In the obscurity we were not observed. We had full view of their charming faces, far too charming to become the nuns for which Sebastien said they were qualifying.
"They are White Ladies," he whispered, "and very soon will be cloistered and never see the world again. It is enough to break one's heart."
"You don't approve, Sebastien?"
"Ah, señor, I shudder at the thought. It occurs to me what a terrible thing it would be if Anita were to turn nun instead of becoming my happy wife—at least I shall do all I can to make her happy. But these poor girls—think for a moment of the humdrum life they are taking up; nothing to look forward to; no change, no pleasure of any sort. They might as well be buried alive at once and put out of their misery."
As the door opened to admit the two novices—if novices they were—we had caught sight of others in the passage; some eight or ten, as we fancied. An elderly nun, equally dressed in white, was going amongst them, almost, as it seemed, in the act of benediction. She was evidently counselling, encouraging, fortifying those to whom she ministered. One might have thought that passing through that doorway was renouncing an old life and taking up a new one; an irrevocable step and choice from which there was no recall and no turning back.
H. C. was taken with a lump in his throat as the young fair women unveiled and moved towards the altar. One of them was certainly very beautiful. Large wistful blue eyes stood out in contrast with the ivory pallor of her oval face, than which the spotless veil was not more pure and chaste.
It was too much for H. C.'s equanimity. He coughed and betrayed himself.
She turned hurriedly; and seeing a face that corresponded to her own in pallor, and eyes that were quite as wistful, gave him an appealing, imploring glance which seemed to say that she would be saved from her present fate.
For an instant we trembled. The case was so hopeless. There was the dividing screen. There was the nun on guard beyond the closed door. There was the drenching rain outside. An escape in a deluge would not have been romantic—and where could they escape to? It was one of those agonising moments of helplessness that sometimes drive men insane.
H. C. grasped the screen. There was an instant when we thought he would have torn it down come what might. Helooked reckless and desperate and miserable. Then we placed our hand on his arm as we had done that night at the opera in Gerona, and he calmed down.
We turned to leave the chapel. As we did so, a louder bell rang out, the door opened, and in walked the Mother-Superior at the head of her little army of novices.
They quickly grouped themselves round the altar, moved in utter silence like phantoms and subsided into graceful attitudes, apparently absorbed in devotion. The sight was as charming as it was painful: for who could say how many of these young girls were voluntarily renouncing the world, or in the least realised what they were doing?
Before passing out we gave a last look at this angelic vision. Quiet as we were we did not move exactly like phantoms. The meaning of our slight stir penetrated beyond the screen. It was too great a temptation for the fair young novice we have described. She felt that her last hope was dissolving, and she turned towards H. C. with a gaze that would have moved a stone.
Fortunately his eyes were buried in his handkerchief, or it is certain that we should never have left the chapel in the state in which we found it. The screen would have gone; the Mother-Superior defied, there would have been rout and consternation, the alarm bell rung, and perhaps—who knows?—a priest would have appeared upon the scene and married this romantic Romeo and Juliet. The novices would have turned into bridesmaids, and the Mother-Superior have given away her spiritual daughter. A lovely transformation scene indeed! Slighter currents have before now changed the course of nations.
The door closed upon us without tragic event or catastrophe. Through the deluge we waded to the hotel.
The long dining-room was now empty. The waiter brought us coffee and cognac, ordered to restore H. C.'s nervous system; we paid our bill, which was by no means as modest as the pretensions of the inn; and under the faithful and unfailing pilotage of Sebastien, departed for the railway station. The poor fellow looked melancholy.
"Oh, señor, I wish you were going to stay a week," he cried. "I did hope you would be here for at least four days."
"The fates forbid!"—horrified at the bare thought. "A week here in such weather would make one desperate, Sebastien. Remember that we have no fair Anita to turn all our thistles to roses, dull streets into a paradise."
Sebastien sighed. "To-morrow the sun will shine, señor. You would not know Manresa again under a blue sky."
"But our poet friend declares the rainy season has begun. This deluge is to last many days, if not weeks, Sebastien."
"It is a mistake," said Sebastien. "We have no rainy season. You will see that to-morrow there will be no rain, no clouds. Then if you had stayed, I am sure you would have spoken to the padrone for me, and got him to promote me to the dining-room. And then we could have been married."
Sebastien, like everyone else, was building his castles and dreaming his dreams; and it certainly caused us a slight regret that we could not help to lay them on a solid foundation. All we could do was to give him our best wishes, and tell him that if sufficiently earnest and persevering he would certainly gain the desire of his heart. It only depended on himself.
This prophecy seemed to inspire him with hope and courage; and our last reminiscence of Manresa was that of a young man, strong, handsome, fresh coloured, standing hat in hand on the platform, and begging us "with tears in his voice" to stay at least two days in Manresa the next time we passed that way and formally petition the landlord in a deputation of one for his promotion.[B]