ON OUR WAY TO POBLET.ON OUR WAY TO POBLET.
"Ah, Loretta, you should have told us this story before. We should not have refused your donkeys. It would be an honour to ride the wise and gentle Caro."
"Another time, señor. You will be coming again, then you shall have Caro, though twenty others fought for him. No one comes to Poblet once without coming a second time. You will see."
As Loretta had said, the carriage was waiting. The carriage, save the mark! If we had regretted the donkeys before seeingit, what did we do now? It was nothing but a country cart covered with a white tarpaulin, and a door behind about a foot square, through which we had to scramble to find ourselves buried in the interior. The whole concern was only fit for a museum of antiquities, like the Tarragona victoria. But the thing was done, and we had to make the best of it.
Passing through the streets, we came upon more men pressing out the grapes. It was a much larger affair than that of Lerida, and the juice poured out in a rich red stream. Four strong men were at work.
We stopped the cart, struggled out of what Francisco called the cat-hole, and watched the process. It was a case of mutual interest. The men had their heads bound round with handkerchiefs. The thoroughfare was the end of the town, wide and cleanly. Altogether this was an improvement upon the Lerida wine-press, and when these men offered us of the juice in a clean goblet, we did not refuse them. This attention to strangers was evidently a peace-offering; a token of goodwill; and the loving-cup was cool, refreshing and delicious. Such must have been the true nectar of the gods.
"Almost equal to Laffitte," said H. C. "I don't know that I ever tasted anything more poet-inspiring. Let us drink to the health and happiness of the fair Loretta. Lorenzo is a lucky man."
With some genuine tobacco and a few cigars such as they had never seen or heard of, the men thought they had made an excellent exchange. We left them as happy as the gods on Olympus.
Soon after this we found ourselves in the open country. The roads were of the roughest: hard and dry, now all stones, now all ruts: some of the ruts a foot deep, into which the cart would sink to an angle of forty-five degrees. There were no springs to the cart; never had been any. It was stiff and unyielding, and evidently dated from the stone age. We did not even attempt to keep our seats, but flew about like ninepins.
"The Laffitte will be churned into butter," groaned H. C. spasmodically, feeling a general internal dislocation. "Butter-wine. I wonder what it will be like. A new discovery, perhaps."
But the luncheon-basket was in comparative repose. How Francisco managed we never knew; habit is second nature; he neither lost his seat nor let go the basket. Never in roughest seas had we been so tossed about. The next day we were black and blue, and for a week after felt as though we had been beaten with rods.
At last after what seemed an interminable drive, but was really only some three miles, we turned from the main road and the common—evidently the scene of Loretta's donkey adventure—into a narrow, shabby avenue of trees. At the end appeared the outer gateway of the monastery, where we were too thankful to dispense with the cart and its driver.
A dream-world—Ruins—Chapel of St. George—Archways and Gothic windows—Atmosphere of the Middle Ages—Convent doorway—Summons but no response—Door opens at last—Comfortable looking woman—Ready invention—Confusion worse confounded—True version—Francisco painfully direct—Guardian gets worst of it—Picturesque decay—Gothic cloisters—Visions of beauty—Rare wilderness—King Martin the Humble—Bacchanalian days—When the monks quaffed Malvoisie—Simple grandeur of the church—Philip Duke of Wharton—Cistercian monastery—History of Poblet the monk—Monastery becomes celebrated—Tombs of the kings of Aragon—Guardian sceptical—Paradise or wilderness—Monks all-powerful—Escorial of Aragon—The great traveller—Changing for the worse—Upholding the kingly power—Time rolls on—Downfall—Attacked and destroyed—Infuriated mob—Fictitious treasures—Fiendish act—Massacre—Ruined monastery—Blood-red sunset—Superstition—End of 1835.
A dream-world—Ruins—Chapel of St. George—Archways and Gothic windows—Atmosphere of the Middle Ages—Convent doorway—Summons but no response—Door opens at last—Comfortable looking woman—Ready invention—Confusion worse confounded—True version—Francisco painfully direct—Guardian gets worst of it—Picturesque decay—Gothic cloisters—Visions of beauty—Rare wilderness—King Martin the Humble—Bacchanalian days—When the monks quaffed Malvoisie—Simple grandeur of the church—Philip Duke of Wharton—Cistercian monastery—History of Poblet the monk—Monastery becomes celebrated—Tombs of the kings of Aragon—Guardian sceptical—Paradise or wilderness—Monks all-powerful—Escorial of Aragon—The great traveller—Changing for the worse—Upholding the kingly power—Time rolls on—Downfall—Attacked and destroyed—Infuriated mob—Fictitious treasures—Fiendish act—Massacre—Ruined monastery—Blood-red sunset—Superstition—End of 1835.
ONCEwithin the gateway we were in a dream-world; a world of the past; a world of ruins, but ruins rich and rare.
From the outer gateway a long avenue of trees and buildings led to the monastery. Far down you looked upon a second gateway with a wonderful view of receding arches and outlines. Between the two gateways on the left were the workshops of the artisans of the days gone by, now closed and desolate. Just before reaching the second gateway, on the right, we found the small fifteenth-century chapel of St. George, with the original stone altar and groined and vaulted roof. On the left within the gateway was an ancient hospital and chapel, both crumbling into picturesque decay: and on higher ground, the palace of the bishops, where they lived and ruled in the days of their glory.
Exquisite outlines of crumbling archways and Gothic windowssurrounded us. Over all was a wonderful tone of age, soft and mellow. Towers and steeples rose in clear outlines against the sky, outlines still perfect and substantial. But the outer buildings, which had been palatial dwellings, were mere empty shells overgrown with weeds, given over to the bats and the owls. A wonderful bit of moulding or fragment of an archway, Roman or Gothic as might happen, showed the beauty and magnificence of what had once been, and would still exist but for the barbarities of man. Some of the outer walls might have defied a millennium of years. It was a dead world of surpassing beauty and refinement: a series of crumbling arches and moss-grown fragments of gigantic walls. We had it all to ourselves; the perfect repose was unbroken; no restless forms and loud voices intruded; no jarring element broke the spell of the centuries. We were in the very atmosphere of the Middle Ages. In days gone by the monastery must have been of regal splendour, as it was unlimited in power.
At last we reached the convent doorway and a bell went echoing through the silence. No one responded, and we began to fear that perhaps the custodian had gone off like our night porter in Lerida, taking the keys with him. A second summons produced echoing footsteps, and the door was opened by a comfortable looking woman, who was neither a ruin nor a fragment nor specially antique.
"Excuse me for keeping you waiting," she said. "I am not the guardian, only his humble wife. In fact he calls me his chattel. I object to the term. We did not expect any one here to-day, and he has just gone out to do a little commission."
But we discovered that this was a stretch of the imagination. In reality the old man, seized with a fit of laziness, was only then dressing. He appeared on the scene almost at once, somewhat to his spouse's confusion. But she made the best of it, and patting her capacious apron and stiffening her neck, walked off with a proud step and a jaunty air to her special quarters.
"We have had no one here for a fortnight," said the guardian. "I began to think we might advertise ourselves as closed for the winter season, like the seaside casinos. Quite worn out with doing nothing, I thought I might as well spend themorning in bed for a change. Of course just as an umbrella brings sunshine, so my staying in bed brought visitors."
"But your wife said that you had gone out to do a commission," cried Francisco, with all a boy's direct statement of the truth.
"Did she indeed now," replied the old guardian calmly. "That was over-zeal on her part; done with a good motive, but still wrong. I shall have to chastise her."
"How shall you do it?" asked Francisco. "Beat her?"
"We don't beat women, young señor," replied the guardian severely. "My chastisement takes the form of admonition."
"When I wanted punishing, my father used to beat me with a cane," returned Francisco. "I don't think admonition would have done me any good at all. I don't suppose it will do your wife any good. On the very next occasion she'll tell another white lie. Much better give her a caning and have done with it."
"Did your father ever cane his wife?" asked the old man drily.
"She would have been much more likely to cane him," returned Francisco emphatically. "Does your wife beat you?"
The old man felt he was getting the worst of it; was being driven into a corner by this enfant terrible; and took refuge in silence.
This interesting conversation took place just inside the doorway, where we found ourselves lost in the beauty of the scene. A court with round arches on either side resting on pillars with small capitals. Above them the walls were in their rough, rude state, full of picturesque decay, but here as in many parts of the interior much had been restored. Nevertheless, so much of the original remains that the restoration does not offend. It has been well done. Before us, at the end of the short entrance-court was a large and splendid archway, and beyond we had a distant view of the Gothic cloisters.
ENTRANCE TO CLOISTERS: POBLET.ENTRANCE TO CLOISTERS: POBLET.
The interior was so immense, the passages were so intricate, we could never have found our way without the custodian. Nothing could be lovelier than the half-ruined cloisters. The large exquisite windows were of rich pointed work, seven bays on each side, pillars and tracery either almost all gone, or partly restored. In one corner of the quadrangle was a hexagon glorieta enclosing the fountain that in days gone by supplied monks and bishops with water. Weeds and shrubs and stunted trees grew about it; a rare wilderness. Above rose the outlines of battlemented walls; of ruined pointed windows, lovely in decay; of crumbling stairways, rich mouldings and pointed roofs. The cloister passages opened to enormous rooms. On the east side was the chapter-house, supported by four exquisite pillars, from which sprang the groining of the roof; the doors and windows were specially graceful and refined; thefloor was paved with monumental stones of the dead-and-gone abbots, many of the inscriptions effaced by time.
Near this was the large refectory with pillars and pointed vault. Up the staircase, which still remains, we passed to the palace del Rey Martin; King Martin the Humble as he was called; and large and baronial in days gone by the palace must have been, its very aspect transporting one to feudal times. Below the palace were enormous vaults where the wine was once stored: great vats and channels, and a whole series of processes to which the wine was subjected. Those must have been bacchanalian days, and supplies never failed. All the rooms—the Chocolateria, where the abbots took their chocolate, the Novitiate, of enormous dimensions, the Library, the room of the Archives, the room that contained the rich monastery treasure, another that had nothing but rare MSS., some of which are scattered but many more destroyed—all these rooms seemed countless, and each had its special charm and atmosphere.
It was impossible to enter the refectory with its vaulted roof lost in the semi-obscurity which reigned, without conjuring up a vision of monks and abbots who in past centuries feasted here and quaffed each other in draughts of rich Malvoisie. In the palace del Rey Martin, we imagined all the regal pomp and splendour in which the king delighted. In the wine vaults we beheld the wine running in deep red streams, traced it to the refectory table, and noticed the rapidity with which it disappeared before the worthy abbots. In the vaults it passed through every stage, from the crushing of the grape to the final storing in barrels.
On one side of the cloisters was the partly restored church, high and wide, with a magnificent nave of seven fine bays, so slightly pointed as to be almost Romanesque. We were lost in wonder at the size of the building, its simple grandeur, even as a partial ruin. Open to it from the north side is the great sacristy, saddest room of all. For here we find a solitary tombstone on which is inscribed the name of Philip Duke of Wharton, who came over to the monastery, a lonely exile, and died at the age of thirty-two, without friend or servant to soothe his last moments, knowing little or nothing of the languageof the monks who surrounded him. Most melancholy of stories.
In the church, on each side of the high altar were remains of once splendid tombs. They are now defaced, and the effigies have altogether disappeared. Here was once the tomb of Jayme el Conquistador, which we had looked upon that very morning with our amiable sacristan on the left of the Coro in Tarragona cathedral. Its ancient resting-place in the great monastery church is now an empty space.
The aisle behind the high altar contains five chapels, and behind these outside the church lies the cemetery of the monks, a beautiful and ideal spot with long rows of round arches one beyond another, so that you seem to be looking into vistas of countless pillars. Above the arches and pillars are walls of amazing thickness, with windows and projections, all ending in moss-grown, crumbling outlines. Below, small mounds and tombstones mark the resting-place of the dead. Here they sleep forgotten; no sign or sound penetrates from the outer world, and those who visit them are comparatively few.
The whole monastery is nothing but an accumulation of crumbling walls still strong and majestic, of church and cloister, of palace and palatial courts, of refined Gothic windows with broken tracery, of ancient stairways and flying arches. Over all was the exquisite tone of age.
It was originally a Cistercian monastery, dating from the middle of the twelfth century. Its abbots were bishops, who lived in great pomp and almost unlimited wealth and power. "Which they used according to their lights," said our custodian; "sometimes wisely, sometimes wastefully. I should like to have been cellarman to the old abbots in the days when the vaults were full of wine and a few quarts a day more or less were never missed."
"Is there any legend connected with its origin?"
"Indeed, yes, señor. When was there ever an old institution in Spain without its legend? As the señor knows and sees, the monastery dates back to the year 1150. But long before that, in the days of the Moors, a hermit named Poblet took refuge here that he might pray in peace. An emir found him one day, captured him and put him intoprison. Angels came three times over and broke his chains. The emir grew frightened, repented, set the hermit at liberty, and gave him all the surrounding territory in this fertile valley of La Conca de Barbera. In 1140 the body of Poblet was miraculously discovered. It was nothing but a heap of bones, and so I suppose they were labelled, or how could they have identified them—but I don't know about that. The bones of course became sacred and had to be duly honoured. So Ramon Berenguer IV. built the convent of El Santo; the bones were interred under the high altar, and the king gave enormous grants to the clergy. The place grew celebrated above all others in Catalonia; it become a sort of Escorial, and here the kings of Aragon for a long time were buried."
"And the bones of the hermit—where are they?"
"Nobody knows," replied the guardian, shaking his head wisely. "They may pretend, but nobody knows. Is it likely? And what does it matter for a few human bones? Just as if they could work miracles or do any good. A poor old hermit, with all our weaknesses upon him!"
"Then you don't believe the legend?"
"Not I, señor. I believe much more in the jovial times the old abbots indulged in. At least we have a capacious refectory and inexhaustible wine vaults to prove what fine banquets they had in the Middle Ages. We have come down to poor times, in my opinion. The world in general seems very much what this monastery is—a patched-up ruin."
"If the world were only half as beautiful," said H. C., "we should spend our years in a dream."
"It would not be my sort of dream, señor," returned the old guardian drily. "I have been here for twenty years, and confess I would give all the ruins in the world for a good and gay back street in Madrid or Barcelona. To you, señor, who probably come from the great cities of the world and mix with gay crowds—well, I dare say you think this paradise. To me it is a dreary wilderness."
It was not to be expected that the old custodian would appreciate all the beauty and refinement, all the ecclesiastical, regal and historical atmosphere that surrounded it with a special halo. And perhaps twenty years' contemplation of the outlineswould have made many a better man long for a change of scene. Custom stales and familiarity breeds contempt. But not twice twenty years could have made us unmindful of the singular beauty of Poblet.
MONKS' BURIAL GROUND: POBLET.MONKS' BURIAL GROUND: POBLET.
We had got round to the lovely cloisters again, and Francisco declared it was time to display the luncheon-basket. So there, in the silent cloisters, surrounded by all the tone and atmosphere and outlines of the early centuries, we spread our feast.
The old guardian was equal to the occasion and produced table and chairs. Those he placed in the quadrangle, under the blue skies. The lovely glorieta was on one side of us; on the other, by looking through the broken tracery down the silentpassage, we caught the outlines of the great church; a wonderful view and vision.
Our host, better than his orders, had packed up two bottles of wine, and H. C. in the largeness of his heart presented the guardian with a brimming bumper of choice Laffitte, that nearly half emptied one of the bottles. Like a true courtier, he bowed and drank to our health and happiness, and when the wine had disappeared, patted his fine rotundity with affectionate appreciation.
"Señor," he cried, "this is better than anything I ever tasted. A bottle of this a day would reconcile me even to the solitude of Poblet. Surely the old abbots never had anything equal to this—even when they drank Malvoisie. It has set the blood coursing through my veins as I have not felt it for twenty years. For such as this some people would sell their souls."
The excellent fumes must have penetrated even to the guardian's private rooms, for at this moment, with an air of great innocence, the wife appeared upon the scene. Francisco declared she had heard the cork drawn and arrived for a share of good things. With true gallantry, but a sinking at the heart for the diminishing Laffitte, H. C. poured out another bumper and offered it to the lady, whose proportions matched her husband's. It was accepted with a reverence, and if appreciation were a reward for the empty bottle, H. C. had his to the full. Then the comfortable pair retired to the cloister passage, where the guardian had his own table and chairs and display of photographs, and there they sat down and contemplated life under Laffitte influence. Judging by their expressions they were in the enjoyment of infinite beatitudes.
RUINS OF POBLET.RUINS OF POBLET.
It was a calm, quiet, delicious hour, far removed from the world. For the moment we were back in the centuries, picturing scenes of the past. Days when Poblet rose from small things to great; when its abbots became mitred; when they could ask nothing of the kings of Aragon that was not immediately granted. The kings delighted to honour them. Wealth flowed into the treasury; power multiplied. At last they ruled as despots. The kings built them a palace within the hallowed precincts. Side by side dwelt humble monk and crowned head. Humble? Where the regal will clashed with the monkish, the king went on his knees and gave way. It became the Escorial of Aragon, a thousand times more beautiful and perfect than that other Escorial reposing on the hill-slopes of Castile. Here it pleased the kings to be buried, and close to the monks' cemetery reposed the dead who had held the sceptre.No special tomb or carved sarcophagus marked their rank. In death all should be equal. Or if there were tombs decorated with gold and enriched with sculpture, they were placed in the great church. What more indeed could they want than these wonderful arcades reposing under the pure skies of heaven.
But the monks grew stiff-necked and proud; waxed rich and powerful, grasping and avaricious. Since kings bowed down to them, they were the excellent of the earth. Humility fled away. They were paving the road to their own downfall. At last they would only admit those of highest rank into their community. Of course they upheld the kingly power whilst trying to make it subservient to themselves. The throne was their stronghold: Republicanism meant confiscation. The revolutions of the world have attacked the religious orders before all else with hatred and violence.
Time rolled on. Ferdinand VII. died, and in the War of Succession they became politically unpopular. Socially they had long been disliked for their oppression of the peasantry; but strong and rich, the feeling had to be cherished in silence. The monks were Carlists to the backbone.
At length, in the year, 1835, Poblet was attacked by the peasantry, who came down like a furious avalanche upon the building that for its beauty should have been held twice sacred.
By this time, too, a change for the better had come over the monks. Much wealth and influence had gone from them; they were quietly doing good. But the traditions of the past are slow in dying. The mob believed the monastery was a vast treasure-house; untold riches lay buried in fictitious graves, hidden in tombs and hollow pillars. It was now that the men of Reus proved capable of fiendish acts of excitement. The monks were driven from their refuge and many were cruelly massacred. The pent-up fury of ages was let loose like a torrent. No power could stay the thirst for so-called revenge. It was their hour; a short-lived hour; but how much was accomplished! The monastery was ruined. The mob, infuriated at finding no heaps of gold, no hidden treasures, tore down pillars, defaced monuments, desecrated the church, left the beautiful traceried windows in ruins, and then set fire to the building.
The sun had risen on as fair and peaceful a scene as earthcould show; it set on the saddest of devastations. Yet, thanks to the solid masonry, much escaped. For the monks it was lamentation and mourning and woe. It has been recorded that the sun went down in a deep-red ball, reflection of the blood of the martyred monks. But the people are superstitious. We have seen it ourselves sink over the Spanish plains also a fiery-red ball, intense and glowing, when the world was at peace. Yet, it must have been a special sunset on that memorable day of 1835, for it is recorded that long after the sun disappeared clouds shot to and fro in the sky like swords of flame. But this, too, we have gazed upon in days of peace and quietness.
Day visions—All passes away—End of the feast—Francisco gathers up the fragments—Ghosts of the past—Outside the monastery—Oasis in a desert—After the vintage—Francisco gleans—Guilty conscience—Custom of country—Dessert—Primitive watering-place—Off to the fair—Groans and lamentations—Sagacious animal—Cause of sorrows—Rage and anger—Donkey listens and understands—A hard life—Washing a luxury—Charity bestowed—Deserted settlement—Quaint interior—Back to the monastery—Invidious comparisons—A promise—Good-bye to Poblet—Troubled sea again—Suffering driver—Atonement for sins—Earns paradise—Wine-pressers again—Rich stores—Good samaritans—Quaint old town—Bygone prosperity—Lorenzo—Marriage made in heaven—House inspected—On the bridge—At the station—Kindly offer—Glorious sunset—Loretta's good-bye—"What shall it be?"—Flying moments—As the train rolls off.
Day visions—All passes away—End of the feast—Francisco gathers up the fragments—Ghosts of the past—Outside the monastery—Oasis in a desert—After the vintage—Francisco gleans—Guilty conscience—Custom of country—Dessert—Primitive watering-place—Off to the fair—Groans and lamentations—Sagacious animal—Cause of sorrows—Rage and anger—Donkey listens and understands—A hard life—Washing a luxury—Charity bestowed—Deserted settlement—Quaint interior—Back to the monastery—Invidious comparisons—A promise—Good-bye to Poblet—Troubled sea again—Suffering driver—Atonement for sins—Earns paradise—Wine-pressers again—Rich stores—Good samaritans—Quaint old town—Bygone prosperity—Lorenzo—Marriage made in heaven—House inspected—On the bridge—At the station—Kindly offer—Glorious sunset—Loretta's good-bye—"What shall it be?"—Flying moments—As the train rolls off.
ALLthis passed before us as a vision whilst we sat in those wonderful cloisters. We imagined the scene in all its ancient glory. We saw monks pacing to and fro in their picturesque Benedictine dress. The proud step of a mitred abbot echoed as it passed onwards in pomp and ceremony and disappeared up the staircase to the palace of King Martin the Humble: far more humble and conciliating than the uncrowned kings of Poblet. We heard the monotone of the Miserere ascending through the dim aisles of the great church, the monks bowing their heads in mock humility. We saw Martin the Humble take the throne-seat to the right of the altar as though he felt himself least of all the assembled. And we saw that solitary death-bed of Wharton the self-banished whilst yet in his youth, and marvelled what silent, secret sorrow had bid him flee the world. Everything had passed away; kings and monks, wealth and power, and to-day the silence of death reigns in Poblet.
CLOISTERS OF POBLET.CLOISTERS OF POBLET.
When our modest feast was over, and H. C. had tried forthe third time to extract a final drop of Laffitte from the second empty bottle, we left Francisco to gather up the fragments, and without the custodian—who was now taking a refreshing sleep after his appreciated bumper—wandered about the ruins as we would, realising all their beauty and influence, all the true spirit of the past that overshadowed them. Every room and court was filled with a crowd of cowled monks and mitred abbots. Up crumbling and picturesque' stairways we saw a shadowy procession ascending; the ghostly face of Martin the Humble looked down upon us from the exquisite windows of his palace, shorn of nearly all their tracery.
It was difficult to leave it all, but we wanted to see a little of the outer world. Francisco committed his basket to the guardian—now wide awake—and in a few moments we found ourselves outside the great entrance, facing the crumbling dependencies. Beyond the gateway we turned to the left and passed up the valley. It was broad and far-reaching, and the monastery looked in the centre of a great undulating plain. From the slopes of a vineyard on which we sat awhile, it rose like an oasis in a desert, its picturesque outlines clearly marked against the blue sky. An irregular, half-ruined wall enclosed the vast precincts. In the far distance were chains of hills. There was no trace anywhere of a monks' garden, but in their despotic days they probably had all their wants supplied in the shape of tithes. The landscape was bare of trees, yet the rich soil yields abundantly the fruits of the earth. In the vineyard nearly all the grapes had been plucked; but Francisco wandering to and fro found a few bunches and plucked them. Warmed by the sunshine they were luscious and full of sweet flavour. We felt almost guilty of eating stolen fruit.
"Are we not very much like boys robbing an orchard, Francisco?"
"No," laughed the boy, "though I'm afraid if we were that would not stop me. What we are doing is quite allowed. It is the custom of the country. Anyone may take the overlooked bunches in a vineyard just as they may glean in a corn-field. If I had not picked these, they would have withered. The owner, if he came in at this moment, would wish us good appetite and digestion and probably hunt foranother bunch or two to present to us. Not a bad dessert after luncheon."
Higher up the road we found a settlement, where in summer people flock to the hotels to drink the waters and enjoy the country. To-day all was closed for the approaching winter. A few years ago the place had no existence beyond a few scattered farm cottages with latticed windows and thatched roofs, surrounded by small orchards. These still exist. The place looked light and primitive, as though life might here pass very pleasantly. It was too far from the monastery to intrude upon its solitude, and the whole settlement seemed deserted. Not a creature crossed our path until on the down-hill road on the other side we came upon an old woman struggling with an obstinate donkey. Approaching, we heard groans and lamentations: now the animal was threatened, now implored. He was equally indifferent to both appeals. Looking very sagacious, his ears working to and fro and his feet well planted upon the ground, as wide apart as possible, he would not budge an inch.
The old woman would certainly never see eighty again. She was wrinkled and shrivelled and looked a black object; her old face so tanned by the sun that she might almost pass for a woman of colour. Her black hair was wiry and untidy, and a rusty black gown hung about her in scanty folds. We stopped to inquire the cause of her sorrows.
"Ah, señor, this wretched animal will one day be the death of me. But no, you wretched brute," suddenly turning to rage and anger, "I will be the death of you. I know that one of these days I shall take a knife to its throat, and there will be an end of it. And there will be an end of me, for I have no other living. All I can do is to go about gathering sticks and begging halfpence from charity. But this miserable donkey is worse than a pig. A pig will go the wrong way, but my donkey won't go at all. Sometimes for an hour together he doesn't move an inch. I have known him keep me a whole afternoon within ten yards of the same spot. I have beaten him till I'm black and blue"—the old woman had evidently got mixed here—"until my arm has ached for a week and I hadn't a breath left in my body; and all he does is to kick up his hind legs and bray in mockery."
POBLET, FROM THE VINEYARD.POBLET, FROM THE VINEYARD.
All this time the donkey was switching its tail as though it understood every word that was said and thoroughly appreciated its bad character. And apparently to emphasise the matter, at this moment it suddenly gave a bray so loud, long and à propos that we were convulsed with laughter, in which the old woman joined. The donkey looked round with a ridiculously comical expression upon its face that was evidently put on.
"Ah, señor, it is all very well to laugh, but I am a poor wretched old woman," said this sable donkey-owner. "I never know one day whether I shall not starve the next. My husband died forty years ago. I have one daughter, but she left me. For twenty years I have not heard of her. Mine has been a hard life."
"How often do you wash?" we could not help asking out of curiosity.
"Wash, señor?" opening very wide eyes. "I am too poor to buy soap, and water is scarce. And I am so thin that if I washed, my bones would come through the skin. Señor, if you will bestow your charity upon me I promise not to waste it upon soap."
We were near the river. The clear, sparkling water flowed on its way to the sea. Near the bank were whispering reeds and rushes. We felt sorely tempted to lift the old woman with our stick—she could not have weighed more than a good fat turkey—drop her into the stream, and for once make her acquainted with the luxury of a cold bath. But we reflected that she probably had no change of things, and her death might lie at our door. So we bestowed upon her the charity she asked for and left her. Prayers for our happiness went on until we were out of sight, and up to that point the perverse animal had not moved.
We now turned back on our road, and appeared to have the whole country-side to ourselves. As we passed the thatched cottages every one of them was closed and silent. No blue curling smoke ascended from any of the chimneys.
"Is it always so quiet and deserted?" we asked Francisco, who had knocked at three or four cottages without success. He was anxious to show us the interiors, which he said were curious: great chimney-corners with the chain hanging downto hold the pot-au-feu that was always going: peat fires that threw their incense upon the air: enormous Spanish settles on which half a dozen people could sit easily and keep warm on winter evenings: wonderful old clocks that ticked in the corner. We saw all this in the fifth cottage. Its inmates had flown, but forgotten to lock the door. The fire was out, and the great iron pot swinging from the chain was cold.
"No, señor. I have often been here and never found everybody away like this. One might fancy them all dead and buried, but they are at the fair, I suppose. The harvest is all in, fruits are all gathered; there is nothing left on the trees"—with a melancholy glance at the orchards—"and for the moment they have nothing to do. So they have gone in a body to amuse themselves and spend their money."
We got back in time to the monastery, and again the woman opened to us.
"This time he really has gone off for a commission," she laughed, as the colour mounted to her face at the remembrance of her late transgression. "I really had to make an excuse before," she added. "It might have been one of the directors, and I should not like them to think the old man was getting past his work."
The guardian came up behind us at the moment, a bottle of wine in his hand for their evening meal.
"Ah, señor," shaking his head mournfully, "it is not equal to yours. Until the flavour and recollection of yours have passed away, I shall find this but poor stuff. I must make believe very hard, and fancy myself living in the days of the old monks, drinking Malvoisie."
We promised to send him a bottle of Laffitte the very next time any one came over from the hotel, and he declared the anticipation would add five years to his life. We took a last look at the lovely cloisters, and then with a heavy heart turned our backs upon Poblet. Seldom had any visit so charmed us. Never had we seen such ruins; such marvellous outlines and perspectives; never felt more in a world of the past; never so completely realised the bygone life of the monks: all their splendour and power, wealth and luxury, to which the kingly presence gave additional lustre. They were days of pompand ceremony and despotism; but the surrounding atmosphere of refinement and beauty must have had a softening and religious effect that perhaps kept them from excesses of tyranny and self-indulgence: vices that might have made their name a byword to succeeding ages.
Our primitive conveyance was in waiting. Once more we found ourselves tossed upon a troubled sea where no waters were. We passed through the plains in which the magic donkey had appeared to Loretta, now empty and gathering tone and depth as the day declined.
Our driver was not communicative. Apparently all his energy had spent itself at the station in claiming our patronage. He now even seemed unhappy, and in spite of the abominable drive he was giving us, we ventured to ask him if the world went well with him.
"I can't complain of the world, señor," he returned, in melancholy tones. "I have food enough to eat, but alas cannot eat it. I suffer from frightful toothache. At the last fair I mounted the dentist's waggon; boom went the drum, crash went the trumpets—I thought my head was off. He had pulled out the only sound tooth I possessed. 'Let me try again,' said he. 'No, thank you,' I answered. 'You have given me enough for one day, and if you expect any other payment than my sound tooth you will be disappointed.' Unfortunately, señor, hehadmore than the tooth, for he had carried away a bit of my jaw with it. Since then I have no comfort in life. The next time the fair comes round I suppose he will have to try again. The priests tell us a good deal about the torments of purgatory, but they can be nothing compared with this toothache. After this I shall expect to go straight to paradise when I die—priest or no priest."
The silence of the unhappy driver was more than accounted for, and we gave him our sympathy.
"Thank you, señor," he answered. "It is very good of you. But," comically, "my tooth still aches."
We had reached the outskirts of the little town and dismissed the conveyance, of which we had had more than enough. It rattled through the streets and we followed at leisure. The men at the wine-press were just giving up work. Inside, inlarge rooms, they showed us wide tubs full of rich red juice, waiting to be made into wine.
"You have enough here for the whole neighbourhood," we remarked.
"It is all ordered, señor, and as much again if we can get it. We are famed for our wine. May we offer you a really good specimen bottle, just to show you its excellence? It would be a most friendly act on your part—and a little return for your splendid tobacco and cigars."
"By all means," cried H. C., before we had time to accept or decline. "We are all as thirsty as fishes—and as hungry as hunters."
"It is last year's wine," said our cellarman, returning with a bottle and drawing the cork. Then he hospitably filled tumblers and with a broad smile upon his face waited our approval. We gave it without reserve. It was excellent.
"And as pure as when it was still in the grape," said the man. "Take my word for it, señor, you won't get such stuff as this in Madrid or Barcelona. It goes through your veins and exhilarates you, and if you drank three bottles of it you might feel lively, but you would have no headache."
We owed the wine-presser a debt of gratitude. His invigorating draught was doubly welcome after our late experience, and we went our way feeling there are many good Samaritans in the world.
We had some time to wait in the little town, and made closer acquaintance with its curious old streets: the overhanging eaves and waterspouts that stretched out like grinning gargoyles; the massive walls of many of the houses, and casements with rich mouldings that suggested a bygone day of wealth and prosperity.
In our wandering we came upon the man Loretta had pointed out as her future husband. He was almost in the very same spot we had last seen him, and his head was now adorned with a white cap. We stopped him.
"So, Lorenzo, you are going to espouse Loretta."
"With your permission, señor. I hope you are not going to forbid the marriage?"
RUINS OF POBLET.RUINS OF POBLET.
"Quite the contrary. We offer you our congratulations,and think you a very lucky man, Loretta a fortunate woman."
"Thank you, señor," replied Lorenzo, laughing—he seemed made up of good-humour. "I think it promises well. You see we are neither of us children, but old enough to know our own mind. Loretta is twenty-eight, I am thirty-two, and as far as I can make out, we have neither of us cared for anybody before. Our marriage was evidently made in heaven. And then Mr. Caro settled the matter by accepting me as his master."
"And you love the donkeys, we hear?"
"I love all animals in general," returned Lorenzo, "and of course Loretta's donkeys in particular. If she could have an additional attraction in my eyes, it is her power over the dumb birds and beasts, which proves the goodness of her soul. I cannot approach her in that respect."
"And when are you going to be married?"
"Has Loretta not told you that?" said Lorenzo, the colour flushing to his face. "We are to be married to-morrow morning. Everything is ready. Loretta has her wedding-gown, and our rooms have been furnished some time. They are over my workshop, so that I shall be able to hear her singing whilst I am planing and sawing below. Here it is, señor; will you not come in and look at it? I think," a bright light in his eyes, "we shall be very happy. After we are married to-morrow we go to Barcelona for a few days, where I have a prosperous brother who will take us in. Then we come back and settle down to our life. Yes, I think we shall be as happy as the day's long, señor."
We had no doubt about it. Happiness in this world is for such as these. Excellent natures, saved from the great cares and responsibilities of those in a higher walk; working for their daily bread, which is abundantly supplied; contented with their lot; knowing nothing of impossible wants and wishes; loving and shedding abroad their love. It is such natures as Loretta's and Lorenzo's that are the truly happy. Their very names harmonized. But they are rare amongst their own class; one might almost say rare in any class; the exception, not the rule. It was good to come upon two such people,and to find that a kindly fate had reserved them for each other.
We left Lorenzo in his workshop, a strong, manly fellow, using his plane with a skilful hand, and went our way.
Right and left Loretta was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was arranging things at home for the last time. The last evening in the old nest. She might be contemplating her wedding-gown, lost in thoughts of the past or dreams of the future. But she was not one to look on the sad side of life, or to spend time in melancholy introspection.
From the picturesque old bridge beneath which the river ran its swift course, the scene was wild, picturesque and lonely. With all our loitering we had an hour to wait for the train. At the station we found Loretta, apparently anything but low-spirited. She was accompanied by a well-dressed woman who looked as if the world went well with her. Loretta saw us and came forward.
"Señor, you are back from Poblet. Tell me, did I exaggerate its beauty? Will you not come again, if only to ride the gentle Caro?"
"Poblet far surpasses anything we expected from it, Loretta. But why did you not tell us that to-morrow was your wedding-day?"
"I did not like to," she returned, laughing. "And yet I am too old to be silly about it. How did you find out, señor? Surely the old guardian at Poblet knows nothing? I have not been near him for three weeks."
"We met Lorenzo, and he told us. Loretta, you are a happy couple. He will make a famous husband, and you a model wife."
"Ah, señor, I shall try my best; but sometimes I think I am not good enough for him. He is such a brave man, my Lorenzo."
"Why are you here, Loretta?"
"To escort Lorenzo's cousin, señor, who came over to see me to-day for the last time before my wedding. She lives in Tarragona. We have been great friends, and she has long hoped Lorenzo and I would marry."
She carried in her hand, this cousin of Lorenzo's, a glasswater-bottle of rare and exquisite shape. We could not help admiring it in strong terms.
"It is not to be bought anywhere," she said. "It is old and they do not make them now. Señor, it would give me real pleasure if you would accept it. I do not mean in Spanish fashion, but truly and sincerely."
This was very evident, but the gift had to be refused, however kindly offered.
We walked up and down the platform in face of one of the loveliest sunsets ever seen. In spite of its gorgeous colouring there was a great calmness and repose about it. Wonderful tones from crimson to pale opal spread half over the sky. Every moment they changed from beauty to beauty, and lighted up the outlines of the town into something rare and ethereal. We have already said there is no country like Spain for the splendour of its sunsets, and especially in their afterglow. They are truly amongst her glories.
At last the train came up and shut out the heavenly vision. Loretta approached and said good-bye.
"You will come again, señor, and ride Caro. I shall be married then, and both Lorenzo and I will escort you to Poblet. It will delight us to serve you. We will make it a holiday. But do not tarry. Caro is not as young as he was, though I believe donkeys live for ever."
"Now, Loretta," we said, whilst the train waited, "it is our ambition to send you a wedding-gift. What shall it be?"
"Señor, you are too good. What have I done? I could never——"
"Loretta, the train may start at any moment."
"Señor, I have all I could wish for, excepting——" She hesitated.
"Loretta, the moments are flying."
"Señor, it is too great an object. I have not the courage——"
"Loretta, the guard signals. Another moment and you are lost."
"Well, then, señor, I long for a clock for our mantelpiece. We had made up our minds to wait, and——"
"Loretta, the clock is yours. It shall be pure white. Agolden Cupid shall strike the bells. In his other hand he shall hold a glass which turns with the hours, running golden sands. Fare you well, Loretta."
The engine whistled. The carriage moved. Our last look was a vision of a comely woman standing on the platform, a tall erect figure gazing after the train, the reflection of the afterglow lighting up her face to something beyond mere earthly beauty.