LONJA DE SEDA: VALENCIA.LONJA DE SEDA: VALENCIA.
Near the cathedral was the Audiencia, or Court of Justice, one of the most perfect buildings in Europe. Though the ground-floor has been divided into public offices, the elaborately carved and gilt ceilings remain, decorated with splendid honey-comb pendentives of the Moorish School. The first floor is given up to the matchless Salon de Cortes, where justice is administered; its walls covered with curious frescoes of thesixteenth century, chiefly portraits of the members of the Cortes assembled in session. The rich carving of the room is in native pine, and was finished in the sixteenth century, when art was still at its best. A narrow gallery runs round the room supported by slender columns. Below this are coats-of-arms and busts of the kings of Aragon, with appropriate historical incidents. The ceiling is also elaborately carved in lozenges encased in square panels. Not the smallest fragment of the room has been left undecorated, and its refined, subdued tone is lovely in the extreme. Here we found the sword and banner of Jayme el Conquistador, which the Valencians place amongst their chief treasures.
The churches are numerous, but not specially interesting. San Salvador possesses a rude expressive sculpture of the thirteenth century, a curious image, supposed to have been carved by Nicodemus, and said to have miraculously found its solitary way from Syria across the seas.
Not far from this is the Church, given to the Templars by James I. in 1238, when already a building of some antiquity. Here was the remarkable tower of Alibufat, on which the Cross was first displayed. But like the people of Zaragoza, who pulled down their leaning tower, so the Valencians demolished the tower of Alibufat to widen a street. We have seen that even their ancient walls were not spared. They have no respect for antiquity; no love for the past. A modern spirit possesses them; a love of pleasure and comfort; a desire to get money for the sake of indulgence. Gay, lively, full of excitement and impulse, everything yields to the passing moment.
Next we come to the once vast and splendid Convent of San Domingo, in the days of its glory one of the richest and most powerful convents in Spain, but now shorn of all its ecclesiastical element. Outlines alone remain: the chapter-house and cloisters of late Gothic still beautiful and refined. In a small chapel supported by four slender pillars San Vincente Ferrer took upon him the vows of a monk.
SALON DE CORTES: AUDIENCIA.SALON DE CORTES: AUDIENCIA.
Of the religious ceremonies the most imposing is the Miserere which takes place every Friday in the church of the Colegio del Patriarca. High Mass is first given at nine o'clock. The music both at this and the Miserere is magnificent. Manyof the rank and fashion of Valencia are constant in their attendance. Ladies assemble in a great crowd, each wearing a black mantilla. As they kneel in penitential attitude the scene is full of devotional grace and charm.
The space above the high altar is covered with a purple pall which looks black and funereal. Chanting commences: slow and solemn and in the minor key.
Suddenly, in the midst of the sad cadences, the picture above the altar descends by machinery, and in its place is seen a lilac veil. There is a slight movement, a half-raising of the head, amidst the congregation; an attitude of expectation. The mournful but exquisite music does not cease. It is soft and subdued, appealing to the senses. Presently the veil is withdrawn and gives place to a grey veil. This in turn passes away and a black veil appears, representing the veil of the Temple. It is torn asunder, and an image of the Saviour on the Cross is disclosed.
The upturned heads gaze for a moment; on many a countenance appears the emotion actually felt. Imagination is stirred by the dramatic representation. A murmur escapes the kneeling multitude; the music swells to a louder strain, the voices gain a deeper pathos. Then voices and organ gradually die away to a whisper and cease.
Silence reigns. For a moment there is no sound or stir. Then all is over; the Miserere is at an end. Quietly the fair penitents rise from their knees and stream out into the streets, which gain an additional charm as they pass onwards with their perfect forms and graceful walk.
In spite of the somewhat claptrap element, the Miserere is impressive from the beautiful and refined music, the kneeling crowd, the deep obscurity that gives it mystery. It is even worth a day or two's delay in this fair City of Flowers and other delights.
For in our mind we always associate Valencia with the perfume of flowers. Roses for ever bloom, and like silver in the days of Solomon, are accounted as little worth. But if they were plentiful as to the Greeks of old they would only seem the lovelier.
Some of the streets are very picturesque, with long narrowingvistas of houses and balconies, casements and quaint outlines, all in the strong light and shadow of sunshine, with perhaps a church tower and spire rising above all at the end, sharply outlined against the intensely brilliant blue of the sky.
Making way, we reach the gates of the city, which are still its glory, though so few remain of the twelve that once admitted to the interior. Some still retain their towers and machicolations. Outside these runs the famous river with its ancient bridges. Crossing one of them, and proceeding a distance of three miles down a straight, not very interesting road, you reach the famous port of Valencia: one of the finest ports in Spain, one of the largest harbours. After the close atmosphere of the town, the scene is agreeable and exhilarating.
Port and harbour—Sunday and fresh air—In the market-place—De Nevada protests—A curse of the country—In the days gone by—On the breakwater—Invaded tramcar—De Nevada confirmed—Another crusade needed—Plaza de Toros—In Sunday dress—Domestic interiors—When the play was o'er—Bull-ring at night—Fitful dreams—Fever—Maître d'hôtel prescribes—Magic effect—Depart for Saguntum—Before the days of Rome—Primitive town—Days of the Greeks—Attacked by Hannibal—Rebuilt by the Romans—Absent guardian—The hunchback—Reappears with custodian—Doors open—Moorish fortress—Fathomless cisterns—Sad procession—Weeping mourners—Key of Valencia—Miguella—Time heals all wounds—Proposes coffee—Proud and pleased—Scenes that remain—In Barcelona—Drawing to a close—Sorrow and regret—Many experiences—Our Espluga friends—Loretta's gratitude—In the Calle de Fernando—A last favour—Glories of Spain—Eastern benediction.
Port and harbour—Sunday and fresh air—In the market-place—De Nevada protests—A curse of the country—In the days gone by—On the breakwater—Invaded tramcar—De Nevada confirmed—Another crusade needed—Plaza de Toros—In Sunday dress—Domestic interiors—When the play was o'er—Bull-ring at night—Fitful dreams—Fever—Maître d'hôtel prescribes—Magic effect—Depart for Saguntum—Before the days of Rome—Primitive town—Days of the Greeks—Attacked by Hannibal—Rebuilt by the Romans—Absent guardian—The hunchback—Reappears with custodian—Doors open—Moorish fortress—Fathomless cisterns—Sad procession—Weeping mourners—Key of Valencia—Miguella—Time heals all wounds—Proposes coffee—Proud and pleased—Scenes that remain—In Barcelona—Drawing to a close—Sorrow and regret—Many experiences—Our Espluga friends—Loretta's gratitude—In the Calle de Fernando—A last favour—Glories of Spain—Eastern benediction.
OURfirst visit to the port and harbour was on a Sunday. Labour was suspended, and vessels of all countries were flying their flags. From the end of the long breakwater we breathed freely. Before us stretched the wide shimmering sea, blue as the sky above. A very few white-sailed boats were gliding about—only in summer are they found in large numbers. On such a day as this, hot, glowing, glorious to us of the North, the soft-climed Valencians would not venture upon the water. An occasional fishing-boat strayed in and out, but all else was at peace. The whole place was deserted. There was a strange calm and quiet upon everything; almost an English "Sabbath stillness" in the air.
We wondered, but soon discovered the cause. This might have dawned upon us had we called to mind yesterday's experience.
We were walking through the market-place with de Nevadathe priest, when a large placard caught our eye, announcing a bull-fight for the next day, Sunday: the last of the season.
"I have never seen one," said H. C. "We must go to it."
"Surely you would not visit the barbarous exhibition?" said de Nevada. "In this matter I have nothing of the Spaniard in me. I hold bull-fights as a curse of the country; training up children to cruelty and laying the foundation of a host of evils."
But his words had no weight with H. C.
"I think everyone should see a bull-fight at least once in their lives. If I know nothing of its horrors, how can I join in a crusade against them? Once seen, I will write a scathing poem on the entertainment which shall be translated into Spanish. All my graphic power of description shall be exerted, and it may go far to put down the evil. I might also appeal to the people's superstition, which seems almost the strongest element in their nature. You will come?" turning to us.
But we had had our experience once for all years before, in the bull-ring at Granada, accompanied by eight naval officers whose nerves were in excellent order. When the play was half over, and men shouted and women shrieked and waved, and there was universal applause and uproar, sick of the horrors, we left the building: to the surprise and no doubt contempt of the assembly.
Thus H. C.'s appeal fell upon deaf ears.
And when it came to the point he also would not go. So it fell out that we were both sitting on the breakwater, gazing upon the shimmering sea, revelling in the serene stillness of the atmosphere.
The scene changed. We had to return, and seeing an empty tramcar, found ourselves enjoying the world from a solitary elevation: a short-lived pleasure. From a side-street there suddenly poured forth a crowd of men, who swarmed in and out and up the sides: and stillness and solitude were over.
They were mad with excitement, and being already late, feverishly anxious to make way. One might have thought them intoxicated, but it was excitement only. They raved and shouted; their eyes flashed and glistened; they anticipated the horrors of the bull-ring; speculated as to how many bullswould be killed, whether the toreador would escape. For the moment they were as wild animals, and de Nevada's protest in the market-place wanted no better confirmation.
H. C. shuddered. His poetical mind had received a shock in coming into contact with this coarse and savage element.
"I am glad I decided not to go," he said. "De Nevada is right. Bull-fighting should be put down, even though the people rose up in revolt. It needs a Crusade as much as ever the cause for which the Templars went eastward."
The Plaza de Toros was thronged with a crowd of men, women and children, who could not pay the fee or were too late for admission. If unable to enter, it was something to look upon the outer walls, whilst the thunders of applause helped them to realise the scene.
The tramcar waited some twenty minutes, and we remained studying the crowd of eager faces that surged to and fro. From the bull-ring—one of the largest and finest in Spain—arose that constant roar and tempest of voices.
We were almost prisoners, wondering how we should escape, when a city tramcar came up, stood side by side with ours, and we made the exchange. This slowly moved through the crowd and turned into a quieter thoroughfare, and the raving followed us far down the road.
The car travelled slowly round the town, through the Cathedral Square, in and out of ancient gateways. Street after street, comparatively deserted, wore its Sunday dress. Flowers abounded. We were on a level with first-floor windows, and from many an open casement came a glimpse of domestic interiors: the scent of roses; fair ladies dressed in rustling silks and sheeny satin; ripples of laughter and conversation; occasional streams of melody from a fair performer. Absorbed, we did not observe the car gradually getting round to its starting-point, until we once more found ourselves in the centre of the crowd outside the bull-ring.
They had not moved an inch. The spectacle was just over, the great doors were thrown open, and a cortége passed out: cart after cart with dead horses and bulls, the latter decorated as if for a prize show. A deafening roar, louder than ever, went up from the people. Finally came the vehicle with thetoreadors and matadors dressed in all their fine colours, flushed with their performance, calmly taking the hurrahs. The very horses seemed maddened as they tore out of sight. Then the crowd began to disperse. Strolling out after dinner, we found ourselves once more in front of the bull-ring, looking in the darkness like a second Roman Coliseum. The square was deserted, its crowds having gone home to live the horrors over again in their dreams. Silence reigned. But the time would come round for fresh spectacles and more horrors.
And so it goes on from one generation to another.
That night our own dreams were fitful and broken. We had watched the sunset from the tramcar, full of splendour and colouring. As the sun went down, a chilliness had risen upon the air, and suddenly we shivered. Then it passed away, but there was no rest on retiring. Fever came on, and in semi-delirium we imagined that we were taking part in a bull-fight; warring with infuriated animals. There was no repose and no escape. Deafening shouts rang in our ears, but still the combat went on; seemed to have gone on for years, and must go on for ever.
The agony was terrible. Molten lead coursed through our veins. We tried to rise, but chains bound us down. The night passed. In the early morning the fever abated, and presently we awoke from a short, unrefreshing slumber; rose as one who has gone through a long illness. When H. C. appeared and said it was time for the flower-market and the Lonja, he went alone.
Our maître-d'hôtel, who felt he could not be sufficiently attentive to friends of de Nevada and the de la Torres, brought us strong tea; and on hearing an account of our night, suddenly departed, to reappear with a white powder procured at a chemist's.
"A touch of the fever, señor, caught last night at sundown," he remarked. "It is taken in a moment, but seldom shaken off so quickly. This powder will go far to put you right."
We took it in faith, and found it chiefly quinine. The effect was excellent. Though still weak, we were capable of an effort, and when H. C. returned with hands full of roses, carnations, orange-blossoms, sweet verbena—for which he hadextravagantly paid threepence and made the flower-woman's heart sing for joy—we were able to carry out our programme and start for Saguntum.
A short railway journey landed us amidst the ruins of this ancient city, where we were in the very atmosphere not only of Rome, but of days and people long before.
The small, primitive town at the foot of the height was full of quaint outlines. Large circular doorways led to wonderful interiors; immense living-rooms in semi-obscurity; rich dark walls whose colour and tone were due to smoke and age. Here women were working and spinning and sometimes bending over a huge fire, deep in the mysteries of cooking. Beyond these dark rooms one caught sight of open courts or gardens, where orange and other trees flourished. Some of the women were busy making cheese, which here is quite an article of commerce and goes to many parts of the country. We had the place to ourselves. The women stopped their cheese-making and spinning to assemble in groups of twos and threes and stare after us. Human nature is curious and inquisitive all the world over.
But the charm and attraction of the place are the ruins that crown the heights; walls and towers now crumbling and desolate, witnessing to the strength and power of Saguntum in ages gone by. It was founded nearly 1400 years before the Christian era by the Greeks of Zante, when the Phœnicians were still monarchs of the land. Why they permitted the Greeks to erect this stronghold does not appear. When a wealthy frontier town allied to Rome, it was attacked by Hannibal. The defence was brave, determined and prolonged; but Rome would not come to the rescue, and the town perished amidst frightful horrors. This chiefly led to the Second Punic War, by which Saguntum was revenged and Hannibal and his armies were routed out of Spain: reverses they never recovered. In time it was rebuilt by the Romans, and in the course of centuries fell under the dominion of the Goths and the Moors.
Saguntum—Murviedro, as it is often called—is now a magnificent ruin. The climb to the castle is long, steep and rugged, and on reaching the gates we found them closed. There was no guardian to admit us; the ruins were uninhabited. Afterour feverish night, a return to the town for the keys and a second long climb seemed too much of a penance. Yet the interior must be seen.
Fortune favoured us. We found a man near the gates cutting away the rank grass and weeds: a strange uncanny creature; terribly hump-backed; with a pale long-drawn face from which a couple of dark eyes looked out upon you with a strange inward fire that seemed consuming him. He was almost a skeleton, as though he and starvation were close companions.
We made known our trouble, offering a substantial bribe if he would go down and bring up the keys. The man's eyes sparkled. Without hesitation he laid down his great shears and put on the coat he had placed under the walls.
"If the keys are to be had by mortal power, señor, I will not return without them," he said; his voice was shrill with the sharpness of habitual suffering.
"Go, then, and success attend you. We await you here."
We sat down between the great gates and the ruins of the Roman theatre, and watched our messenger's long thin legs rapidly flying over the ground. Then he disappeared behind the houses.
We waited and wondered. Presently he reappeared followed by an old woman dangling great keys. His eloquence had prevailed. Perhaps he had promised to share the bribe, or hoped it might be doubled. Panting and breathless, they reached us.
"Ah, señor, this is unheard-of," said the old woman. "No one enters without permission from the commandant. If he knew, it would be as much as my place is worth—not that it is worth much. But he is away to-day; gone to Valencia to the marriage of a friend. So I have some excuse; and he will never know. I will admit you. The times I have opened these gates! I am sixty-five, señor, and have been up and down, through summer and winter, through storm and tempest, ever since I was fifteen. Pretty near the end now."
Inserting the great key into the rough, rusty old lock, the rude doors opened and admitted us.
RUINS OF SAGUNTUM.RUINS OF SAGUNTUM.
We found the fortress distinctly Moorish and veryinteresting. The old woman, well up in her work, knew the history of every portion. Amidst the ruins of the castle were some Moorish cisterns she declared to be bottomless, where blind fish for ever swam. Below what was once the governor's garden, she led us to gloomy dungeons where heavily chained prisoners were confined for life, and she described many a horror that had taken place in the past. Everything testified to the strength of Saguntum of old.
From the walls the views are magnificent. Stretching across the wide plain, one caught faint traces of Valencia and the shimmering sea; at our feet was the little town, and beyond it the hills rose in gentle outlines.
As we looked we observed a procession set forth upon the long white road. Harsh, discordant music from brass instruments rose upon the air. Then we saw that it was a funeral. The coffin was being slowly borne on men's shoulders to the cemetery. The latter was near the town, enclosed in high walls, above which appeared the dark pointed tops of the melancholy cypress. A group of mourners followed the coffin; women bowed and weeping, men subdued: quite a long stream of them. Near us stood our curious messenger.
"Who is it?" we asked.
"A sad story, señor. A youth of seventeen, who caught the fever and died. A week ago he was as well as you or I: full of energy and enterprise: talking of what he wanted and what he would do in the future. His ambition was to emigrate, and for long he had been trying to get his parents' consent. But he was their only child, and they were loath to part with him. Ah! he has taken a longer journey now; emigrated to a more distant country. And there will be no coming back to Murviedro."
"And the parents?"
"Poor things! They are heartbroken. There goes his mother, supported by two women friends. One can almost hear her weeping. Oh that horrible music! It goes through my spine as if it would tear it asunder. When I am buried I hope they will have no music. I think I should turn in my coffin. Is it not a splendid view, señor? This fortress may well be called the key of Valencia. The key of the province,you understand, not of the town. We command the best of the country. You should see it in summer, when every tree is in full leaf and every flower in bloom, and the branches droop with the weight of their fruit. A land of abundance, is it not, Miguella?" turning to the old woman, who stood looking at the sad cortége with weeping eyes.
"Ay, Juan, it is so," she returned with tearful voice. "Abundance of everything. But fate is cruel, and strong youth must die, and old people like you and I who half starve, for all the abundance, must still cumber the earth."
"Speak for yourself, Madre Miguella," returned the man sharply. "Whatever you may be, I am not yet old and I don't see that I take the place of a better man. I shall be forty-one next New Year's Day. A hard life I have of it; few pleasures and little food. I am not formed as other men; no woman looking at me would take me for her husband. For all that, I am not tired of life, and have no desire to be in the place of that poor lad. It will come soon enough, Madre Miguella, without wishing oneself there before the time."
"Santa Maria! what a clucking about nothing!" retorted Miguella. "If I called you an old man it was only a form of speech. I had in my mind's eye the strong lusty youth who has gone to his burial. Compared with him I should call you old and of little worth. After all, I was only thinking of the uncertainty of human life. You won't deny that, friend Juan."
"I suppose I can't," replied the contrite hunchback. "Poor lad! I could almost have found it in my heart to die for him. He was always good to me; never mocked at me; gave me many a centimo from his little hoard; often shared his dinner if I met him on the road. I have lost a friend in him."
Miguella was shedding tears afresh at the recital of the lad's virtues.
"Poor boy!" she cried. "But he's better off. He hadn't time to grow hard and wicked. The angels make no mistake when they come for such as him. I wish his poor mother could see it in that light."
"Give her time, give her time," returned the hunchback. "If you lost your leg, you would not all at once grow reconciled to a wooden one. Nature doesn't work in spasms, Miguella.
BARCELONA.BARCELONA.
By-and-by, the poor mother will come to see mercy in the blow, but she can't do that whilst the sound of her boy's voice rings in her ears, and she still feels the clasp of his arms round her neck. She wouldn't be a mother if she did."
Time was on the wing. The sun was declining, the shadows were lengthening when we turned from the ruins and once more stood outside the walls. Miguella locked the doors with a firm hand and possessed herself of the keys. We took care the bribe should not be halved. It was a gala day for them, poor creatures. Juan's face lighted up with infinite contentment.
"Lucky for me that I came up weeding, señor. For a whole week I need feel no hunger, and may give my poor body a little repose."
"But life is not quite such hard lines with you, Miguella?"
"Not quite, señor, though hard enough. Yet I have many mercies. I earn a little money by making cheeses; and in summer, when visitors now and then come to Murviedro, I take a trifle and put by a peseta for a rainy day. Heaven be praised I have never been in actual want; and Juan knows that he has never in vain asked me to lend him a centimo. Though I find his accounts very long reckonings," she quaintly added with a smile.
"Miguella, you have been as good as a mother to me," returned Juan. "I never knew any other mother; have ever been a waif on the earth, without kith and kin either to bless or ban."
We all went down the rugged steep together. At the bottom, Juan bade us farewell and turned to the left towards his humble cottage. Miguella escorted us up the quaint, quiet street. We passed through a picturesque gateway, and just beyond this was her small house.
"Señor, if you would allow me to make you some coffee to refresh you for your journey, I should be happy," she said. "I am famous both for my cheese and my coffee."
To refuse would give her pain; the train was not due for an hour and a half; a cup of Miguella's coffee was not to be despised. She turned with a glad smile, opened her door, and invited us to enter.
It was a surprise to find her cottage the perfection of order, for the Spaniards are not famous for the virtue. She placedchairs, and bustled about her preparations. In a few moments a peat fire with sticks was blazing on the hearth, water was put on to boil, and a brown earthenware coffee-pot was placed on the embers to warm. In her own domain Miguella became a handy, comely old woman, who moved about without noise and must have been a good helpmeet to the husband she had lost a quarter of a century ago. Whilst the water was boiling, she took us into an inner room and showed us her arrangements for making cheese. It was an interesting sight, and the old woman went up still further in our estimation. Everything was spotlessly pure and clean. A grey cat followed her about like a dog and seemed devoted to her.
"She is getting old like me," said poor Miguella, "but she is a faithful animal, and never by any chance puts her nose into a pan of milk. I might leave it all open; nothing would be touched. It is only ewes' milk, señor. Would you like some in your coffee?"
We thought black coffee more stimulating.
She placed it on the table, hot and fragrant. Miguella had not overpraised the cunning of her hand. With a slight diffidence meant for an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses, and with home-made bread, placed it also on the table. The coffee she served in white cups of coarse porcelain, which we duly admired, and she brought forward plates of the same material.
So Miguella, in largeness of heart gave us hospitality, and our simple collation was so perfect that a king need have wished no better. She had put on a white apron to serve us becomingly, and from her chimney-corner, where she added fuel to her fire, surveyed the appreciation of her labours with pride and pleasure. To us, the incident—not an every-day one—had borne a certain interest and charm. We had gone back for a moment to primitive days, "when Adam delved and Eve span." The best of Miguella's nature had come out simply because we had been a little kind to her: and we wisely reflected that too often the greatest enemy to mankind is man.
Our last glimpse of Miguella was of a comely old woman standing in her doorway to watch us depart. The glow of the setting sun was upon her face, which was softened and refinedby her abundant neat grey hair. She looked pleased and happy. No doubt she would return to her chimney-corner and cheese-making, and ponder over the day's small adventure. Juan would be no loser. Many a centimo would find its way from her pocket to his, and he would think her more motherly than ever.
COURTYARD OF AUDIENCIA: BARCELONA.COURTYARD OF AUDIENCIA: BARCELONA.
On our way to the station we saw the sad funeral procession approaching. Most had dispersed, but some six or eight women were returning with the poor mother, who still looked bowed and broken. As Juan had wisely said, time would lessen theblow, but for the present no silver lining was visible in the heavy cloud overshadowing the life.
We watched them disappear through one of the large round doorways into the home now desolate for ever. Then we went on, and presently the train came up, and Saguntum passed out of our lives, though not out of memory. Miguella and Juan, the ancient ruins and outlines crowning the heights, the quaint streets with their picturesque interiors, the sad procession winding slowly down the long white road, the bowed mourners and the weeping mother: nothing could ever be forgotten.
Some days after this we were walking in the streets of Barcelona. We had said good-bye to Valencia and our present sojourn in Spain was drawing to a close. With sorrow and sighing we remembered the motto of the wise king:This also shall pass away. Oft quoted before, it is ever present with us and we quote it once more. We had gone through many experiences, made many acquaintances who had become friends. In imagination a small crowd of companions surrounded us, every one of them with a special niche in our heart and memory. Sauntering through the now long familiar streets, we had wandered instinctively into the neighbourhood of the cathedral. As we stood in the courtyard of the Audiencia, admiring for the fiftieth time its pointed arches, clustered columns and fine old staircase, two people entered, breaking upon our solitude. Their faces were radiant with happiness. At the first moment we hardly recognised them; the next we saw that it was Loretta and Lorenzo.
"Still in Barcelona! How is this, Loretta?"
"Señor, we have prolonged our stay. There was no special reason why we should not do so. Work is provided for, and the donkeys are in good keeping. We shall never again have such a holiday. It comes only once in our lives."
"It is quite unnecessary to remark that you are happy, both of you."
"Señor, I ask what I have done that heaven should have bestowed such favour upon me," returned Loretta, her face glowing with fervour. "I feel as though I could take the whole creation under my wing and love it for the sake of the love thatis mine. I tell myself that I have not half cared for my dumb animals, though harsh word to them never passed my lips."
"Loretta, we have found your clock," passing from the sublime to the commonplace. "Come both of you and see it."
It was in the adjoining Calle de Fernando, not many yards from where we stood. We were just in time: the clockmaker was about to pack up and despatch it. Its design might have been made to order. A clock of white alabaster, pure as the heart of Loretta. Cupid with bow and arrows slung behind him struck the hours on a silver bell. The hour-glass was missing, it is true, but the sands of Loretta and Lorenzo were none the less golden. So the clock instead of being forwarded to Espluga, was sent to their address in Barcelona.
"My happiness is now complete," cried Loretta. "Yet one thing is still wanting. I would that you, señor, should come as speedily as possible and ride Caro to Poblet, and that Lorenzo and I should wait upon you. Ah, do not delay."
"One of the most romantic episodes I ever heard of," cried H. C., as Loretta and Lorenzo walked away arm in arm in their great happiness, and we turned to contemplate once more the magic interior of the cathedral that has no rival.
"It is indeed. And if these dream-churches and ancient towns are her glories, does Spain not possess yet other glories in the exalted lives of Rosalie and Anselmo, the simple hearts and annals of yonder couple, and all who resemble them? May their shadows never grow less and their faces never be pale!"
"Amen," answered H. C., as the happy pair in question turned a corner and "passed in music out of sight."
LONDON:PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
FOOTNOTES:[A]The rose.[B]If the reader feels any interest in Sebastien, he will be glad to hear that a petition sent to the landlord in the form of a letter proved as effective as the proposed deputation. He was promoted to the dignity (and fees) of second waiter in the dining-room: and on the first of last May was united to his beloved Anita. The sun shone and the skies were blue; the world smiled upon the young couple. The bride in her white veil and pale silk dress (the gift of her late employer, Madame la Modiste) must have appeared ravishing; and few bridegrooms in Manresa could have looked handsomer or more manly than Sebastien. We imagine how his face beamed, his eyes sparkled, his heart overflowed. His master—not to be outdone by Madame la Modiste—gave them a wedding breakfast, and the walls rang with the shouts that went up when the health of the happy pair was drunk. One can only wish them the serene bliss and success they deserve.[C]The following letter from the old canon, one of many, may be transcribed for the benefit of the reader:"You will be anxious to hear how our patient has been progressing since I last wrote to you. Better and better. There is nothing but good news to send you. I think I may almost affirm that Eugenie is now 'clothed and in her right mind.' The cure is effected. For many months she has not looked upon the wine cup, and declares that all desire for it has left her. I believe it has. As you know, the very day after our first and last evening together I sought her out, told her I was her father's friend, explained to her the atonement that was in her power. The poor creature, overcome with misery, sorrow and remorse, burst into such tears as I have never seen shed, and yielded without a murmur to my wish. I would give her no time for reconsideration, and that very day she took up her abode in my house. She never leaves it except in company with Juanita or myself. There has been no trouble from the beginning. It almost seemed as though the calm and peaceful atmosphere of our little household at once exorcised the evil spirit within her. Her better nature has triumphed, and I am persuaded that she will not fall away again. I do not intend that she shall. As long as I live this is to be her home. She asks nothing better; declares that for the first time in her life she has found peace and happiness. Her gratitude to you is unbounded. If I only mention your name, tears spring to her eyes. I believe she would lay down her life for you. She begs that you will one day come again to see, not the old Eugenie who accosted you in the church; she is dead and buried; but the new Eugenie who lives and has taken her place. She wonders what influence gave her courage to speak, and declares it was some unseen spirit or power which compelled her to go forward whether she would or no. The moment she saw you this spirit took possession of her and she was passive in its hands. Never before had such a thing happened to her. I put it down to other and higher influence. These things do not happen by chance. Heaven may spare my life for some years. During that time Eugenie's home is assured. She is now as a daughter to me; shares my modest repasts; occupies herself in the affairs of the house; spends much of her time with Juanita. She reads much, and is studying science with me. Her intelligence is of a high order, and she has a wide grasp of mind. By-and-by she may outrun me. Truly it is a pearl of price we have rescued from the fire. And I too have my reward. The house is brighter since she came to it. Even Juanita, who once only smiled, now laughs on occasion. She has taken a great affection for Eugenie, and when I am no longer here will transfer her services to our protégée. Heaven be praised, I am able to leave them independent of the world. And I have enlisted my nephew's sympathy in the matter. Eugenie is to be much with them when I go hence, but this is to be her home; hers for her life. Yet who can tell? She is young. If you thought her beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm, radiant face, those clear, steadfast eyes? One day she will probably marry again; and in a second and more worthy choice find all the happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and headstrong mistake."And now, the old question. When are you coming? Juanita bids me say that all the resources of her simple art are waiting to be put forth in your favour. She declares she never was happier than that evening when she waited upon us and dispensed her simple luxuries. Eugenie says she shall never be at perfect rest until you have witnessed her transformation. For myself, I have a new work on Natural Philosophy to show you. I long once more to pace together the aisles of our beloved cathedral. At my age I live from day to day, grateful to heaven for each new day in this bright world. But it behoves me to sit loosely to all things. The end may come at any hour, it cannot be very far off now. The old man longs to welcome you yet once again. Deny him not."
[A]The rose.
[A]The rose.
[B]If the reader feels any interest in Sebastien, he will be glad to hear that a petition sent to the landlord in the form of a letter proved as effective as the proposed deputation. He was promoted to the dignity (and fees) of second waiter in the dining-room: and on the first of last May was united to his beloved Anita. The sun shone and the skies were blue; the world smiled upon the young couple. The bride in her white veil and pale silk dress (the gift of her late employer, Madame la Modiste) must have appeared ravishing; and few bridegrooms in Manresa could have looked handsomer or more manly than Sebastien. We imagine how his face beamed, his eyes sparkled, his heart overflowed. His master—not to be outdone by Madame la Modiste—gave them a wedding breakfast, and the walls rang with the shouts that went up when the health of the happy pair was drunk. One can only wish them the serene bliss and success they deserve.
[B]If the reader feels any interest in Sebastien, he will be glad to hear that a petition sent to the landlord in the form of a letter proved as effective as the proposed deputation. He was promoted to the dignity (and fees) of second waiter in the dining-room: and on the first of last May was united to his beloved Anita. The sun shone and the skies were blue; the world smiled upon the young couple. The bride in her white veil and pale silk dress (the gift of her late employer, Madame la Modiste) must have appeared ravishing; and few bridegrooms in Manresa could have looked handsomer or more manly than Sebastien. We imagine how his face beamed, his eyes sparkled, his heart overflowed. His master—not to be outdone by Madame la Modiste—gave them a wedding breakfast, and the walls rang with the shouts that went up when the health of the happy pair was drunk. One can only wish them the serene bliss and success they deserve.
[C]The following letter from the old canon, one of many, may be transcribed for the benefit of the reader:"You will be anxious to hear how our patient has been progressing since I last wrote to you. Better and better. There is nothing but good news to send you. I think I may almost affirm that Eugenie is now 'clothed and in her right mind.' The cure is effected. For many months she has not looked upon the wine cup, and declares that all desire for it has left her. I believe it has. As you know, the very day after our first and last evening together I sought her out, told her I was her father's friend, explained to her the atonement that was in her power. The poor creature, overcome with misery, sorrow and remorse, burst into such tears as I have never seen shed, and yielded without a murmur to my wish. I would give her no time for reconsideration, and that very day she took up her abode in my house. She never leaves it except in company with Juanita or myself. There has been no trouble from the beginning. It almost seemed as though the calm and peaceful atmosphere of our little household at once exorcised the evil spirit within her. Her better nature has triumphed, and I am persuaded that she will not fall away again. I do not intend that she shall. As long as I live this is to be her home. She asks nothing better; declares that for the first time in her life she has found peace and happiness. Her gratitude to you is unbounded. If I only mention your name, tears spring to her eyes. I believe she would lay down her life for you. She begs that you will one day come again to see, not the old Eugenie who accosted you in the church; she is dead and buried; but the new Eugenie who lives and has taken her place. She wonders what influence gave her courage to speak, and declares it was some unseen spirit or power which compelled her to go forward whether she would or no. The moment she saw you this spirit took possession of her and she was passive in its hands. Never before had such a thing happened to her. I put it down to other and higher influence. These things do not happen by chance. Heaven may spare my life for some years. During that time Eugenie's home is assured. She is now as a daughter to me; shares my modest repasts; occupies herself in the affairs of the house; spends much of her time with Juanita. She reads much, and is studying science with me. Her intelligence is of a high order, and she has a wide grasp of mind. By-and-by she may outrun me. Truly it is a pearl of price we have rescued from the fire. And I too have my reward. The house is brighter since she came to it. Even Juanita, who once only smiled, now laughs on occasion. She has taken a great affection for Eugenie, and when I am no longer here will transfer her services to our protégée. Heaven be praised, I am able to leave them independent of the world. And I have enlisted my nephew's sympathy in the matter. Eugenie is to be much with them when I go hence, but this is to be her home; hers for her life. Yet who can tell? She is young. If you thought her beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm, radiant face, those clear, steadfast eyes? One day she will probably marry again; and in a second and more worthy choice find all the happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and headstrong mistake."And now, the old question. When are you coming? Juanita bids me say that all the resources of her simple art are waiting to be put forth in your favour. She declares she never was happier than that evening when she waited upon us and dispensed her simple luxuries. Eugenie says she shall never be at perfect rest until you have witnessed her transformation. For myself, I have a new work on Natural Philosophy to show you. I long once more to pace together the aisles of our beloved cathedral. At my age I live from day to day, grateful to heaven for each new day in this bright world. But it behoves me to sit loosely to all things. The end may come at any hour, it cannot be very far off now. The old man longs to welcome you yet once again. Deny him not."
[C]The following letter from the old canon, one of many, may be transcribed for the benefit of the reader:
"You will be anxious to hear how our patient has been progressing since I last wrote to you. Better and better. There is nothing but good news to send you. I think I may almost affirm that Eugenie is now 'clothed and in her right mind.' The cure is effected. For many months she has not looked upon the wine cup, and declares that all desire for it has left her. I believe it has. As you know, the very day after our first and last evening together I sought her out, told her I was her father's friend, explained to her the atonement that was in her power. The poor creature, overcome with misery, sorrow and remorse, burst into such tears as I have never seen shed, and yielded without a murmur to my wish. I would give her no time for reconsideration, and that very day she took up her abode in my house. She never leaves it except in company with Juanita or myself. There has been no trouble from the beginning. It almost seemed as though the calm and peaceful atmosphere of our little household at once exorcised the evil spirit within her. Her better nature has triumphed, and I am persuaded that she will not fall away again. I do not intend that she shall. As long as I live this is to be her home. She asks nothing better; declares that for the first time in her life she has found peace and happiness. Her gratitude to you is unbounded. If I only mention your name, tears spring to her eyes. I believe she would lay down her life for you. She begs that you will one day come again to see, not the old Eugenie who accosted you in the church; she is dead and buried; but the new Eugenie who lives and has taken her place. She wonders what influence gave her courage to speak, and declares it was some unseen spirit or power which compelled her to go forward whether she would or no. The moment she saw you this spirit took possession of her and she was passive in its hands. Never before had such a thing happened to her. I put it down to other and higher influence. These things do not happen by chance. Heaven may spare my life for some years. During that time Eugenie's home is assured. She is now as a daughter to me; shares my modest repasts; occupies herself in the affairs of the house; spends much of her time with Juanita. She reads much, and is studying science with me. Her intelligence is of a high order, and she has a wide grasp of mind. By-and-by she may outrun me. Truly it is a pearl of price we have rescued from the fire. And I too have my reward. The house is brighter since she came to it. Even Juanita, who once only smiled, now laughs on occasion. She has taken a great affection for Eugenie, and when I am no longer here will transfer her services to our protégée. Heaven be praised, I am able to leave them independent of the world. And I have enlisted my nephew's sympathy in the matter. Eugenie is to be much with them when I go hence, but this is to be her home; hers for her life. Yet who can tell? She is young. If you thought her beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm, radiant face, those clear, steadfast eyes? One day she will probably marry again; and in a second and more worthy choice find all the happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and headstrong mistake.
"And now, the old question. When are you coming? Juanita bids me say that all the resources of her simple art are waiting to be put forth in your favour. She declares she never was happier than that evening when she waited upon us and dispensed her simple luxuries. Eugenie says she shall never be at perfect rest until you have witnessed her transformation. For myself, I have a new work on Natural Philosophy to show you. I long once more to pace together the aisles of our beloved cathedral. At my age I live from day to day, grateful to heaven for each new day in this bright world. But it behoves me to sit loosely to all things. The end may come at any hour, it cannot be very far off now. The old man longs to welcome you yet once again. Deny him not."