Читать книгу Glories of Spain - Charles W. Wood - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Continued uproar—H. C. disillusioned—A dark night—Not like another Cæsar—More crowds—A demon scene—Fair time—Glorious days of the past—In marble halls and labyrinthine passages—Our excellent host—His substantial partner—Contented minds—Picturesque court—Songless nightingales—Conscription—H. C.'s modesty—Our host appreciative but personal—Bears the torch of genius—A mistake—Below the salt—Host's fair daughters—Catalonian women—The Silent Enigma—Remarkable priest—Good intentions—Lecture on black coffee—Confessions—Benjamin's portions—A gifted nature.

OUR omnibus rattled off, with the result described. The crowd still cheered; a prolonged and mighty strain. As we went on this grew fainter by degrees, yet did not cease. H. C. collected his thoughts and looked about him. In the dim glimmer of the omnibus lamp we saw shades of doubt and disappointment in his face.

"I begin to think this ovation was not for me after all," he said. "They would hardly go on shouting insanely when we are out of sight and hearing. The people would have accompanied us; taken the horses out of the omnibus; drawn us up to the inn, where I should have arrived like another Cæsar. My volume of Lyrics is worth this recognition if they have rendered all the fire and spirit of its theme, beauty of language, charm of rhythm and rhyme. Above all, my dedication to Lady Maria, a masterpiece of English composition and delicate flattery. I begin to think there must be some other cause for this demonstration. And if it is not a poetical reception, I should call it a disgraceful riot."

He paused for breath. We were now going up-hill, and even the horses found it a tug-of-war. "The people would have had some trouble in dragging you up here," we remarked, as the animals toiled slowly onwards.

"Enthusiasm will carry you through anything," said H. C. "If I assisted at a demonstration I would help to drag a coach up the Matterhorn, and succeed or perish in the attempt. But these people evidently have some other object in view—organising a raid on the train, proclaiming a republic, or something equally barbarous. What a very dark night!"

We looked out. The stars had disappeared. The sky was overcast and threatening. Our horses struggled on and soon entered the town. Crossing the bridge over the river we noticed everywhere an unusual crowd of people, flaring lamps and torches, a sea of upturned faces thrown into lights and shadows that looked weird and demon-like, an undercurrent of voices, a perpetual movement.

What could it all mean? We expected to find Gerona, in spite of its 20,000 inhabitants, almost a dead city, full of traces of the past, oblivious of the present; a city of outlines, echoes and visions of the Middle Ages. We looked down the tree-lined boulevard and felt the very word a desecration of the buried centuries. The broad thoroughfare ran beside the river, and the trees followed each other in quick succession. Without and within their shadows a long double row of booths held sway, whose flaming torches turned night into day, paradise into pandemonium.

A great fair possessed the town, thronged with sightseers of all ages and every stage of emotion. We lamented our fate in visiting Gerona at such a time, but in the end it interfered very little either with our comfort or impressions. It had its own quarters and kept to them.

The omnibus passed into narrower thoroughfares, without any trace of fair, sign or sound of excitement or flaming torches. All was delightfully dead as the most advanced antiquarian could desire when we drew up at the Fondu de los Italianos.

Most of the hotels in the smaller towns of Spain have little to do with the ground floor of the building, often nothing but a cold, unlighted, deserted passage, sometimes leading to a stable yard. No one receives you, and you have to find your own way upstairs. When there is a choice of staircases you probably take the wrong one. On this occasion we had only one course before us—broad white marble stairs that bore witness to a very different destiny in days gone by, the pomp and splendour of life, the glory of the world. At the head of this sumptuous staircase our host met us with a polite bow and welcome; and throughout Spain we never met landlord more intelligent and well-informed, more agreeable and anxiously civil. We were puzzled as to his nationality. He did not look Catalonian, or Spanish of any sort, spoke excellent French, yet was decidedly not a Frenchman. When the mystery was solved we found him an Italian. A man ruling very differently from our energetic hostess at Narbonne, who, full of electricity herself, seemed to have the power of galvanising every one else into perpetual motion.

Our Gerona host was quiet and passive, as though all day long he had nothing to do but rest on his oars and take life easily. He never hastened his walk beyond a certain measure or raised his voice above a gentle tone. Yet, like well-oiled works, he kept the complicated machinery in order. There was no friction and no noise, but everything came up to time. He was last in bed at night, first up in the morning. A tall, thin, dark man, with an expression of face in which there was no trace of impatient fretting at life. If wealth had not come to him (we knew not how that was), evil days had passed him by. He had learned the secret of contentment, and was a man of peace. Yet he had brought up a large family of sons and daughters, and could not have escaped care and responsibility. They now took their part in the ménage, but it was evident that without the father nothing would hold together for an hour.

The youngest son, a tall, presentable young fellow, had been partly educated at Tours and spoke very good French. His ambition now was to spend two years in England to perfect himself in the language, which he was good enough to consider difficult and barbarous. "French," he plaintively observed, "is pronounced very much as it is spelt; so are Spanish and Italian; I have them all at my finger-ends. But English has done its best to confound all foreigners. It is worse than Russian or Chinese."

This he related the next day as we went about the town, for we had accepted his polite offer to guide us; and very intelligent and painstaking he proved himself.

Our host's wife was fat, broad and buxom as the husband was the opposite. When her homely face beamed upon her guests from behind the counter of her little bureau, she looked the picture of an amiable Dutch vrouw. Nothing less than a Frank Hals could have done her justice. Her lines seemed to have been cast in pleasant places, and her days also had been without shadow of evil.

It was also evident that our host was cheerfully disposed. His walls were all painted with landscapes, and if rainbow-colours predominated, he reasoned that they were more enlivening than grey skies and dark shadows. Even the walls of his garden-court had not escaped: a court put to many uses, level with the first floor, bounded on one side by the kitchen, on the other by the dining-room, at right angles with each other. A picturesque court with a slightly Italian atmosphere about it, due perhaps to the sunny landscapes. Orange and small eucalyptus trees stood about in large tubs. The far end was roofed, and the fine red tiles slanted downwards. Over these grew a large abundant vine bearing rich clusters of grapes in due season. Under the eaves were hung cages with captive nightingales and thrushes that looked anything but unhappy prisoners.

"In the spring they sing gloriously," said our host, who, evidently full of tender mercies as of cheerfulness, gazed affectionately at his birds. "I hang them outside our front windows sometimes, and night and day the street echoes with the nightingales' song. You may close your eyes and fancy yourself in the heart of a wood. I have often done so, and dreamed I was in my Italian home, listening to the birds on the one hand, the murmur of the Mediterranean on the other. That is one reason why I love and keep them. They bring back lost echoes, and make me feel young again."

Pigeons and doves strutted about the yard, and were evidently considered very nearly as sacred as those of St. Mark's, for they were as fearless as if the days of the millennium had come at last.

But on the first evening of our arrival we had yet to learn the many virtues of our host. We only saw in broad outlines that we were in good hands.

THE BOULEVARD: GERONA.

"Not having telegraphed, you are fortunate to find accommodation, sirs," he said, as he lighted candles and marshalled us to his best rooms. "Last year at the fair we were full to overflowing—not an available hole or corner to spare. This year we are comparatively empty, simply because the town corporation have not organised the usual fêtes, which bring us visitors from all parts of the country. Nevertheless we may be full to-morrow."

"It is an annual fair, then?"

"Very much so, and one of the most celebrated in Spain. This is the first night, to-morrow the first day. That and the next day are comparatively quiet; the day after comes the horse and cattle fair, and the whole town is crowded with a rough, noisy set of people. You would hardly think them agreeable."

"In that case our visit to Gerona must terminate within forty-eight hours. The train which brought us to-night shall take us on to Barcelona."

"Where you have it more civilised but will not be more welcome," said our polite host, still leading the way.

The corridors were paved with stone, the ceilings were lofty. Turning into a narrower passage to the right, we looked into the yard, where our famous omnibus reposed; the horses had been taken out and were marching up to their stable. This passage led to a salon, out of which one of our bedrooms opened; our host had given us of his best. Placing one of the candles down and lighting others, he turned to see that everything was in order. We opened the window and looked out to the main street—long, narrow, almost in darkness. Electric lamps here and there gave little light. "Why so?" we asked the landlord.

"Because we get our motive force from the river; and just now the river is almost dry," he replied. "So they have to work with a machine, and the machine is not strong enough to light the whole town. That is why I don't have it in the hotel. One day we should have illumination, the next total darkness. Better go on in the old way."

"There was quite a riot at the station," we remarked; "we were told it had to do with conscription. At one time we thought they were going to storm the omnibus."

"You were well-informed," said the landlord; "it is the conscription. Fathers, brothers and cousins have assembled to see the poor fellows depart. Generally speaking they all turn up again after a time, like bad money; but on this occasion who knows? Raw recruits as they are, many may get drafted off to Cuba, with small chance of ever seeing their native land again. Luckily they are more full of excitement at the change of life and scene than of regret at leaving home. The noise, as you say, might be that of a riot; without exception, the Spanish are the noisiest people in the world, but it means nothing. It is the froth of champagne, and when it subsides there is good wine beneath."

"Are the people of Gerona poetical?" asked H. C., rather anxiously.

"Poetical, sir?" with a puzzled expression. "Do you mean to ask if they write poetry, like Dante and Shakespeare? You do them too much honour."

"No, one could hardly expect that of them. But do they read and appreciate the poetry of others? There was a moment when I thought that crowd at the station was an ovation in honour of——"

H. C. paused and lowered his eyes modestly. Our intelligent landlord at once divined his meaning. We invariably found that he guessed things by intuition; two words of explanation with him went as far as twenty with others.

"Ah, I understand. You, sir, are a poet, and at first thought this riotous assemblage an ovation in your honour. I fear I must undeceive you—though you probably have already undeceived yourself. I hope it was not a bitter awakening. Still, I am enchanted to make the acquaintance of an English poet. I once saw and spoke to Mr. Browning in Italy. He did not look to me at all poetical. One pictures a poet with pale face, dreamy eyes, flowing locks, and abstracted manner. Mr. Browning was the opposite of all this. Now you, sir, with that beautiful regard and far-away expression looking into nothingness——"

H. C. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing a little personal.

"You have lost your poet-laureate," he continued; "and another has not been appointed. I read the newspapers and know the leading events of every country; for though I live out of the world, I must know everything that is going on there. Perhaps, sir, you are to be the new poet-laureate?"

"Not at present," said H. C., flushing deeply as a vision of future greatness rose up before him. "I hope to be so in time. At present I am rather young to bear the weight of the laurel wreath, which seldom adorns the unwrinkled brow."

"There is rhythm in your prose," said the landlord in quiet appreciation. "Truth will out. But, sir, though a poet, you are mortal; at least I conclude so, in spite of your diaphanous form and spiritual regard; and I bethink me that time flies in talking, and we shall have dinner ready before we can turn round. In England, being a poet, you probably feast upon butterflies' wings and the bloom of peaches; but——"

"On the contrary," cried H. C. hastily; "I have an excellent appetite and love substantial dishes. Crystallised violets and the bloom of peaches I leave to my aunt, Lady Maria. Like George III. my favourite repast is boiled mutton and apple dumplings; and like the king I have never been able to understand how the apples get inside the pastry. That does not affect their flavour. So we will, if you please, make ready for dinner. Do you patronise the French or Spanish cuisine? Oh, I am indifferent. It is a mere matter of butter versus oil, and both are good."

Then they went off in a procession of two, the landlord carrying the flambeau. "We will look upon it as the torch of genius," said the latter, "and I am proud to bear it. But methinks, sir, it should be in your hands." After this we heard only receding footsteps.

The scene presently changed to the dining-room. At first we had made for the wrong room devoted to the humbler folk indoors and out. Here, too, the landlord and his own people took their meals; and once or twice, casting a glance in passing, it was a pleasure to see how madame's broad buxom face and capacious form was doing justice to the good things on the festive board. Her husband and children did not take after her; they were all very much after Pharaoh's lean kine: she could have sheltered them all under her ample wing.

We were rather horrified on entering. A few curious looking people, very much sans gêne, sat at a table in a state of disorder. Even H. C.'s capacious appetite would have fled at the aspect of things. From a door beyond opening to the kitchen came sounds of fizzing and frying and savoury fumes. The chef and his imps were flitting about excitedly.

We were beginning to think that after all our lines had fallen in strange places, when the landlord appeared at the door, pounced upon us, and marshalled us off the premises.

"That is not for you, sir," he said. "We are obliged to have two rooms. A certain number will neither pay fair prices nor heed good manners, and these we place below the salt, as I have read in some of your English books. I put up with them because it would not answer me to have three rooms. And then we have our meals when nobody else has theirs, and waiting and running to and fro is over for the moment. To keep an hotel is indeed no sinecure."

Saying this, he led the way to a large and unobjectionable room, its walls adorned with the sunny landscapes already described. If perspective and colouring were eccentric, why, we had only to think that variety was charming, as H. C. observed, and defects became virtues. The room was well illuminated with gas, whatever might be going on in the streets; to no tenebrous repast were we invited. The linen was snow-white. Our host's daughters waited quietly and silently, with a certain grace of manner: dark-eyed, good-looking young women, with something both Italian and Spanish about them, whereby we imagined the buxom lady-mother was probably Catalonian.

Throughout Catalonia we observed that the women after a certain age—by no means old age—grow inordinately stout. Time after time a little whipper-snapper, lean, shrivelled and short would enter a dining-room followed by an enormous spouse, who came crushing down upon him like a Himalaya mountain upon a sand-hill. They would take their seat at a table, the lady with a great deal of difficult arranging, and the little husband would gaze up at the huge wife with adoration in his eyes, as proudly as if she had been the Venus de Milo come to life with all her arms and legs about her and a fair proportion of garments. The back is fitted to the burden, but here the order of things was reversed—the wife's broad shoulders must needs bear the weight of life.

There were no stout ladies in the dining-room to-night. At different parts of the long table sat some eight or ten people of various nations. Opposite us were two Englishmen separated by a Spaniard. They were of one party, yet never spoke a word from the time they entered to the time they left. Occasionally they glared at each other on passing a dish or the wine of the country, which was supplied ad libitum. What the entente cordiale or bone of contention we never discovered; every meal they kept to their silent programme, until it became almost oppressive. Once or twice we thought they were perhaps monks of La Trappe in disguise, but gave up the idea as far-fetched. The Englishmen, at any rate, judging by expression, were certainly not devoted to fasting and penance. They were young, and the world held attractions not at all in harmony with solitary cells and the midnight mass. We never solved the Silent Enigma, as H. C. called them.

Not far off sat a priest, who no doubt had himself helped to celebrate many a midnight mass, perhaps both in and out of a monastery. He was the most interesting character at table, tall, distinguished looking, with flowing white hair, a singularly handsome face and magnificent head. The system of serving was different from most hotels. Dishes were not handed round, but every person or party had placed before them their own dish, of which each took as much or as little as they pleased. Whether the priest was father confessor to the ladies of the inn, or whether they merely had a very proper respect for his cloth, we knew not, but he invariably came in for a Benjamin's portion, and sent most of it away untasted.

Also it was evident that he could sit in judgment on others. The next day at luncheon he took his seat next to us. We were suffering from headache, which has made life more or less a burden. Severe diseases require strong remedies. We ate dry bread, and drank sundry cups of black coffee mixed with brandy; the latter half a century old and almost as mild as milk, its healing properties sovereign. The priest, we say, sat next, and we almost resented his not leaving the breathing interval of a chair between us, where empty chairs were abundant. The Silent Enigma at the lower end of the table were quite a long way off. At our second cup, the priest looked anxious; at our third, reproachful; at our fourth and last, contained himself no longer. Yet the four cups were only equal to two ordinary black-coffee cups.

Possibly the priest thought age conferred privilege. He was also probably impulsive, and like all similar people often said and did the wrong thing. But he was evidently actuated by a pure spirit of philanthropy, which would set the world to rights if it could accomplish the impossible. Looking earnestly at us, he spoke, and then we found he was a Frenchman.

"Monsieur," he said in his own tongue, "that is a most insidious beverage, fatal to digestion, destructive to the nerves. If I see any one repeating the dose, at the risk of being thought indiscreet, I cannot avoid speaking. When I count up to the fourth cup, I feel they are in jeopardy. And shall I tell you why?—I speak from experience. I once myself was nearly overcome by the fatal basilisk, only that in my case it was strong waters without coffee more often than with it. For a time it was a question which should conquer, the tempter or the better nature. Then came a period in which I was wretched and miserable, yielding and fighting alternately. Finally, I made a greater effort, and vowed that if strength were given me to overcome, I would dedicate my life to the Church. Soon after that I fell ill; sick almost unto death. Weeks and months passed and I recovered to find the temptation vanished; hating the very sight of brandy, with coffee or without. Mindful of my vow—I was a young man at the time—I took steps to enter the Church; and here I am. And now, sir, forgive me for saying so much about myself, and for preaching a little sermon taken from real life, though time and place are perhaps not quite fitted to the occasion."

We forgave him on the spot. His intentions were excellent, his sympathies keen; two admirable qualities. We assured him that strong waters were no temptation, held no charm; yet twice four cups had been taken if needed.

The good priest shook his head doubtfully.

"A dangerous remedy, monsieur. But, now, I am interested in you. I like the amiable manner in which you have received my little homily. Many would take fire and proudly tell me to mind my own business. You arouse my sympathies and invite my confidence. Let me confess that I placed myself here to enter into conversation. Mine has been a singular life, both since I entered the Church and before it: full of lessons. If before retiring to-night you should have an hour to spare and will give it me, I will relate to you passages in a very eventful career. You will say it contains many marvels. However late, it will not be too late for me. I never retire to bed before three in the morning, and am always broad awake at seven. Four hours' sleep in the twenty-four is all nature ever accords me. I have reason to believe that I shall be offered the next vacant See in the Church: I could place my finger upon the very spot: and my wakeful nights will enable me to do much work. Let me hope that wisdom and judgment may be accorded. But what am I doing?" drawing himself up. "Talking as though I had known you for a lifetime; giving you my confidence, betraying my secrets! What power are you exercising? What does it mean? Sir, you must be a hypnotist, and I have fallen into your meshes. Yet, no; I feel I am not mesmerised, and you are to be trusted. Yes, I repeat that if you will give me an hour this evening, though it be the dead of night, I will confide strange experiences to your ear that until now have been locked within my own bosom. And why not? My life is my own; I have a right to withhold or disclose what pleases me."

The words of the priest made us almost uncomfortable. We aspired to no undue influence over any one, much less a stranger. Confidences are not always desirable; but then we reflected that confidences need not be confessions. The experiences even of a simple life must always be of use, how much more those of an active man of the world—thoughtful, observing, retentive and philosophical.

There was something unusually attractive about our priest. He possessed great refinement of face; a profile that reminded us of the fine outlines of Père Hyacinthe as we had many a time watched him in a Paris pulpit preaching with so much earnestness, fire and conviction, raising a crusade against the errors and shams both within and without the Church. When our present neighbour was a bishop, would he too uphold the good and condemn the evil?

We looked closely and thought Nature had not been unmindful of her power. As already stated, his long flowing hair was white; the head was splendidly developed; there was a ring and richness in the subdued voice that would reach the farthest corners of Notre Dame. We asked ourselves the question but could not answer it. The future holds her own secrets and makes no confidences. But strangely interested in Père Delormais—to make a slight but sufficient change in his name—we promised him an hour, two hours if he would, and even found ourselves awaiting the interview with curiosity and impatience. And this was the result of black coffee and brandy.

But all this took place on the second day. On the first night of our arrival we had needed neither one nor the other. The priest sat on the opposite side of the table, and we noticed nothing about him but his distinguished appearance and Benjamin's portions. Yet he evidently had been closely studying us. The Silent Enigma had occupied a little of our attention and wonder, but this soon passed away. The remainder of the scattered guests called for no remark whatever.