Glories of Spain Part 40

CHAPTER XXIX.

LORENZO.

Day visions--All pa.s.ses 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--Was.h.i.+ng 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.

All this pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sembled. 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 pa.s.sed away; kings and monks, wealth and power, and to-day the silence of death reigns in Poblet.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLOISTERS OF POBLET.]

When our modest feast was over, and H. C. had tried for the 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 refres.h.i.+ng sleep after his appreciated b.u.mper--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 pa.s.sed 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 t.i.thes. 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 appet.i.te and digestion and probably hunt for another 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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, senor, 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 a 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, senor, 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, senor?" 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. Senor, 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 pa.s.sed 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 down to 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, senor. 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, senor," shaking his head mournfully, "it is not equal to yours.

Until the flavour and recollection of yours have pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 l.u.s.tre. They were days of pomp and 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 pa.s.sed 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, senor," 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, senor, he _had_ more 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, senor," 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, in large 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, senor, 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, senor, 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 grat.i.tude. 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 ma.s.sive walls of many of the houses, and cas.e.m.e.nts 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, senor. I hope you are not going to forbid the marriage?"