Seeing an open doorway close to the cathedral, we had the curiosity to enter, and found ourselves in a wonderful little cloister, half sacred, half secular, its ancient walls grey and lichen-stained. In the centre grew a tall palm-tree whose graceful fronds seemed to caress and curve and blend with the Gothic outlines that charmed one back to the days of the Middle Ages. A crumbling staircase, old and beautiful, led to the upper gallery, where open windows with rare Gothic mouldings and ornamentation invited one to enter into silent, empty, but strangely quaint rooms. As we looked, two women approached the wonderful old fountain in the centre with its splendid carvings, and filled their picturesque pitchers. The cloisters were in the hands of workmen. We asked a reason, and found that a new tenant, objecting to the refined atmosphere of time's lovely ravages, was scouring, cleaning, and polishing up the general effect. One shed tears at the desecration.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SMALL CLOISTER OR PATIO: BARCELONA.]

Still nearer the cathedral is the Library, with its ancient picturesque _patio_, and the most striking roof and staircase in Barcelona. The library is rich in volumes and MSS., containing amongst much that is interesting all the archives of the kingdom of Aragon. Amidst other records will be found those of Catherine, who was bold enough to place her hand--and head--at the disposal of Henry of England. The chief librarian conducted us over the whole building, and most kindly and patiently showed everything worthy of note, dwelling humorously upon pa.s.sages in records that in any way referred to Great Britain.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLOISTERS OF SANTA ANNA: BARCELONA.]

In such an atmosphere we lost sight of the Barcelona of to-day. It became ancient, ecclesiastical, historical, learned and romantic. Here we returned to scenes and influences of the Middle Ages. And here, within a narrow circle, this "Manchester of Spain" is one of the most absorbing towns in the world.

But the ecclesiastical merit of Barcelona is not confined to the cathedral. Though some of her best and most ancient churches have disappeared, others remain. Amongst the foremost is Santa Maria del Mar, taking rank after the mother church. A vast building, simple to a fault; cold, formal and severe, though architecturally correct; the interior hard and repelling, without sense of mystery or feeling of devotion. Yet it has been much praised; even to comparison with the Cathedral of Palma, and is said to be the work of the same architect; but Palma with all its simplicity is full of dignity and grandeur. The west front of Santa Maria is its best feature. The central doorway is fine, but the rose window above is hard and German in tracery, therefore has little beauty, and is of later date than the church.

Not far from here, in the narrowest of narrow streets, beyond an obscure archway we found the small church of Santa Anna, interesting by reason of its cloisters with their pointed arches springing from delicately carved capitals that rested upon slender, graceful shafts; a vision of refined beauty. In the centre grew a wild and lovely garden. Spain is undoubtedly the land of cloisters, loveliest in existence; and Barcelona is especially rich in them. As we looked, a Sister of Mercy pa.s.sed through on some errand of charity. We thought of Rosalie, only to be more certain than ever that there was but one Rosalie in the world.

Yet more marvellous was a still smaller church of extreme interest and antiquity; San Pablo del Campo, formerly a Benedictine convent of some renown, said to have been founded in the tenth century by Wilfred II., Count of Barcelona. In the twelfth century it was incorporated with the convent of San Cucufate del Valles, a few miles from Barcelona, of which the interesting church and cloister still exist.

This remarkable San Pablo is extremely small, and cruciform, with three apses, a short nave and an octagonal vault over the crossing. It is solidly and roughly built, and until recently possessed every aspect of antiquity. All this will probably now disappear, for it has been given over to the workmen to be restored and ruined, and the work will be done to perfection.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLOISTERS OF SAN PABLO: BARCELONA.]

So with the west front. With the exception of the circular window over the striking Romanesque doorway, one feels in presence of the remote ages; but the window rather spoils an otherwise admirable effect. By this time it has no doubt shared the fate of the interior; when we were there it was still a glorious dream of the past.

Yet more dreamlike were the small cloisters. In point of tone and atmosphere we might have almost been in the early ages of the world. No one had thought it worth while to interfere with this little old-world building, buried in solitude by surrounding houses. The obscurity reigning even at mid-day was never designed by its architect. No one would dream that in this little corner, unknown, unvisited, exists a gem of the first water and great antiquity; dating probably from the eleventh century.

It was a very small cloister, having only four arches on each side divided by a b.u.t.tress in the centre. The arches were trefoil-headed, separated by double shafts and the capitals were richly carved. In the north wall a fine fourteenth-century doorway admitted into the church, and in the east wall of the cloister an equally fine doorway led to the fourteenth-century chapter-house. Everything was complete on a small scale.

It was solemn and imposing to the last degree; an effect of age and decay so perfect that we seemed to meet face to face with the dead past.

To enter these little cloisters was to commune with ghosts and shadows.

If ever they lurked anywhere on earth, here they must be found. We were infinitely charmed with their tone. In spite of surrounding houses--where dead walls were seen--a tomb-like silence reigned. We looked at the small neglected enclosure, where the hand and foot of man might not have intruded for ages, and almost expected to see rising from their graves the dead who had possibly lain there for eight centuries.

The stones were stained with damp and the lapse of time; wild unsightly weeds grew amongst them; but nothing stirred.

As we looked, lost in the past, we became aware that we were not alone.

Entering the small cloister was an aged man with long white hair and a long grey beard, half-led by a small child of some eight or nine summers. He might have been one of the patriarchs come back to earth, and seemed venerable as the cloister themselves. More fitting subject for such surroundings could not exist. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though for him time's hour-gla.s.s had ceased to run. The child seemed to have learned to restrain its youthful ardour; gazed up into the old man's face with fearless affection, and appeared to watch his will and pleasure. A lovely child, with blue eyes and fair hair, who might belong to Andalusia, or possibly a northern province of Europe.

"Spring and winter," said H. C., looking at this strange advancing pair.

"Or life and death; for surely they are fitting emblems? Who can they be, and what do they want in this forsaken spot?"

The child said something to the aged man and motioned towards us. He paused a moment as though in doubt, then approached yet nearer.

"I am your humble servant, gentlemen," he said, with something of courtliness in his manner. "It is seldom any one shares with me the solitude of these cloisters."

"You are then in the habit of coming here?" returning his salutation.

"For many years I have paid them an almost daily visit," was the reply.

"I live not very far off, and they speak to me of the past. A long past, sirs, for I am old. I have no need to tell you that. You see it in my face, hear it in my voice. In three years I shall be a centenarian, if Heaven spares me as long. I do not desire it. A man of ninety-seven has almost ceased to live. He is a burden to himself, a trouble to others. I was once chief architect of this city, and many of the more modern buildings that your eyes have rested upon are due to me. In my younger days I had a boundless love for the work of the ancients. Gothic and Norman delighted me. Half my leisure moments were spent in our wonderful cathedral, absorbing its influence. Ah, sirs, the cathedrals of Catalonia are the glories of Spain. I dreamt of reproducing such buildings; but we are in the hands of town committees who are vandals in these matters. Fifty years ago--half a century this very month--the destruction of this church and these cloisters was taken into consideration. They wanted to pull down one of the glories of Barcelona and build up a modern church and school. I was to be the architect of this barbarous proceeding. It happened that this was one of my most loved haunts. Here I would frequently pace the solitary cloisters, thinking over my plans and designs, trying to draw wholesome inspiration from these matchless outlines. I was horrified at the sacrilege, though it was to be to my profit. I fought valiantly and long; would not yield an inch; pleaded earnestly; and at last persuaded. The idea was abandoned. That you are able to stand and gaze to-day upon this marvel is due to me. Ever since then I have looked upon it as my own peculiar possession. Day after day I pay them a visit. My failing sight now only discerns vague and shadowy outlines. It is enough. Shadowy as they are, their beauty is ever present. What I fail to see, memory, those eyes of the brain, supplies. Rarely in my daily visits do I find any one here.

Few people seem to understand or appreciate the beauty of these cloisters. They are like a hermit in the desert, living apart from the world. But here it is a desert of houses that surrounds them. Like myself, they are an emblem of death in life."

We started at this echo of our own words. Could his sense of hearing be unduly awakened? Or was the emblem so fitting as to be self-evident?

"You have long ceased to labour?" we observed, for want of a better reply to his too obvious comparison.

"For five-and-twenty years my life has been one of leisure and repose,"

he answered. "It has gone against the grain. I was not made for idleness. But when I was seventy-two years old, cataract overtook me. A successful operation restored my sight, but the doctors warned me that if I would keep it, all work must be abandoned. Since then I have more or less c.u.mbered the ground. But for many friends who are good to me, life would be intolerable. Heaven blessed my labours, and gave me a frugal wife; I have all the comforts I need and more blessings than I deserve. This child is my favourite little great-granddaughter, and is often my charming companion to these cloisters. A dreary scene, gentlemen, for a child of tender years, but they read a solemn and wholesome lesson. Unconsciously she imbibes their influence. They tell her, as I do, that life is not all pleasure; that as these ancient architects left beautiful traces and outlines behind them, so we must build up our lives stage by stage, taking care that the outlines shall be true and straight, the imperishable record pure and beautiful. For every one of us comes the placing of the keystone, with its momentous _Finis_. But, blessed be Heaven, as surely beneath it appears the promised _Resurgam_."

We walked round the cloisters together, and for a full hour this patriarch, with the support of our arm, charmed us with reminiscences of Barcelona, descriptions of the lovely monuments of Spain he had visited in the course of his long life. In spite of his years, his memory still seemed keen and vivid, his mind clear. He had not pa.s.sed into that saddest of conditions a mental wreck.

"And I pray Heaven to call me hence ere such a fate overtake me," he said, in answer to our remark upon his admirable recollection. "Whilst memory lasts and friends are kind, life may be endured. I possess my soul in patience."

We parted and went our several ways, leaving the little cloisters to solitude and the ghosts that haunted them. The streets of Barcelona grated upon us after our late encounter. It was returning to very ordinary life after the refined and delightful atmosphere of the past ages. We crossed the Rambla, and entering a side street quickly reached the cathedral, which became more and more a world's wonder and glory as we grew familiar with it, an unspeakable delight. In this little City of Refuge we again for a time lost ourselves in celestial visions. In this inspired atmosphere all earthly influences and considerations fell away; sorrow and sighing were non-existent: a millennium of happiness reigned, where all was piety and all was peace.

CHAPTER XV.

MONTSERRAT.

Early rising--Imp of darkness--Death warrant--The men who fail--Ranges of Montserrat--Sabadell--Labour and romance--The Llobregat--Monistrol--Summer resort--Sleeping village--Empty letter-bags--Ascending--Splendid view--Romantic element--Charms of antiquity--Human interests--Mons Serratus--A man of letters--_Solitude a deux_--Fellow travellers--Substantial lady-merchant--Resignation--Military policeman--"Nameless here for evermore"--Round man in square hole--Romantic history--_Cherchez la femme_--Woman a divinity--Good name the best inheritance--No fighting against the stars--Fascinations of astrology--Love and fortune--Too good to last--Taste for pleasure--Ruin--Sad end--Truth rea.s.serts itself--Fortune smiles again--Ceylon--Philosophical in misfortune--A windfall--Approaching Montserrat--Paradise of the monks--Romance and beauty--New order of things--Gipsy encampment.

We rose early one morning for the purpose of visiting Montserrat the sublime, the magnificent, and the romantic.

Early as it was, Barcelona was by no means in a state of repose. Many of its people never seemed to go to bed at all, and some of its shops never closed. If we looked out upon the world at midnight, at three in the morning, or at five, Bodegas selling wine and bread were open to customers. The Rambla was never quite deserted. Before daylight trams began to run to and fro; the street cries soon swelled to a chorus.

Early rising is not always agreeable when wandering about the world in search of the picturesque. Perhaps you have gone to bed late overnight, tired out with running to and fro. Energy is only half-restored when an imp of darkness enters, lights your candles, and p.r.o.nounces a death-warrant. "It is five o'clock, senor. Those who wish to catch the train must get up."

You think it only five minutes since you fell asleep. "Two o'clock, not five," cries a drowsy voice. "You have waked me too soon."

"As you please, senor. Not for me to contradict you."

The imp retires. If, like Mrs. Major O'Dowd, you carry a _repater_, you strike it. Five o'clock, sure enough, and ten minutes towards six.

Nothing for it but to yield. Not as a certain friend who once bribed another imp of darkness with half-a-crown to wake him at five o'clock.

The half-crown was duly earned. "Another half-crown if you let me sleep on until eight," cried the sluggard. The imp disappeared like a flash, and a gold mine was lost through an appointment. Of such are the men who fail.

We came down and found the hotel in the usual state of early-morning discomfort--doors and windows all open, a general sweeping and uprooting, sleepy servants, a feeling that you are in every one's way and every one is in yours. Breakfast was out of the question, but tea was forthcoming. The omnibus rattled up.

"Take your great-coats," said the landlord, who set others the example of rising early. "You will find it cold in the mountains of Montserrat, especially if you remain all night to see the sun rise."

He forgot that we were not chilly Spaniards. Our imp of darkness, however, who stood by, disappeared in a twinkling and returned with the coats. The landlord--a very different and less interesting man than our host of Gerona--wished us a pleasant journey, closed the door, and away we went under the influence of a glorious morning. The sun shone brilliantly, everything favoured us.

After some ten miles of rail the wonderful ranges of Montserrat began to show up faint and indistinct, with their sharp outlines and mighty peaks. In the wide plains below cultivated fields and flowing undulations abounded. Sabadell, the midway station, proved a true Catalonian manufacturing town, but very different from an English town of the same nature. No smoke, no blackness of darkness, no pallid sorrowful faces. Under these blue skies and brilliant sunshine the abundant signs of work and animation almost added a charm to the scene.

To those who delight in labour, life here is a combination of romance and reality--a state of things wholesome and to be desired.

We looked down upon many a valley well-wooded with small oaks, pines and olive trees, many a hill-slope covered with vines. Approaching the mountains of Montserrat, their savage and appalling grandeur became more evident. The monastery was seen high up, reposing on a gigantic plateau with its small settlement of dependencies. Villages were scattered over the plain, through which the river Llobregat took its winding way.

The train drew up at Monistrol. Here we left the main line for the small railway which winds up into the mountains. Not being a crowded time of year, the train consisted of two carriages only, with an engine pushing up behind. The outer carriage was open, and here we took seats, the better to survey nature.

We were high above the plains; the train had to descend into the valley, then re-ascend into the mountains. Far down was the little town of Monistrol, with its white houses. The river rushed and frothed over its weir, spanned by a picturesque stone bridge of many arches. As the train twisted and turned like a serpent, it seemed that we must every moment topple over into the seething foam, but nothing happened. Down, down we went, until we rolled over the bridge, felt the cool wind of the water upon our faces, and drew up at the little station amongst the white houses of the settlement.