"I thought so," cried the monk. "Suppose, now, you had gone down to Monistrol with the keys in your pocket! We must have got through a window like thieves and vagabonds. A very undignified proceeding. The Reverend Father would have stopped your b.u.t.ter for a month. As it is, I must overlook it, I suppose; you are so very fond of b.u.t.ter. Now, gentlemen---- Dear me, what beautiful writing you English always have!"

scanning the book, in which, with the aid of a very bad pen, we had hieroglyphically scratched our names. "Now, gentlemen, I am at your service. We will take our little pilgrimage. You have a choice of rooms.

There is not a soul in the Hospederia--a thousand rooms, every one empty. Miguel, attend us; you will have to make up beds for these gentlemen."

The pilgrimage was certainly a short one. We gave the little monk as wide a berth as politeness and the way permitted. To keep step with him was impossible. He had a curious motion which resembled more the trotting of a young colt than the walk of a human being. As he skipped across the road, a small, animated ma.s.s of quicksilver, full of peculiar life and energy, it was difficult to keep becomingly grave. The great Hospederia was in front of us, huge, modern, unsightly, depressing. The monk jingled the great keys as though they made pleasant music in his ear. Then he applied one of them to the huge lock and the heavy door rolled back on its hinges.

If the exterior had looked depressing, it was cheerfulness itself to the interior. A chilling, silent, uninhabited, ghostly atmosphere met us at the very threshold. Our postman might well say it was haunted. Voices and footsteps echoed in the long, bare, gloomy corridors. A monk's cell could scarcely have been more guiltless of comfort. We had hardly made up our minds whether to stay the night or not, and our proposed lodging kept us still more undecided. As far as sunrise was concerned, at this time of the year the effects were doubtful. More often than not a thick mist enshrouded the whole visible world like a white sea. We might remain, have our trouble and discomfort for our pains, and nothing more.

"Here," said the monk, throwing open the door of a small room, and pointing to a bed hard as pavement, "you may sleep in comfort, even luxury. And," opening the window, "what a prospect!"

True enough as regarded the outlook. Such an a.s.semblage of vale, mountain and river could hardly be surpa.s.sed. The luxury of the bed, on the other hand, was a distinct effort of the imagination. We would not, however, disturb the sensitiveness of the little monk by arguing the matter, and indeed, it would have been difficult to lower his self-complacency. Two rooms belonging to a suite were duly apportioned to us. The bare kitchen between them looked cold and lifeless. These rooms would be prepared, and any one remaining here for the night might reasonably consider it a penance for his sins. It would be rather a gruesome experience to find ourselves in sole possession of this vast building of a thousand rooms. An army of ghosts--the ghosts of dead-and-gone monks--would certainly come down upon us, and H. C.'s most Napoleon manner would have no effect whatever. Like the little monk, ghosts are not to be frowned down.

"A pity to disturb this Hospederia, which may be considered closed for the season," we remarked. "My poet friend is very much afraid of ghosts, and this place might very well be haunted. It is certainly haunted by silence. Why not give us cells in the monastery, where, in presence of the Father-Superior, ghosts would hardly venture to intrude?"

"An excellent idea," said H. C., looking blue and shivery. "This place is more gloomy than the grave."

"In the darkness one place is very much the same as another," said the monk. "No one is allowed even within the walls of the monastery without an order from the Holy Father at Rome, the Archbishop of Toledo, or some equally great authority. Father Salvador is the only one who can prevail with our Superior. As for ghosts, I have seen them with my own eyes on All Souls' Eve, at midnight, in the monastery graveyard, and oh! how frightened I was! How I shivered in my sandals! They were the ghosts of two monks who had committed suicide within a year of each other in their cells. Of course, they were quite mad, and they left a letter behind them--both of them--to say they could bear their solitude no longer. In the dead of night they heard groans, and saw shapes like immense bats flying about. Each bat had four wings, two tails, fiery eyes and forked tongues. They were quite insane. But there are no ghosts here, sirs. For the matter of that, the building is far too modern. Ghosts have excellent taste and cultivate the antique. There, that is settled.

Everything is at your disposal--the whole building. Now, Miguel, show the gentlemen where they can dine. I have heard that the fare in the restaurant is equal to anything in Madrid. I am your most humble servant and delighted to see you. Welcome to Montserrat."

Upon which the little monk skipped once more across the road with the same acrobatic motion, and disappeared within his sanctum.

Under Miguel's escort--who had had so narrow an escape from losing his b.u.t.ter, and doing a month's fasting out of Lent--we found the dining-room. Several dining-rooms indeed, of great size, one above another, apparently quite prepared to entertain the Hospederia with its full complement of guests. The manager informed us that we could have any meal we liked at any appointed hour; he was equal to the largest dinners at the shortest notice; and having settled this part of the programme to H. C.'s satisfaction, we dismissed Miguel and took to exploring.

As Don Alvarez had said, we could not go very far wrong. One road led to the summit of Mons Serratus, another down into the world; a third round the mountain into another part of the world. This was still traversed by a coach and four, and presently we had the pleasure of seeing it start with great preparation and ceremony. For the moment we contented ourselves with the immediate precincts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.]

The convent buildings stood on a plateau at the far end of the settlement. Almost buried under the side of the mountain was the immense church or chapel in which the monks attend ma.s.s. One may see them at stated hours in the choir behind the great iron _grille_ that separates them from the outer worshippers. There are now only about twenty fathers, for the monastery was suppressed some sixty years ago, only a few being allowed to remain. It is of very ancient origin, and rose from small to great things, and again has fallen from its high estate. The foundation is due to a black image of the Virgin; a small figure in black wood supposed to have been specially carved by St. Luke, and specially brought to Spain by St. Peter. If in St. Luke's best style, he was certainly not a Michel Angelo. The image, however, is highly prized by the religious order, as having worked countless miracles and brought them fame and wealth.

In crossing towards the chapel we met our funny little monk. "Ah, you are going into the church?" he cried. "You will find the fathers at prayer--it is nearly the hour for the refectory. And you will see the black Virgin--the beautiful black image--carved by St. Luke--carried by St. Peter--blessed by twelve popes! No wonder she performs miracles.

Withered arms and legs come to life again. I have seen old people turn young. Once when I looked at her she blinked with both eyes. It is true I am short-sighted, but I am certain of the fact: as certain as that I saw ghosts in the graveyard on All Souls' Eve. Senor, that wonderful black image is the one great thing to see at Montserrat. The cleverness of the railway, the beauty of the landscape, the grandeur of the mountain, the splendour of the church--all this is very well in its way; but it is as nothing compared with the black image. Go and study it, and if you look long enough perhaps she will blink her eyes at you too, or bow her head. It is quite possible."

Then he skipped through the quadrangle back to his den.

This quadrangle was very interesting; large, quiet, and solidly built: an outer court to the holy of holies, which was the church itself. Under the mountain-side, its covered pa.s.sages ever seemed in deep gloom and shadow; a death-in-life atmosphere hung about it. In days gone by it was one of the loveliest nooks in the world, for the ancient buildings were beautiful and refined. Gothic cloisters and Norman doorways mingled their outlines in close companionship without rivalry, and the beholder was charmed at finding himself in an element where nothing jarred.

All has disappeared to make way for the modern traveller, whose name is legion. Nothing remains but the one little Gothic fragment, with its pointed windows and slender shafts. A lady in a mantilla graced them as we stood looking at the Norman archway beyond: the more interesting of the turtle-doves who had travelled with us from Monistrol. Her mate was attending to the vulgar side of life, arranging a select repast with the restaurant manager at the farther end of the settlement. We saw him come out and advance towards her with that degree of fervour which generally marks the _lune de miel_. She, too, went to meet him half-way--and they disappeared out of our lives.

As we looked at the Norman doorway it was suddenly filled with the figure of a monk. Nothing could have been more appropriately romantic and picturesque. He was clothed not as a Jesuit, but in the far more becoming dress of a Franciscan. His cowl was thrown back, revealing a pale, refined face and well-formed head, on which the hair seemed to be arranged almost like a circlet of leaves--the crown of the poet. He stood still and motionless as though carved in stone. In his hand he held a breviary. A girdle was round his waist confining the long brown robe. As far as we could see, he appeared unmindful of his surroundings, lost in a dreamy gaze which penetrated beyond the skies. It was the att.i.tude and expression of a visionary or mystic.

What was this monk in the strange garb? Who was he? What brought him apparently at home amidst the Jesuits, he who evidently belonged to another order? Had he thrown in his lot amongst them? Or did he live, a solitary being, in one of the surrounding hermitages?

Whilst we looked he slowly turned, and, with bent head and lingering steps, as though in deep contemplation, pa.s.sed out of sight. Nothing remained but the empty doorway with a vision of arches beyond; a few ruined walls stained with the marks of centuries, to which patches of moss and drooping creepers and hardy ferns added grace and charm. We were alone, surrounded by intense quiet and repose. Sunshine was over all, casting deep shadows. No sound disturbed the stillness, not even the echo of the monk's receding footsteps. So silent and motionless had been his coming and going, we asked ourselves whether he was in truth flesh and blood or a mid-day visitor from the land of shadows. How remote, how out of the world it all was!

Suddenly, as we looked upwards, an eagle took majestic flight from one of the mountain peaks, and, hovering in the blue ether, seemed seeking for prey. But it was not the time of the lambs, and with a long, sweeping wing, it pa.s.sed across the valley to an opposite range of hills.

The great church was before us with its dome, of Roman design and sufficiently common-place. But, after all, what mattered? Its effects and those of the hideous Hospederia were lost in their wonderful surroundings, just as a drop of water is lost in the ocean.

On entering the church this comparison disappeared. There was an expanse about its aisles, largeness and breadth in the high-domed roof, that produced a certain dignity, yet without grace and refinement. No magic and mystery surrounded them, and the dim religious light was the result, not of rich stained gla.s.s admitting prismatic streams, but of an obscurity cast by the shadows of Mons Serratus. For great effects one had to go back in imagination to the days when the monks were many and a.s.sembled at night for service. It is easy to picture the impressive scene. Beyond the ever-closed screen, within the great choir, a thousand kneeling, penitential figures chanting the midnight ma.s.s, their voices swelling upward in mighty volume; the church just sufficiently lighted to lend the utmost mystery to the occasion; a ghostly hour and a ghostly a.s.semblage of men whose lives have become mere shadows. On great days countless candles lighted up the aisles and faintly outlined the more distant recesses. The fine-toned organ pealed forth its harmony, shaking the building with its diapasons and awakening wonderful echoes in the far-off dome.

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

All this may still be seen and heard now and then, but with the number of monks sadly curtailed. It is said that they now never exceed twenty.

When their day of persecution came they escaped to their mountain fastness, climbing higher and ever higher like hunted deer, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the rocks; fear giving them strength to reach parts never yet trodden by the foot of man, whilst many a less active monk slipped and fell into the bottomless abyss, his last resting place, like that of Moses, remaining for ever unknown. The troops of Suchet followed the refugees, found them out, and put an end to many a life that, if useless, was also harmless. Not a few of the survivors became hermits, and on many a crag may be found the ruins of a hermitage, once, perhaps, inhabited by a modern St. Jerome, though the St. Jeromes of the world have been few and far between.

Some sort of religious inst.i.tution existed here in the early centuries, long ages before Ignatius Loyola founded the order of the Jesuits. In the eighth century the famous black image was hidden away in a cave under a hill to save it from the Moors. Here it miraculously disclosed itself a hundred years later to some simple shepherds. These hastened to the good Bishop, who took mules, crook and mitre, and came down with all the lights of the church and all the pomp of office to remove the treasure to Manresa.

Apparently the image preferred the fresh mountain air to the close, torrent-washed town with its turbid waters, for having reached a certain lovely spot overlooking the vast plain, it refused to go any farther. As it could not speak--being a wooden image--it made itself so heavy that mortal power could not lift it. This was the first of a long succession of miracles. On the spot where the image rested, the Bishop with crook and mitre, and bell and book, and Dean and Chapter, held solemn conclave and there and then went through a service of Consecration. A chapel was built, and the image became the object of devoted pilgrimages.

All traces of the chapel have disappeared long since. Nothing now marks the spot but an iron cross which may be seen far and near. Approaching, you may read the inscription: _Aqui se hizo inmovil la Santa Imagen_.

After this a nunnery was founded, which in the tenth century became a Benedictine convent.

Ages rolled on, and it grew famous. When destroyed by the French it held as many as 900 monks: a great religious community, wealthy and powerful. But the mighty are fallen. The few remaining monks, more exclusive in their retirement than the great body of their predecessors, have a school attached to the monastery in which much time is given to the study of music. It is going far out of the world for instruction, but Nature herself should come to their aid. Amidst these lonely solitudes the Harmony of the Spheres might well be heard.

Pa.s.sing through the great quadrangle, we entered a narrow pa.s.sage between the church and hill-side, reminding one a little of some of the narrow streets of Jerusalem. Here, too, we found some arches and b.u.t.tresses framing in the sky, arch beyond arch. At the end of all we came out once more upon the open world, and what a scene was disclosed!

In front of us was a small chapel attached to a little hermitage. Beside it ran a long avenue of sad and solemn cypresses. It might have been the cemetery of the dead-and-gone monks, but no small mounds or wooden crosses marked where the dead reposed. This mournful avenue extended to the brow of the hill, where we overlooked vast wild precipices. Canons and gorges opened beneath us and above us in appalling magnitude. The stupendous valley stretched right and left in the distance. Far on the other side reposed a chain of snow-clad hills. Villages lay about the plain and hill-sides. In the far-off hollow slept the little town of Monistrol, its blue smoke mingling with the clearer atmosphere. Through all the valley the river ran its winding, silvery course on its way to the sea.

The plateau on which we stood held the monastery buildings. Near us stretched the gardens of the monks in cultivated terraces, and above them, winding round the mountain was the white road leading out into the world lying to the south of Montserrat. Again, as we looked, another eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow majestic flight across the valley, no doubt on the track of its mate, perhaps to find out why he tarried so long. A string of boys in caps and black cloaks left the convent and wound round the white road, conducted by a few of the monks whose duty it was to keep watch and ward over the students.

These pa.s.sed out of sight, and once more we seemed alone with nature.

But on turning back down the cypress avenue, sitting against the little chapel we saw the Franciscan monk who had lately filled the Norman archway. Though his breviary was open, he was not reading. His eyes--large, dark, dreamy eyes that ought to belong to a genius--were looking out on the mountain and the far-off sky, lost in profound contemplation.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.]

Of what nature were his thoughts? Introspective or retrospective? Was he thinking of days that were past, or of the life to come? Were regret and remorse his portion, or resignation to his present surroundings? Was he dwelling upon some terrible Might-have-been? He looked inexpressibly lonely, as though he and the world had parted company for ever, but there was something singularly interesting about him. It seemed difficult to intrude upon his solitude, as impossible to pa.s.s without speaking.

Some influence compelled us to stop. His face was pale and refined. He was so thin as to be almost cadaverous; not an ounce of flesh had he to spare on his bones; there was a certain look of hunger in his large magnificent eyes; not a hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, but, as it seemed, for peace of mind and repose of soul. Grazing at the skies, he appeared to be asking questions of the Infinite Beyond. Where was the kingdom of Heaven and what was it like? When there came for him the great apocalypse of the soul how would it find its way to the realms of paradise?

We stopped in front of him, and he started as though he had only that moment became aware of our presence. He did not seem to resent the intrusion, but looked up with a searching inquiring glance, which presently changed to a smile beautiful and almost childlike in its confidence: sad, beseeching, as though it were in our power to interpret to him the hidden mysteries of the unseen; the perplexing problems of life; the doubts and difficulties with which his questioning heart contended.

"You have indeed found a quiet corner for contemplation," we remarked after he had greeted us with a subdued: "May Heaven have you in its holy keeping."

[Ill.u.s.tration: SALVADOR THE MONK.]

"It is all my want and all my desire," he replied, in a voice that was full of melody. "I live the life of a hermit. Near at hand I have my small hermitage, and I also have my cell in the monastery, occupying the one or the other as inclination prompts me. For you see by my dress that though this is my home, where I shall live and die, I do not belong to the Jesuits. I am really a Franciscan, but have obtained a dispensation, and I live here. I love to contemplate these splendours of nature; to read my breviary under the blue sky and the shadow of our great mountain. Here I feel in touch with Heaven. The things unseen become real and tangible, doubts and difficulties vanish. My soul gathers strength. I return to my cell, and its walls crush all life and hope out of me; weigh upon me with an oppression greater and deeper than that of yonder giant height. I feel as though I should die, or fall away from grace. There have been times when they have come to my cell and found me unconscious. I have only revived when they have brought me out to the fresh air, this freedom and expanse. The good Father-Superior recognises my infirmity and has given me the hermit's cave. I will show it to you if you like. It is quite habitable and not what you might imagine, for it is a built-up room with light and air, not a cavern dark and earthy.

I love solitude and am never solitary. Once I loved the world too much; I lived in the fever of life and dissipation. Heaven had mercy upon me, and you behold a brand plucked from the burning. When my heart was dead and seared, and love and all things beautiful had taken wing, I left the world. The profligate became a penitent. I took vows upon me and joined the Franciscan Order. But I should have died if I had not come up here, where I have found pardon and peace. That was twenty years ago. Yet I am not fifty years old, and am still in the full vigour of manhood. It may be long before a small wooden cross marks my resting-place in the cemetery. When the last hour comes I shall pray them to bring me here, that amidst these splendours of nature my soul may wing its flight to the greater splendours of paradise. I feel that I could not die in my cell."

"How is it you are allowed so much freedom?" we asked. "We thought that here you were all more or less cloistered. It was our wish to see the interior of the monastery, but the lay monk who receives visitors said it was not permitted."

"A strict rule," returned the monk; "but if you are staying here a couple of days, I could take you in. To-morrow is a great fast; to enter would be impossible; the day after it might be done."

"Unhappily we cannot remain. To-morrow at latest we return to Barcelona.

But, if we may ask it again without indiscretion, whence have you this indulgence and power?"

"The secret lies in the fact that I possess a talent," smiled the monk.

"I was always pa.s.sionately fond of music, and as a pastime studied it closely and earnestly. Here I have turned it to account. Whether it was the necessity for an occupation, or that it was always in me, I developed a strange faculty for imparting knowledge to others. I fire them with enthusiasm, and they make vast progress. My name, I am told, has become a proverb in our large towns. It has been of use to the monastery: has enlarged the school, added to the revenues. In return I have obtained certain privileges; a greater freedom of action. Otherwise my power would leave me. This is why I can promise to open doors to you that are usually closed to the world. Yet in what would you be the better? Curiosity would hardly be satisfied in viewing the bare cells and long gloomy pa.s.sages, the cold and empty refectory, where perchance you might see spread out a banquet of bread and water, a little dried fish or a few sweet herbs."

"There is always something that appeals to one, strangely attractive, in the interior of a monastery," we returned.