A NIGHT VISION.
Wrong turnings--H. C.'s gifts and graces--Out at night--The arcades
of Gerona--At the fair--Ancient outlines--Demons at work--In the
dry bed of the river--Roasting chestnuts--Medieval outlines--In the
vortex--Clairvoyantes and lion-tamers--Clown's despair--Deserted
streets--Vision of the night--Haunted staircase--Dark and
dangerous--A small grievance--The reeds by the river--Cry of the
watchmen--Hare and hounds--Fair Rosamund--Jacob's ladder--New
rendering to old proverbs--Cathedral by night--H. C.
oblivious--Scent fails--Return to earth--Romantic story--Last of a
long line--_El Sereno!_--The witching hour--H. C. unserenaded--Next
morning--Grey skies--A false prophet--Magic picture--Cathedral by
day--Mediaeval dreams.
Dinner ended we went to our rooms preparatory to investigating the town.
These rooms were only reached through a labyrinth of passages, and to
the last hour we were always taking wrong turnings. H. C. had the organ
of locality as well as the gift of rhyme, and we often had to summon him
from some distant chamber to the rescue; vainly remarking that it was a
little hard all the talents should have fallen to his share. He would
condescendingly reply that we must be thankful for small mercies; adding
with great modesty that all his talents and graces, far beyond our ken,
were counterbalanced by a feeling of tremendous responsibility.
We left the hotel with all our curiosity awakened. It was very dark. No
stars were shining; a small aneroid indicated rain. Where we came to
openings in the streets, the sky above was lighted with a lurid glare,
reflection of the countless torches in the fair. Our own street was in
comparative darkness.
Sauntering down whither fate would lead us, we came to some splendid
arcades, deep, massive and solemn. Few towns in Spain possess such
arcades as Gerona; so exceedingly picturesque and substantially built
that time may mellow but hardly destroy them. To-night they were not
quite impenetrable; a little of the glare from the sky or the fair--the
latter unseen but near at hand--seemed to faintly light their obscurity
and add mystery to the finely-arched outlines. They were deserted, not a
creature was visible, the shops were closed. There is no time like night
and darkness for solemn outlines and impressions.
[Illustration: ARCADES: GERONA.]
A few steps farther on and we suddenly burst upon the full glory of the
fair. Not the glory of the sun or moon, but of smoking torchlights and
lurid flames carried hither and thither by the wind. We traced them far
as the eye could reach. The houses, with their quaint outlines and iron
balconies shadowed by the waving trees, stood out vividly. A double
stream of people sauntered to and fro, treading upon each other's heels.
At one booth a Dutch auction was going on--great attraction of the
evening.
[Illustration: VIEW OF GERONA FROM THE STONE BRIDGE.]
We stood on the bridge and looked quite far down upon the bed of the
river. As our host had said, the water was very low. The stream had
narrowed and half the bed was dry. Here and there huge fires were
burning and flaming, and men danced round them, looking like demons as
the flames now and then burst forth and lighted up their grim faces.
They were roasting chestnuts, and as each batch was finished it was
carried up to the fair to be quickly devoured by the boys and girls
to-night supreme. Every dog has its day, and it was their turn to reign.
They must make the most of it. To-morrow the garlands would fade. When
the clock struck twelve Cinderella went back to her rags and
chimney-corner. Black Monday always comes. Every stall displayed nothing
but toys, from juvenile knives to slice off finger-ends to
seductive-looking purses that were a mortifying reflection upon empty
pockets.
As we stood on the bridge all this light and glare outlined the
wonderful houses that rise up straight from the river so that its waters
wash their foundations--and at very high tides come in at the
ground-floor windows, a visitor more free than welcome. The occurrence
is rare, but has been known. We could just trace the marvellous
outlines; their strangely picturesque, old-world look: and we waited
with patience for the morning and the splendours it should reveal.
Plunging boldly into the crowd, we were swallowed up in the vortex. It
was rather bewildering. All the people seemed to do was to walk up and
down in an endless stream, eat chestnuts and blow penny trumpets.
To-night, at any rate, the stalls were almost neglected. Possibly they
had not had time to digest the glamour, and to-morrow the harvest would
come.
At the end of the long thoroughfare lights and stalls and crowd were
left behind. We reached a quaint corner which cunningly led to another
bridge. This we crossed and soon found ourselves in the wide market
square and a different scene. Here the shows had taken up their abode,
and every effort was being made to excite an unresponsive crowd. It was
the usual thing. The learned pig, the two-headed lady, the gentleman who
drew portraits with his feet, the clairvoyante who told fortunes and
promised wealth and marriage, the lion-tamer who put his head into the
lion's mouth, the enchanting ballet, where ladies and gentlemen
pirouetted and made love in dumb motions: these attractions were
faithfully described and freely offered to the dazzled multitude. In
vain a clown tried to be facetious, shouted himself hoarse, and blew a
trumpet until his face grew dark. Bells rang and drums beat--the crowd
did not respond.
We left them to it, not tempted by the unseen. Our day for shows and
illusions was over. This was not what we had expected of Gerona the
beautiful and ancient. If we felt a slight grievance, who could wonder?
Presently we found ourselves in the darkness of night at the edge of the
river. There was more water here, no dry bed visible. Away to the left,
as far as one could gather, stretched the open country. Tall trees,
sombre and mysterious, waved and rustled behind us. Evidently this was
one of the public parks or promenades that exist just outside so many
Spanish towns, refuges from the mid-day sun and evening glare; Elysian
fields for those disembodied souls who pace to and fro to the music of
love's young dream; vows of eternal fidelity more or less writ in sand.
The water looked cold and calm and tranquil. Rushes grew by the side and
the wind whispered through them. Pan was playing his pipes. Lights
twinkled from the windows of many a house down by the river. A lurid
glow still hung in the sky, and beneath it, in front of us to the right,
we traced the marvellous outlines of the town. Above all, crowning the
heights, stretching heavenwards like mighty monsters, uprose the towers
of the cathedral and other churches. Almost unearthly was the scene in
its gloom and grandeur of mystery. Far down on the dry bed of the river
the chestnut-roasters danced like demons about their holocausts. No
clown need cry the virtues of their wares; the demand was equal to the
supply, and both were unlimited.
We hardly knew how we found our way here or found it back again.
Instinct guides one on these occasions and seldom fails as it failed in
the midnight streets of Toledo. But a conjuror would be lost in those
narrow wynds, which all resemble each other and are without plan or
sequence.
[Illustration: BANKS OF THE ONAR: GERONA.]
To-night it was plainer sailing. Afar off we heard the clown bidding
people to his feast of good things. Like the siren in stormy weather it
told us which way to steer, what to avoid. We passed well on the
outskirts of the gaping crowd and found ourselves on the bridge: the
dark bridge, with the river flowing beneath, the houses rising in a
great impenetrable mass, and the distant chestnut-roasters at their
demon work.
The evening was growing old; a neighbouring church clock struck ten.
This served to change the current of one's thoughts, which had simply
drifted with the scene before us.
"Let us go to the cathedral," said H. C. "We shall then have two
impressions instead of one. I always like to see an important building
first at night. Next morning's view is so different that it becomes a
revelation."
This was true enough; but how find our way to the cathedral and back
again to the hotel? We had no desire to repeat that Toledo adventure.
The story of the Babes in the Wood is only amusing to those who listen.
"Evidently a very different town from Toledo," replied H. C. "We have
only to climb the height to reach the cathedral. Let us play Hare and
Hounds. I will drop pieces of paper by way of scent. Or like Hop o' my
Thumb scatter stones on the road."
"Wouldn't a silken thread be more poetical?"
"True; but," with a profound sigh, "there is no Fair Rosamund at the end
of it. Here we can only worship the antique. Rosamund was not antique."
"But this has one great virtue; it can never disappoint or play you
false. And, rare merit, its charms increase with age."
Again he sighed deeply. He had had many disappointments, but then he
deserved them. Butterflies flit from flower to flower, until by-and-by
they alight on a nettle and it stings: a little allegory always lost
upon H. C. The gift of knowing themselves is still denied to mortals.
We left the bridge and found ourselves once more in the quaint octagonal
corner; in front of us a narrow turning; a long flight of steps
apparently without end; a Jacob's Ladder.
"Leading to Paradise," said H. C. "Let us take it."
"Would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?"
The Oracle was silent. With a bold plunge we commenced the ascent: a
rugged climb with dead walls about us; twistings and turnings and
crooked ways and rough uneven steps; a veritable pilgrimage.
"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to him who climbs. I like to
vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed."
As he spoke, we came upon a hidden turning to the left; short, straight,
and evidently full of purpose. We took it without doubting and soon
found ourselves in the open square, bound on one side by the cathedral
with the Bishop's palace at right angles.
On this occasion no majestic outlines rewarded us. Only for its interior
is the cathedral famous. All doors were locked and barred. We knocked
for admission. These wonderful buildings should be open at night as well
as by day, and some of their finest effects are lost by this tyrannical
custom. But we knocked in vain; ghostly echoes answered us. Ghosts pass
through doors; we never heard that the most accommodating ghost ever
opened them to mortals. It was the great south doorway at which we
appealed--the Apostles' Doorway--and in the darkness we could just trace
its fine deeply-recessed arch. Above the cathedral rose its one solitary
pagan tower, shadowy and unreal against the night sky.
A broad, magnificent, apparently endless flight of steps such as few
cathedrals possess faced the west front. To-night we could see nothing
beyond of the town and river, the great stretch of country and far-off
Pyrenees we knew must be there. All this must wait for the morning. Nor
should we have to wait long, for night and the moments were flying. The
glare had died out of the sky; shows and booths had put out their
lights; the crowd had gone home. Gerona might now truly be likened to a
dead city.
No sound disturbed the stillness but the cry of the watchmen in
different parts of the town. One proclaimed the time and weather and
another took up the tale; sometimes a discordant duet rose upon the
air. We heard it all distinctly from our citadel above the world.
[Illustration: APOSTLES' DOORWAY, CATHEDRAL: GERONA.]
As we looked, one of them passed in slow contemplation at the foot of
the long flight of steps--steps nearly as broad as the cathedral itself.
His staff struck the ground, his light flashed shadows upon the houses.
The effect was weird. Heavy footsteps echoed right and left through the
narrow streets, in fitting accompaniment to his monotonous chant. We had
long grown familiar with these old watchmen, who come laden with an
atmosphere of the past. They are in harmony with these towns of ancient
outlines, suggesting days when perhaps the faintest glimmer of an oil
lamp only made darkness more hideous; days when their office was no
sinecure as now, but one of danger and responsibility.
The cathedral clock struck eleven, and when the last faint vibration had
died upon the air we turned to go. It seemed a great many hours since we
had risen in the darkness of the Narbonne misty morning, H. C. had been
reawakened with a sort of volcanic eruption, and madame, wishing us bon
voyage over our tea and hot rolls, had disappeared like a flash into the
mist to put the final touches to her _diner de noce_.
"Now for Hare and Hounds, H. C. Lead the way."
"By the beard of Mahomet! I forgot all about it and have put none down."
"So the scent has failed?"
Remorse made him silent for a moment. Then he tried to turn the tables.
"After all, it was your fault. Your saying what you did about the silken
thread and Fair Rosamund, set me thinking what a romantic adventure it
would be if it could only come true. Naturally everything else went out
of my mind."
"We must make the best of it, H. C., and get back to the hotel as we
can. Suppose we vary the route. These steps look inviting; we will take
them. All roads lead to Rome."
We went down the interminable flight, turned and looked back. A vision
of a church in the clouds and a pagan tower that went out of sight. We
had returned to earth, and not far off the old watchman was still
awaking shadows and echoes in the narrow street. We could not do better
than follow, and presently found ourselves in our quaint little
octagonal corner. All was well.
The long thoroughfare, so crowded lately, was now forsaken. Stalls were
shut down, lights were out. It was like a deserted banqueting-hall. The
chestnut sellers had left their pans and baskets, but left them empty.
From the bed of the river the dancing demons had departed, and the smoke
of their incense still ascended from dying embers. Next came the old
arcades, darker, lonelier, more mysterious than ever. These we knew
faced our street, and turning our backs upon them we found ourselves in
a few moments at the hotel.
Only a couple of old watchmen broke the solitude, meeting at their
boundaries. They stood on the pavement in close converse and we wondered
if they were hatching mischief; then they threw their light upon us and
no doubt returned the compliment. We disappeared within the great
doorway and left them to their reflections.
Up the broad staircase, the white marble glistening in the rays of the
one electric lamp that still lighted up the courtyard. We thought of the
sumptuous crowd that had passed up and down in the centuries gone by;
fair dames in rustling silks and gay cavaliers with clanking swords; all
the grandeur and gorgeousness of that once ducal palace. The staircase
seemed haunted with ghosts and shadows, the murmur of voices, echo of
laughter, weeping of tears.
And now, dim and vapoury, a brilliant pair appeared in tender proximity
to each other. His arm encircled her waist, her fair white hand rested
with fond appropriation upon his doublet. The love-look in her eyes was
only equalled by the fervour and constancy of his. Yet sadness
predominated, for it was a farewell interview. She was the last daughter
of the ducal house, last of her race. They were betrothed and the course
of true love had run smooth. But now he was bidden fight for his country
and would depart at daybreak.
He never lived to return, but died on the battlefield. Within his gloved
hand was found a golden tress tightly clasped, and next his heart a
small miniature of his beautiful betrothed. Both were buried with him.
She soon faded and declined, and found him again in a Land where wars
and partings are unknown. House and name became extinct. As we thought
of this, suddenly the staircase seemed full of sighs, lights grew dim.
We passed on and found the hotel empty and deserted. Every one had gone
to bed and left the long gloomy corridors to silence and the ghosts. We
lighted candles and H. C. led the way through the labyrinth to our
rooms. Windows were open and the two old watchmen below were just where
we had left them, apparently still gazing at the doorway through which
we had disappeared.
_"El sereno!"_ cried he. "Call your hours and guard the city. Enemies
lurk in secret corners."
They looked up and wished us good night. We were not marauders after
all. So they separated with easy conscience, and from opposite ends of
the street we heard them announce the time and weather.
It was hardly necessary, for another watchman rang out with iron tongue.
Midnight slowly tolled over the town from all the churches. Impossible
to believe an hour had passed since we stood at the top of that vast
flight of steps overlooking the darkness. How had we sauntered back?
Where had the moments flown? One grows absorbed in these night visions,
dark shadows and outlines, and time passes unconsciously. We counted the
strokes, listened to the vibrations, and then H. C. went off to his own
regions. The watchmen were all very well in their way, but for his part
an open window and a love serenade--such as we had been favoured with in
Toledo--had greater charms. To-night passionate appeals and the melody
of the lute were sought in vain. Every window was closed and dark. We
also said good-night to the sleeping world.
The next morning rose in due course, but not with promise. Heavy rain
had fallen during the night, lowering clouds foretold more. Just now,
however, they had proclaimed a truce.
We went out and felt that the grey sky was in harmony with the grey
tones of the town. Nevertheless Spain essentially needs sunshine to
bring out all its colouring and brilliancy. Under dark clouds it falls
for the most part flat and dead, its finest effects lost.
"The rainy season has begun," said H. C. "We are in for a spell of wet
weather. Generally it comes in September. This year it has obligingly
put it off until November. My usual ill-luck."
"I fear it is so," said Jose our host's son, who, as we have said,
volunteered to pilot us about the town and show forth its hidden
wonders--delighted to air his French and give us Spanish lessons. "We
have a weather-wise prophet who never was known to go wrong; a great
meteorologist. He has just written to the papers to say we are to have a
month's deluge."
A cheerful beginning. As it proved, they were all mistaken, but at the
moment the skies seemed to confirm the tale. All the same we would not
lose hope, which has brought many a sinking ship into harbour. So we put
on a cheerful countenance, bid them take heart of grace and their
umbrellas.
It would be invidious to enter, at the end of a chapter, upon the
wonders of the town which met us at every step and turning; but we must
record one experience before concluding. Let us close our eyes, take
flight upwards and alight at the head of that vast stone staircase with
our backs to the cathedral.
We see this morning what last night was veiled in darkness. The town
lies chiefly to our left. We overlook a sea of red and grey roofs. To
our right are the old walls with their gateways, round bastions and
irregular outlines. Near to us is a church-tower, graceful, octagonal,
excellent in design; but the upper part of its spire is gone and we can
only imagine its once perfect beauty.
Low down beyond the town lies the river, winding through a picturesque
country. We can even see the reeds and rushes that border its banks, but
cannot hear their murmur as we did last night. If Pan still pipes it is
to the pixies.
In the distance the Pyrenees are sleeping in graceful, long-drawn
undulations. Nothing can be lovelier than their outlines. Some are
snow-capped and stand out pure and white against the grey skies. A magic
picture and we long to see it under sunshine. No wonder if Pan is
silent.
We turn to the cathedral. No need to knock this morning. The great west
doors are unlocked and we enter.
The first thing to strike us is an intense obscurity; a dim religious
light deeper than we remember to have seen in any other sacred building.
But to-day the grey skies have something to answer for in this matter.
As the sight grows accustomed to the gloom, the next thing we notice is
the vastness and splendour of the nave in which we stand: a single span
seventy-three feet broad. No other church in Christendom can boast of
such a nave. Light comes in from windows high up, filled in with rich
stained glass. The tone of the walls and pillars is perfect, never
having been touched with brush or knife; a rich subdued claret
delighting the senses. Those great men of the Middle Ages made no
mistakes. Nothing was admitted to disturb their love of harmony and
proportion. They built wonders for the glory of their country and for
all time: knew and recognised one thing only--the charm of perfection.
Where they failed, their efforts were crippled; they were told to make
bricks without straw.
Without waiting at this moment to examine the church more closely, we
pass through a great doorway on the left and find ourselves in the
cloisters.
Here too is a marvellous vision. Few cloisters in the world compare with
them. The four sides are unequal, but this almost heightens their
attraction. They have been little interfered with and are almost in
their original state. The simple round arches rest on coupled pillars of
marble, slender and graceful. The capitals are extremely rich, elaborate
and delicate in their carving. Here Romanesque art seems to have been
introduced into Spain through France. The cathedrals of Catalonia are of
exceeding beauty and appear to have laid the foundation of mediaeval
Spanish art. This also, though they would deny it, is due to French
influence--happily at that time at its best and purest.
In this wonderful cloister we lost ourselves in dreams of the Middle
Ages, days which have glorified the earth, and appear almost as
necessary to us as light and air. In the centre was an ancient well,
without which no cloister seems perfect. Shrubs and trees embowered it,
and the fresh green stood out in contrast with creamy walls and
Romanesque arches.
At the end of the north passage we passed through an open porch to a
view extensive and magnificent. A steep rugged descent led to the town.
Below us was the ancient Benedictine church of San Pedro, with its
Norman doorway and cloisters scarcely less wonderful than those we had
just visited. Near it was a smaller, equally ancient church, now
desecrated and turned into a carpenter's shop. We will pay it a visit
by-and-by and make acquaintance with its sturdy owner, who passes his
days and does his work under the very shadow of sanctity. Beyond all, on
the brow of the hill outside the walls, we trace the ruins of the great
castle and citadel that so nobly stood the siege of Gerona, until the
twin spectres famine and disease stalked in hand in hand and conquered
the brave defenders.
We gazed long upon all these historical landmarks, pointed out and
explained by our guide-companion. Then turning back through the
cloisters again found ourselves lost in visions of the past as we fell
once more under the magic influence of the vast space and dim religious
light of Gerona's splendid cathedral.