MOTHER AND SON.
Demons at work--In the crowd--Ernesto and his mother--Roasted
chestnuts--Instrument of torture--New school of
anatomy--Rhine-stones or diamonds?--Happy mother--Honest
confession--Danger of edged tools--Cayenne lozenges for the
monkeys--Joseph--Early compliments--Ernesto pleads in vain--Down by
the river--Music of the reeds--Rich prospect--Faust--Singers of the
world--Joseph takes tickets--Gerona keeps late hours--Its little
great world--Between the acts--Successful evening--In the dark
night--On the bridge--Silence and solitude--Astral bodies--Joseph
turns Job's comforter--Magnetism--Delormais psychological--Alone in
the streets--Saluting the Church militant--Haunted staircase
again--Sighs and rustlings--H. C. retires--"Drink to me only with
thine eyes"--Delormais' challenge--Leads the
way--Illumination--Coffee equipage--"Only the truth is
painful"--Lost in reverie.
We were facing the wonderful arcades which still seemed haunted by
Rosalie's shadow, so vivid the impression she left behind her. It was
one of the most striking bits of Gerona the beautiful, with its massive
masonry and deep recesses requiring sunlight to relieve their mysterious
gloom.
In a few moments we stood once more on the bridge, looking upon the
remarkable scene. The demons were in full work down in the dry bed of
the river; their altars threw out tongues of flame as wood, coal and
braise mingled their elements, and the air seemed full of the scent of
roasted chestnuts.
Those marvellous houses stood on either side with their old-world
outlines and weather-beaten stains. Above them rose the towers of
Gerona's churches, sharply cutting the grey sky. To our right, the
boulevard stretched far down, with its waving, rustling trees. All the
shows were in full operation; streams of people went to and fro; the
booths were making a fortune; the Dutch auction was giving away its
wares--if the auctioneer might be relied on.
We joined the crowd and presently felt a tug at our elbow. It was
Ernesto with radiant face, his hands full of chestnuts freely offered
and accepted. We found it easy to persuade ourselves the indigestible
horrors were excellent.
"Ernesto, you are taking liberties," said his mother, as the boy took
our arm to confide his purchases. A Rhine-stone brooch for the mother,
which Mrs. Malaprop would have declared quite an object of bigotry and
virtue; a wonderful knife for himself, full of sharp blades and secret
springs. A purse capable of holding gold, and a pocket-book that would
soon become dropsical with a boy's treasures. Finally, from the
innermost recess of a trousers' pocket, he produced for an instant--a
catapult; to be held a profound secret from the mother.
"It keeps her awake at night," he confided; "and when she does get to
sleep she dreams of smashed windows and murdered cats. Now I never smash
windows, though I do go for the cats when I have a chance. It does them
no harm. If I hit them, you hear a thud like a sound from a drum--the
cats are not over-fed in these parts--but instead of tumbling down dead,
which would be exciting, they rush off like mad."
"Perhaps they die afterwards, Ernesto, of fractured liver or broken
heart."
This was at once negatived.
"Oh no, cats haven't livers and hearts like human beings. Their insides
are nothing but india-rubber. You can't kill a cat. If one fell from the
top of San Filiu, it would get up, shake its paws and run away."
We noted this revelation, intending to bring it before the Faculty on
our return to England, which evidently still gropes in Egyptian
darkness. The catapult was restored to safe depths, and before long no
doubt many a domestic tabby would be missing; there would be widowed
cats and orphaned kittens in many a household.
Then Ernesto, drawing us under an arcade out of the throng of the fair,
insisted upon fastening his mother's mantilla with the new brooch that
we might all admire the flashing stones.
"I believe they have made a mistake, and these are real diamonds," he
cried excitedly, kissing his mother and duly admiring the effect. "And I
haven't spent half my pocket-money yet."
"Thanks to you, senor," said the happy mother. "I was his first thought.
He bought me the brooch before he would look at a knife or chestnut. It
shall be kept amongst my treasures."
She was evidently almost as happy and light-hearted as the boy, her eyes
flashing with proud affection. No great care haunted her life in spite
of her conjugal good-morning.
"Confess that your lot is favoured," we said, "and you would not change
your lazy husband even if you had the chance. Confess you adore him and
are to be envied."
"Well, senor, you are not my father-confessor," she laughed, "but I will
confess to you all the same. I admit I would rather bear the ills I have
than fly to those of which I know nothing," unconsciously quoting
Shakespeare.
"Then the conjugal good-morning must be a little sweetened. It is
dangerous to play with edged tools."
Again she laughed, a laugh free from anxiety.
"We understand each other, senor. If I received him too amiably he would
not appear upon the scene till twelve o'clock. Not that I really mind;
but it is a bad example for Ernesto. The boy, however, takes after me.
Never will grass grow under his feet."
Ernesto was impatient to be off; he must certainly act up to the proverb
to-day.
"Now for the shows," cried the lad. "We are losing too much time here. I
smell roasted chestnuts, but their flavour is better. We must cross the
iron bridge to get to the shows. I want to hear the lions growl, and
administer cayenne lozenges to the monkeys. It is great fun to see them.
You must often have done the same, senor?"
We virtuously disowned the impeachment. But he was full of harmless
mischief, after the manner of boys healthy in mind and body; free and
open in his thoughts and ways.
A few minutes and we found ourselves in the market-place listening to
the clown who had used superhuman exertions last night, still
apparently in excellent health and spirits. Night was the great
harvest-time, but even now his labours were receiving fair success. The
people had got over their first glamour and were responding.
"There is Jose, your landlord's son, senor, looking to right and left,"
said madame, in the interval between two terrific trumpet blasts.
"Probably searching for you. Ah! he sees us."
The tall, slight young man was making his way through the few remaining
stalls in the market. These sold nothing but fruit and were altogether
neglected. Gerona did not shine in that department.
"I have been looking for you everywhere," said our young host as he came
up, bowing politely after the fashion of his country. "I thought, senor,
you might want me to pilot you about the town; but you are in the hands
of a fairer guide, and I am not needed."
Joseph had evidently not pursued his studies at Tours for nothing, and
was beginning early to turn compliments.
"On the contrary, we shall be glad of your company," we replied.
"Ernesto and his mother are going in to hear the lions roar and
administer delicacies to the monkeys. And having no ambition to shake in
our shoes or be taken up for cruelty to animals, we would rather explore
the antiquities of Gerona under your care. So you appear at the right
moment."
"Ah, senor, do come in," pleaded Ernesto. "I should enjoy it so much
more. And you would shriek with delight when you saw the antics of the
monkeys eating cayenne----"
"Ernesto, you are incorrigible," we interrupted, laughing. "We decline
the risk; and whilst detesting monkeys, we have a conscience. Yours
evidently has still to be awakened. But you may come and tell us your
experiences at the hotel later on--that is if you are still at large."
So the boy, taking his mother's arm, boldly mounted the steps, and with
a final happy nod, and flourishing a small packet of cayenne lozenges,
he disappeared beyond the curtain. How the lions would roar or the
monkeys receive the indignity remained to be seen. Ernesto was not
wanting in purpose and might be trusted to do his best.
We left the shows and the crowd for a moment, went round to the banks
of the river, and listened to the whispering reeds and rushes. What
repose; what a contrast to the glare and glitter and crowding of the
fair. Not a soul visible excepting the ferryman a little way up-stream,
waiting dejectedly in his boat for custom that would not come. The
rustling reeds harmonised musically with the quiet flow of the water as
it rippled and plashed on its way to the sea. To the left the plain
spread far and wide--a rich, productive country with much fair beauty
about it. Where we stood the river was broad and reflected the magic
outlines of the town, faint and subdued under the grey skies. Above the
music of the rushes we could hear the distant hum of the
pleasure-seekers, where everything was life and movement.
Presently passing the theatre, we saw "Faust" announced for that
evening. An operatic company had arrived from Barcelona. Wonders would
never cease. In this dull town, decaying remnant of Spain, there was an
Opera-house, and the tempter was to play off his wiles on beautiful
Margaret. What would the performance resemble?
"Quite a large house," said Joseph, "and a very fine one; the players
are often excellent."
Of course he judged from his own experience, which had never gone beyond
Tours; never dreamed of the great voices of the world. Who indeed could
dream of Titiens, never having heard of her? Or of Ilma di
Murska?--those stars in the world of song: not to mention Grisi and
Malibran the incomparable, of the far-gone days. Still, he spoke with
enthusiasm, and we felt we must hear this Faust and Marguerite.
"Take three tickets for to-night, Jose, and you shall point out all the
_elite_ of Gerona; the great, the good, the beautiful."
Joseph needed no second bidding. Diving through the doorway to the
office he returned with three excellent stalls. The performance was to
be fashionably late. Everything in the way of entertainment is late in
Spain, and especially in Gerona. At night the streets are soon deserted,
but people do not go to bed. They sit up in their own homes, amusing
themselves.
"It is announced for half-past eight," said Joseph, "but seldom begins
before nine."
[Illustration: OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA.]
Accordingly before eight-thirty we found ourselves in our seats waiting
the lifting of the curtain. The house was nearly empty, though it was
within five minutes of the appointed hour. Not a sign of any orchestra.
We feared a cold reception and a dead failure.
"Not at all," said Joseph. "It is always the same. Before nine o'clock
the house will be full, with hardly an empty seat anywhere."
So it proved. About twenty minutes to nine the orchestra streamed in and
took their places, laughed, talked and made jokes, as if the
audience--now quickly appearing--had been so many cabbage-stalks. In
various parts of the house there were notices forbidding smoking; but
the musicians lighted their abominable pipes and cigars without
ceremony, and soon ruined the atmosphere. We wondered how this would
affect the singers, and when they came on they coughed, sneezed, and
looked reproachful.
It was a large, well-appointed house, of excellent proportions. Half the
town might surely find room here. Curtains and all such elements
disturbing to the voice were conspicuous by their absence. Before nine
o'clock every seat was filled, as Joseph had foretold.
Between the acts we were able to survey the little world of Gerona. Many
clearly thought themselves members of a great world. Humility was not
their leading virtue. From the construction of the house, every one was
very much in evidence, and from our places in the front stalls we saw
and heard perfectly. "Monarchs of all we survey," said H. C. after a
long stare in all directions. "No, I don't quite mean that; it would be
slightly embarrassing. I mean that we survey everything as though we
were monarchs. It comes to the same."
Every species of temperament was represented; the solemn and sober,
excited and flirting, prude and profligate. Extremes met. Some of the
ladies made play with their eyes and fans, were full of small gestures
and rippling laughter. Many were dressed "in shimmer of satin and
pearls," their white arms and necks very decolletes. Thus we had both a
play and an opera. It was quite as amusing to study the audience between
the acts, as to watch the drama upon the stage. Ladies were admitted to
the stalls, and the house looked more civilised in consequence. Many of
the men in this polite Spain sat with their hats on until the curtain
drew up. Altogether the house presented a very lively appearance.
"Who would have thought it!" said H. C. "The place overflows with wealth
and rank. These people might be dukes and duchesses--and look the
character much more than many of our 'Coronets and Norman blood.' Yet as
we passed Gerona in the train it seemed nothing but an encampment for
beggars. Beggars? Let me apologise. Beggars would want something more
recherche. In these days that flourishing profession dines at eight
o'clock and sleeps on down."
In the foyer, between one of the acts, we came into closer contact with
this aristocratic crowd.
It was a very large long room, gorgeously fitted up; great mirrors
giving back full-length reflections. Few ladies honoured it with their
presence, but a crowd of short, dark, handsome Spaniards went to and
fro, smoking cigarettes, wildly gesticulating about Margaret, abusing
the unfortunate Siebel, openly passing their opinions upon the ladies of
the audience. Mixing freely amongst them we heard many an amusing remark
upon people we were able to identify on returning to our seats. At the
end of the third act we began to feel like old habitues. A week in
Gerona and we should be familiar with every one's history.
"A happy thought, coming here to-night," said H. C. "I am now quite at
home amongst these people, and should like to call upon some of them
to-morrow. That exquisite creature, for instance, with the lovely eyes,
perfect features, and complexion of a blush rose. I believe--yes, I am
sure--look--she is gazing at me with a very sweet expression!"
He was growing excited. We grasped his arm with a certain magnetic touch
which recalled him to himself. Keepers have this influence on their
patients.
"Look at the old woman next to her," he went on indignantly. "Can she be
the mother of that lovely girl? She ought to blush for herself. Her
dress-bodice ends at the waist. And behind her fan she is actually
ogling a toothless old wretch who has just sat down near her."
Here, fortunately, the curtain went up, and H. C.'s emotions passed into
another channel.
[Illustration: STREET IN GERONA.]
The performance had equalled our modest expectations. One must not be
too critical. If Faust was contemptible and Siebel impossible, Margaret
and Mephistopheles saved all from failure. She was pretty and refined,
with a certain touching pathos that appealed to her hearers. She sang
with grace, too, but her voice was made for nothing larger than a
drawing-room, and when the orchestra crashed out the dramatic parts, we
had to imagine a great deal.
Siebel was the great stumbling-block and burlesque; her singing and
acting so excruciating that when the audience ought to have melted to
tears they laughed aloud. When Valentine died she clasped her hands, not
in despair but admiration of the fine performance, looked at the
audience as much as to say, "Would you not like him to get up and die
again?" and when his body was carried off, skipped after it, as though
assisting at some May-day frolic.
Faust was beneath criticism, and one felt angry with Margaret for
falling in love with him. In reality she must have hated him.
Mephistopheles, on the contrary, was admirable, and would have done
honour to Her Majesty's in the days of Titiens and Trebelli.
The "Old Men's Chorus" was crowning triumph of the performance. Three
decrepit objects came forward and quavered through their song. When it
was ended the audience insisted upon having it all over again, whilst
they kept up a running accompaniment of laughter, in which the old men
joined as they retreated into the background.
Altogether it was a successful evening. Every one left in good humour,
and many were charmed.
We went out into the night, glad to exchange the atmosphere. It looked
doubly dark after the brilliancy of the house. Every light was out,
every house buried in profound slumber. We turned to the bridge, and
stood there until all the playgoers had streamed homewards, and silence
and solitude reigned. Once more the chestnut-roasters had departed and
their sacrificial altars were cold and dead. Down the boulevard not a
creature was visible. Stalls and booths were closed, torches
extinguished. The leaves of the trees gently rustled and murmured in the
night wind. We almost felt as though we still saw Ernesto and his mother
walking up and down in close companionship. It must have been their
astral bodies. Both no doubt were slumbering, and perhaps the same
vision haunted their dreams; broken windows and four-footed
victims--seen from different points of view.
In the firmament a great change had taken place. The clouds had rolled
away; not a vapour large as a man's hand remained to be seen; stars
shone clear and brilliant; the Great Bear ploughed his untiring way,
and Orion, dipping westward, was closely followed by his faithful
Sirius. All seemed to promise fair weather.
"What do you think of it, Joseph? Is your weatherwise astronomer for
once proving a false prophet?"
"It looks like it," replied Joseph, gazing north and south. "No man is
infallible," philosophically. "But our prophet has never been wrong yet,
and I expect you will find the skies weeping in the morning."
"You are a Job's comforter, and ought to be called Bildad the Shuhite.
Was not he the worst of the three, and would have the last word?"
Joseph shook his head. He was not acquainted with the Book of Job.
"I am jealous for the honour of my prophet," he laughed.
Standing on the bridge, we could see the dark flowing water beneath--a
narrow shallow stream here, which reflected the flashing stars. The
houses were steeped in gloom, all their quaint, old-world aspect hidden
away. The night was growing apace, and it suddenly occurred to us that
we had made a half-engagement with Delormais to hear passages from his
life. Would he hold us to it? Or would reflection have brought a change
of plans and an early pillow?
Surely there is a mental or psychological magnetism about people,
neither realised nor understood, never sufficiently taken into account.
As the thought flashed over us, a tall dark form in long cloak and round
hat, full of dignity and power, turned the corner and approached the
bridge. It was the priest.
"I knew it!" he cried in that sonorous voice which was like a deep and
mellow diapason. "An unseen influence guided me to the bridge. You told
me you were going to the opera. I felt that when it was over you would
come here star-gazing and lose yourselves in this wonderful scene. And
here, had I not sought you out, you would have remained another hour,
forgetting the engagement to which I hold you."
"Nay, at this very moment recollection came to us," we returned. "We
were wondering whether for once you had changed your mind and sought an
early repose."
"My approach influenced you," said Delormais: "work of the magnetic
power constantly passing to and fro between kindred spirits, as real as
it is little estimated. No one believed in it more firmly than Goethe,
who in spite of his contradictory life was in close touch with the
supernatural. And amongst my own people, how many have declared the
reality of this mysterious link between the material and spiritual. Even
sceptical Voltaire admitted some invisible influence he could not
analyse. Sceptical? Will you persuade me a man with so terrible a
death-bed was ever sceptic at heart? It is impossible. But how could you
think I should change my mind and forget my engagement? Uncertainty
plays no part either in your character or mine. Let us to our rooms.
There you will lend me your ears, and I will brew you black coffee to
refresh you after your evening's dissipation. And if you like you shall
bring your century-old flask, and I will not read you a homily. Or was
it only the contents of the flask that was a century old?"
The hotel was at hand. We four alone possessed the street and awoke the
silent echoes. Always excepting the ubiquitous old watchmen, who seemed
to spend half their time in gazing at the great doorway, flashing weird
lights and shadows with their lanterns. These they now turned upon us,
but recognising the ecclesiastical figure, quickly lowered their lights,
turned the spears of their staffs to the ground, and gave a military
salute.
"As a member of the Church Militant such a greeting is perhaps not out
of place," he laughed. "No general on this earth ever fought more
valiantly than I to gain battles--but the weapons are wide as the
issues. They fight for an earthly, I for a heavenly kingdom."
He spoke a few words to the watchmen; bade them be strong and of good
courage; and we fancied--we were not quite certain--that he glided a
small token of good-will into their hands.
Then we crossed the road, entered the courtyard, and passed up the broad
marble staircase.
It was the hour for ghosts and shadows and unearthly sounds. Again we
thought of the rich and rare crowd that had passed up and down in
sacques and swords in the centuries gone by; every one of whom had long
been a ghost and shadow in its turn. Again we saw clearly as in a vision
that last happy pair who had separated--he to find death on the
battlefield, she to rejoin him in the Land o' the Leal. Distinctly we
heard the rustle of the gown, the fervency of their last embrace, the
sighs that came in quick succession. So easily imagination runs away
with us.
We were awakened to realities by Jose, who, heavy-eyed and dreamy, was
politely wishing us good-night, hardly wakeful enough to reach his room.
"I will follow his example," said H. C. "The air of Gerona conduces to
slumber. I verily believe you never sleep. To-morrow I shall hear that
the good father's confessions terminated with the breakfast hour. Ah! I
shall miss the black coffee--but I have a flask of my own, though its
contents have nothing to do with the centuries."
Then Delormais turned to us, his eyes full of kindly solicitude.
"Are you equal to a vigil? Is it not too bad, after your hard day's
work--pleasure is often labour--to ask you to give an old man an hour or
two from your well-earned slumbers? Do you not also find the air of
Gerona conducive to sleep? I warn you that at the first sign of drooping
eyelid I dismiss the assembly."
"A challenge! Never was sleep less desired. Though the breakfast hour
finds us here, as H. C. foretells, there shall be no want of attention.
But do not forget the black coffee!"
We heard H. C.'s receding echoes through the labyrinthine passages; the
closing of a door; then a voice gently elevated in song, utterly
oblivious of small hours and unconscious neighbours. "Drink to me only
with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine," it warbled; "leave but a
kiss within the cup, and I'll ne'er ask for wine."
Here recollection seemed to come to the voice; an open window looking on
to a passage was softly closed, and all was silent. H. C. was evidently
thinking of the charming face he had seen at the opera, all the more
lovely and modest contrasted with the shameless old woman at its side.
Delormais led the way through the corridors. His light threw weird
shadows around. A distant clock struck the hour of one. The hush in the
house was ghostly. The very walls seemed pregnant with the secrets of
the past. They had listened to mighty dramas political and domestic;
heard love-vows made only to be broken; absorbed the laughter of joy and
the tears of sorrow. All this they now appeared to be giving out as we
went between them, treading quietly on marble pavement sacred to the
memory of the dead.
We entered Delormais' sitting-room. At once he turned up two lamps, and
lighting some half-dozen candles produced an illumination.
"One of my weaknesses," he said. "I love to take night walks and lose
myself in thought under the dark starlit skies, but that is quite
another thing. In my room I must have brilliancy."
"When you are a bishop you will so indulge this weakness that your
palace will be called a Shining Light, its lord a Beacon of the Church."
A peculiar smile passed over the face of Delormais. We did not
understand it at the moment, but knew its meaning later on.
Then he brought forward the coffee equipage, for which, if truth must be
told, though slumber was never farther from us, we were grateful.
"I had it all prepared by our amiable host, and I have my own
spirit-lamp, without which I never travel," said the priest. "There are
times when I visit the most uncivilised, hope-forgotten places, and if I
had not a few accessories with me, should fare badly."
The water soon boiled, an aromatic fragrance spread through the room;
the clear black coffee was poured into white porcelain cups.
"But where is the supplement? I do not see the century-old flask," said
Delormais.
"That is sacred to headache--or the charm would go; there are other
fixed rules besides the Persian laws."
"I am glad to hear it. Then after all my little homily this morning was
not needed. That is why you took it so amiably. Only the truth is
painful."
He placed for us a comfortably cushioned armchair near the table, and
one for himself. Our coffee equipage was between us, the steaming
incense rising. A shaded lamp threw its rays upon the white china and
crimson cloth, gently illumined the intellectual and refined face of
Delormais. We could note every play of the striking features, every
flash of the large dark eyes.
A sudden stillness came over him; he seemed lost in profound thought,
his eyes took a deep, dreamy, far-away look. They were gazing into the
past, and saw a crowd of events and people who had lived and moved and
had their being, but were now invisible to all but the mental vision.
The hands--firm, white, well-shaped and made for intellectual work--were
spread out and met at the tips of the long slender fingers. The legs
were crossed, bringing into prominence a shapely foot and ankle set off
by a thin well-fitting shoe. In all matters of personal appointment
Delormais was refined and fastidious.
For some minutes he appeared thus absorbed in mental retrospect. The man
of life and energy had suddenly changed to contemplation. Apparently he
had forgotten our presence, and the silence of the room was profound.
One almost heard the rising of the incense from the coffee-cups, as it
curled upwards in fantastic forms and devices, and died out. We were
motionless as himself. Not ours to break the silence, though it grew
strained. We had come to listen, and waited until the spirit moved him.
Nor had we to wait long. He roused himself from his reverie; the dreamy
light passed out of his eyes; his spirit seemed to come back to earth as
he turned to us with a penetrating, kindly gaze.