IN THE CLOISTERS OF SAN PABLO.
In the cloisters--Sacred geese--Bishop's palace--House of the
Inquisition--Striking quadrangles--_Ajimez_ windows--A rare
cloister--Desecration--Library--Rare MSS.--Polite
librarian--Romantic atmosphere--Santa Maria del Mar--Cloisters of
Santa Anna--Sister of Mercy--San Pablo del Campo--More dream
cloisters--Communing with ghosts and shadows--Spring and
winter--Constant visitor--Centenarian--Chief architect--Cathedrals
of Catalonia--Barbarous town-council--Hard fight and
victory--Failing vision--Emblems of death--Laid aside--Wholesome
lessons--Placing the keystone--Finis--_Resurgam_--Charmed
hour--Possessing the soul in patience--City of Refuge.
Every succeeding visit to Barcelona has confirmed our love and reverence
for its cathedral. Toledo, Burgos and all the greater cathedrals pale
before the charm of its rare beauty and refined splendour.
It could only be that such a cathedral had corresponding cloisters, and
passing through the south doorway, we accordingly found ourselves in
another old-world dream; but with the blue sky for canopy, and with no
mysterious recesses or hidden depths.
Exception has been taken to the detail of the cloisters, but as a whole
they are amongst the most effective in existence. Gothic arches, large
and beautiful, rested upon fluted pillars whose capitals very much
resemble those of the interior; an enchanted land and an architectural
revelation. The garden was full of orange trees and flowers not too
carefully tended, so that a certain wild beauty, all the contrast of the
green with the ancient stone and wonderful outlines, charmed the vision.
Plashing fountains caught the sunbeams and threw rainbow drops into the
air.
In a corner of the enclosure behind the iron railings some sacred geese
intruded upon the sanctity of the precincts. The piety of these ungainly
birds had to be taken for granted. They were aggressive, and hissed if
only one ventured to look at them. Nothing could be more strangely out
of place in a scene so beautiful and full of repose, and for which with
all their sacredness they evidently had no veneration. Life passed
lazily; they grew monstrously fat, and we wondered if at a certain age
they disappeared for the benefit of the Bishop's table: other geese
taking their place in the cloistered garden. No one could tell us
anything about them, but the people seemed to think them indispensable
to the welfare of the town.
Here we found the best view of the exterior. Through lovely and graceful
arches which framed in the picture, one caught the pointed windows of
the nave with their rich tracery, above which rose the decorated
belfries with pierced parapets.
But the immediate surroundings were also exceptionally interesting.
South of the cloister is the Bishop's palace, with a quadrangle
ornamented with some fine Romanesque arcading and moulding. North, is an
immense fifteenth-century barrack built for a palace, and given over to
the Secret Inquisition by the Catholic monarchs. The Casa Consistorial
and Casa de la Disputacion, though much altered, retain splendid traces
of fourteenth-century work. The quadrangles are striking, though one has
been much spoilt; and the _ajimez_ windows with their slender columns,
capitals and arches are full of grace.
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.
[Illustration: 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
passages in records that in any way referred to Great Britain.
[Illustration: 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 passed
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.
[Illustration: 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 buttress 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-glass 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 cumbered 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 passed 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.