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
reasserts 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 pronounces 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.
Here people from the hot towns spend the months of summer, exchanging in
this hill-enclosed valley one species of confinement for another. It was
the perfection of quiet life, no sound disturbing the air but the
falling water. Not a soul was visible; the lifeless village, like Rip
Van Winkle, seemed enjoying a long sleep. We might have been a phantom
train in a phantom world. Though the train stopped at the little
station, no one got in or out--no one but the postman, who silently
exchanged attenuated letter-bags. Evidently the correspondence of this
enchanted place was not extensive. Not here were wars planned or
treaties signed.
[Illustration: MONISTROL.]
Away we went again and now began to ascend. Every moment widened our
view and added to its splendour. Until recently all this had to be
done by coach, a journey of many hours of courageous struggling. Now the
whole thing is over in three-quarters of an hour, and it is good to feel
that all the hard work is done mechanically. We had once gone through
something similar in the Hex River Valley of South Africa, but in the
Montserrat journey there was a more romantic element; the charm and
glamour surrounding antiquity, the keen human interest attached to a
religious institution dating from past ages. We easily traced the old
zigzag carriage road up which horses had once toiled and struggled.
Almost as zigzag was our present road, winding about like forked flashes
of lightning.
The scene was almost appalling. Before us the ponderous Mons Serratus,
with all its cracks and fissures, ready to fall and reduce the earth to
powder. Its sharp, fantastic peaks against the clear sky looked like the
ruins of some mighty castle. The mountain rises four thousand feet high
and is twenty-four miles in circumference--a grey, barren mass of
tertiary conglomerate, an overwhelming amount of rock upon rock
seemingly thrown and piled against each other. In all directions are
enormous canyons and gorges with precipitous ravines; one rent dividing
the range having occurred, it is said, at the hour of the Crucifixion.
No eye has ever penetrated the depths below.
Far up the mountain reposes the monastery, with its dependencies and
cultivated gardens. Every new zigzag took us a little nearer than the
last. Very high up we stopped at another small station. No doubt some
sequestered nook held an unseen village, for again the old postman
silently exchanged letter-bags.
He was a fine specimen of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey
hairs and rugged features witnessed to a long and possibly active life.
The head was cast in a splendid mould, to which the face corresponded.
Such a man ought to have made his mark in the world. That he should end
his days in playing postman to the monks of Montserrat seemed a sorry
conclusion. The times must have got out of joint with him. As a leader
in parliament or head of some great financial house, his appearance
would have assured success. There must be a story behind this exterior,
a mystery to unravel. But physiognomy seldom errs, and the expression
of the face spoke in favour of honest purpose.
He was a notable man, a man to be observed passing him on life's
highway. For a time we watched him closely. There was a certain
unconscious dignity about him. His remarks to the conductor were above
the chatter of ordinary people. Our carriage was a third class, though
we had lavishly taken first; but in those small, closed compartments
nothing could be seen. This carriage was large, open, airy; we breathed,
and were in touch with our surroundings; our fellow-travellers were also
more interesting than the turtle-doves who occupied the luxurious
compartment in a blissful _solitude a deux_.
They were few and characteristic. First the conductor, who varied the
monotony of his going by paying visits to the engine-driver and leaving
the train to look after itself. Next, our postman, the study of whom
would have been lost in any other compartment. Then a stout lady, who
wore a hat that was quite a flower-garden, and substantial seven-leagued
boots; a large basket laden with small nick-nacks was very much in
evidence, to which she clung affectionately, and one felt it was all her
living.
This modest pedlar was on her way to Montserrat to dispose of her
stock-in-trade--not to the monks, who could have no interest in
housewifes and pocket-mirrors, but amongst the visitors. A humble
peasant, with an honest, upright look in her dark eyes; a certain
patient resignation in their expression which often comes to those who
live from day to day, uncertain whether the morrow will bring fast or
feasting. She sat at the end of the large square carriage, under the
short bit of roofing. Here the magnificent surroundings were less seen,
but what mattered? She was of those to whom the realities of life mean
much more than the beauties of nature.
Next came a military policeman duly accompanied by his gun and cocked
hat, on his way to a three months' duty at Montserrat.
Thus the carriage contained a poet, who could be on occasion a Napoleon;
a man of letters, though apparently of letters limited; an armed
Government official of more or less exalted rank; a lady-merchant
representing the great world of commerce; and a humble individual who,
like Lost Lenore, shall be "nameless here for evermore;" all personally
conducted by a paid menial who neglected his duty and jeopardised the
lives of his passengers. No merit to him that the journey passed without
accident, but a great escape for ourselves.
Of this small group of Catalonians, our postman alone was of the higher
type and by far the most interesting.
"I see you are not of our country, senor," he remarked after exchanging
letter-bags at the last station. "Your interest in the journey proves
you unfamiliar with it. You may well marvel at this stupendous miracle
of nature."
"We marvel at everything. The whole scene is overpowering. And, if we
may venture to say so, you are yourself an enigma. In England we have a
proverb which speaks of a round man in a square hole; might it not
almost be applied to you?"
"In other words, you pay me the compliment of saying that I magnify my
office," quickly returned the postman. "Well, it is true that I was not
born to this, but it is not every one who has the wit to find it out. My
father was an officer in the Spanish navy, and in the navy my first
years of labour were spent. And now I am playing at postman--to such
base uses do we come. Yet is my calling honourable.
"You would ask how I fell from my high estate, and politeness withholds
the question. In reply I can only quote the old saying, _cherchez la
femme_. They say that a woman is at the bottom of all mischief, and I
believe it. On the other hand, there is no doubt that at her best she is
a divinity. No, sir; I perceive what you would say; but I have nothing
questionable to disclose; no intrigues or complications, or anything of
that sort.
"My father died when I was twenty. He had been made admiral, and lived
to enjoy his rank just four months. Unfortunately, all Admiral Alvarez
had to bequeath to his son was his good name. Of fortune he had none.
You will say that a good name is the greatest of all inheritance, and so
it is; and a young man with health, strength, and a noble profession
before him should be independent of fortune. I quite agree with you. But
there are exceptions, and the exceptions are those who are born under a
conjunction of stars against which there is no fighting. If I had lived
in the days of the Egyptians I should have been an astrologer, for I
believe there is something in the science. Right or wrong, it possesses
a mysterious fascination.
"At twenty-one I married, apparently with discretion. The lady I chose
was young, handsome, and owned a fortune. Without the latter matrimony
for me would have been a dream. My lieutenant's pay, which hardly
sufficed for one, would have reduced two to the necessity of living upon
love, air, or any other ethereal ingredient that may be had for nothing.
"For a time all went merrily. We were both well-favoured by
Nature--perhaps I may be allowed to speak thus of myself when life is
closing in--and fortune seemed to have been equally considerate. It was,
however, too good to last. As I have said, I was not born under a lucky
star. All through life I have just missed great opportunities. Even as a
child I can remember that the ripe apples never fell to my share. If we
drew lots for anything I was always next the winning number and might as
well have drawn the lowest. My father, who really ought to have left me
something in the way of patrimony, left me only his blessing.
"Well, senor, my wife, I repeat, was young and handsome. She was fond of
gaiety, and having the _entree_ to a very fine society, her taste for
pleasure was easily gratified. She became extravagant, and gradually
fell into a state of nervous excitement which required constant
dissipation. I was often away from home with my vessel, but not for long
absences. They were, however, sufficiently frequent to render me
careless and unsuspicious as to the true state of our finances. When I
really learned this, it was too late. We were ruined. And not only
ruined, but overwhelmed in debt.
"In the first moment of horror I bitterly upbraided my wife. She, poor
thing, took her misfortunes and my anger so much to heart that she fell
into a consumption, and died in less than a year. I was so affected by
my troubles--more, I believe, for the loss of my wife, whom I really
loved, than for the loss of my income--that I fell for a time into a
despondent frame of mind. I had felt compelled to retire from my
profession--a man in a state of debt and bankruptcy had no right to be
holding a royal commission--and my enforced idleness did not help to
mend matters. At length life, health, and youth--I was not yet
thirty--asserted themselves. Melancholy flew away; energy, a wish to be
up and doing something, returned.
"I looked around me. The prospect was a sad one. There was nothing to be
done. No one wanted me.
"At length fortune, tired of frowning upon me, smiled awhile. I fell in
with an old friend of my father's, a wealthy coffee-planter in Ceylon.
He had come over for a holiday to his native country. For the father's
sake, for the sake of old times and the days of his youth, he was kind
to the son. He sympathised with my sorrows, which were not of my own
making. About to return to Ceylon, he offered me a certain partnership
in his business, promising greater things if I remained.
"How thankfully I turned my back upon Spain, the land of all my
misfortunes, I could never say. I began a new and prosperous life in a
new country. In course of time my old friend died, and I became senior
partner in a flourishing concern. For twenty-five years I remained out
in Ceylon. I had made a considerable fortune, and you will think that I
had probably married again. No, senor. I gave up my life to work, and
would not a second time tempt fate.
"At last, after an absence of a quarter of a century, a feeling crept
over me that had every symptom of _mal du pays_. As this increased, I
realised my possessions and returned to my own country, a rich man. But,
alas! youth had fled. Wealth did not now mean for me what it had meant
at five-and-twenty. The first thing I did was to pay up all my debts
with interest, and to stand a free, honourable and honoured man. What
surprised me most was the comparative smallness of the sum which in the
hour of our misfortunes I had thought so formidable.
"And now, senor, do you think that I could let well alone: or, rather,
that fortune could still turn to me a smiling face? It seemed as though
the land of my birth--my mother country--was to bring me nothing but
sorrow. In searching to place my capital, and remembering that you
should not have all your eggs in one basket, I invested some of it in
certain bank shares. It was a flourishing concern, paying a steady nine
per cent. That it should be unlimited was a matter of no importance. So
prosperous a company could never fail. Yet, senor, in less than a year,
fail it did for an amount which swept away every penny of my fortune,
and left me stranded high and dry on the shores of adversity.
"This time my ruin was more complete than before, for I was getting old
and could not begin life afresh. Yet--perhaps for that very reason--I
felt it less, and bore it philosophically. I had brought no one down in
my reverses. There was no one to upbraid me, and more than ever I felt
thankful that I had never married again. I obtained a situation in the
Post Office of a light description, which would just enable me to live.
Three years ago, a small windfall came to me: a sum of money that,
safely invested, assures me comfortable bread and cheese for the
remainder of my days. No more flourishing banks with unlimited
liabilities. And now here I am, in daily charge of the mail-bags between
Monistrol and Montserrat. A humble office you will say, but not ignoble.
After the free life of Ceylon, with all its magnificent scenery, I felt
it impossible to live shut up in a town, and especially requested this
post might be given me. In the midst of this wild grandeur, which really
somehow reminds me of parts of Ceylon, I am happy and contented. Bricks
and mortar are my abomination; they weigh upon one's soul and crush out
one's vital power. I love to breathe the morning air with the lark. At
best I can live but a few years more, and I will not spend them in
regretting the past. On the whole, I consider that I am rather to be
envied than pitied. That I am no longer obliged to work for my bread
gives an additional zest to my occupation.--We are approaching
Montserrat. Is it not a sublime scene?"
It was indeed nothing less. We rose above the vast magnificent valley,
until at last it looked dream-like and intangible. We seemed to overhang
bottomless precipices. On a plateau of the great mountain reposed the
monastery and its dependencies. Luxuriant gardens flourished, paradise
of the monks--a strange contrast of barren rocks and rich verdure. Here
dwelt a wonderful little world of its own, never deserted even in
winter, and in summer crowded with people who spend hours, days, weeks
breathing the mountain air, living a life of absolute freedom from all
restraint.
No monastery can be more romantically placed; perhaps none ever equalled
it; yet of late years some of its romance and beauty has disappeared.
The lovely old buildings that were a dream of Gothic and Norman
refinement, of architectural perfection, have given place to new and
hideous outlines. Nothing remains to show the glory of what has been but
one side of a cloister through whose pointed arches you gaze upon a
perfect Norman doorway--a dream-vision. A railway has brought Montserrat
into touch with the world, and to accommodate the crowd of visitors, a
new Hospederia has been built containing a thousand rooms, resembling an
immense and very hideous prison. The passages are long, dark, narrow and
cold. Rooms open on each side--single rooms and sets of rooms. The
latter are furnished with a kitchen; so that a family or party of
friends may come here with bag and baggage, pots, pans and all kitchen
equipage, servants included, and encamp for as long or as short a time
as may please them.
Our train stopped at the little station under the very shadow of the
mountain. This was the more crowded part of the settlement, and on the
left we noticed what looked like a party of gipsies encamped, enjoying
an open air feast with much laughter and merriment. The monastery
buildings were at the other end of the plateau.
We left the station under the pilotage of our friend the postman,
carrying his mail-bag. Before us, raised on a terrace, was a long row of
buildings old and new, of every shape and size. These were the
dependencies, and helped to form the little world of Montserrat.
Towering behind, up into the skies, were the precipitous sides, peaks
and pinnacles of the great mountain.
"There lies the Post Office," said our man of letters, "and that is my
destination. If you have any intention of remaining the night, you
should first pay a visit to the little house on the right. The funny
little monk who attends to visitors will receive you, conduct you to the
Hospederia and give you rooms. In summer every room is often occupied to
overflowing, but now you will have the place to yourselves--you and the
ghosts--for I maintain that it is haunted. I will not say farewell,
senor; we shall frequently meet during the day. There is small choice of
ways in this little settlement; but for all that you will find that
Montserrat is one of the glories of Spain."
He went his way, and we wondered what news from the outer world could
now have any interest for the monks who were as dead to that world as
though they reposed under their nameless graves in the little cemetery.