A HIDDEN GENIUS.
Monk's face--Superfluous virtue--"Welcome to Montserrat"--Mean
advantage--Exacting but not mercenary--Another Miguel--Missing
keys--Singular monk--Hospederia--Uncertainty--Monk's idea of
luxury--Rare prospect--Haunted by silence--Father Salvador
privileged--Monk sees ghosts--Under Miguel's escort--In the
church--Departed glory--The black image--Gothic and Norman
outlines--Franciscan monk or ghost?--Vision of the past--Days of
persecution--Sensible image--Great community--Harmony of the
spheres--Sad cypresses--Life of a hermit--Monk's story--Loving the
world--Penitence--Plucked from the burning--Talent developed--A
world apart--False interest--Salvador--Temptation and a
compromise--Salvador extemporises--"All the magic of the
hour"--Salvador's belief--Waiting for manifestations.
We turned to the right, and entering the building indicated, passed into
a bare, unfurnished room. Through a square hole in the wall, not unlike
a buttery-hatch, a monk's face peered at us with large coal-black eyes,
startling in their effect; a small, spare monk, with unshaven face,
round head and black hair, habited in the ugly dress of the Jesuit
order. It struck us rather unpleasantly that everything about him was
black, not the eyes and hair only. He evidently belonged to a sect who
thought washing superfluous, if not sinful.
"Ah!" he exclaimed in quite friendly tones. "Welcome to Montserrat! I am
very happy to see you."
"We might be chums of a lifetime," said H. C., shuddering, as the
well-disposed ecclesiastic advanced a dusky hand; for we saw it coming
and meanly put him in the foreground. In spite of his Napoleon manner,
he had to shake it. The little monk was not to be frowned down.
"I am very happy to see you," he repeated. "You are welcome. Our
visitors are few at this time of the year. Every visitor adds his quota
to our common fund. However small, it is acceptable. Do not think me
mercenary. The fathers and brothers must live, and they do a great deal
of good. Even up here, out of the world, you have no idea how much may
be done. And we have many branches. But the beauty of Montserrat is
supreme, and you know that it is world-wide. Now you want rooms,"
continued the eloquent little monk. "I will go across with you to the
Hospederia. But first you must record your names in this book. Miguel,"
to a young man in attendance, "where are the keys? They are not here.
Why are they not here? How often am I to report you to the
Father-Superior for carelessness?"
The keys were guiltily produced by Miguel.
"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 butter for a month. As it is, I
must overlook it, I suppose; you are so very fond of butter. 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 mass 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 assemblage of vale,
mountain and river could hardly be surpassed. 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
butter, 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.
[Illustration: 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 mass. 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 passages 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
attitude 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, passed 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 passed 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 glass 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
assembled 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 mass, 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
assemblage 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.
[Illustration: 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 institution 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.
Passing through the great quadrangle, we entered a narrow passage
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
buttresses 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. Canyons
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 passed 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.
[Illustration: 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 pass 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."
[Illustration: 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 passionately 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 passages, 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.
"I know it," replied the monk, whose new name he told us was Salvador.
"It is a world apart and savours of the mysterious. It possesses also a
certain mystic element. Thus the atmosphere surrounding it is romantic
and picturesque, appealing strongly to the imagination. Sympathy goes
out to the little band of men who have bound themselves together by a
vow, forsaken the world and given up all for religion. But if you were
called upon to share that life only for a month, all its supposed
mystery and charm would disappear. It only exists in the sentiment of
the thing, not in the reality. It lies in the beauty of the solitary
mountains in which the monasteries are often placed; or the splendid
architecture they occasionally preserve. In the dull monotony of a daily
round never varied, you would learn to dread the lonely cell--even as I
once dreaded it more than death itself. Hence my freedom. It will soon
be our refectory hour," looking at a small silver watch he carried
beneath his robe. "I must return or fast."
Then there came to us a bright idea. "Why leave us?" we said. "Or if you
must do so now, why not return? Would you not be allowed to dine with us
this evening? You would tell us of your past life before you became a
monk, and of your life since then. It must contain much that is
interesting. In the evening shadows you would guide us about the
mountain paths, tell us of the evil days that fell upon the monks and
their flight into the hills."
Salvador the monk smiled. "You tempt me sorely," he replied. "I should
like it much. Such a proposal has never been made to me since I put on
cloak and cowl. It would be like a short return to the world--a backward
glance into the life that is dead and buried. Then imagine the contrast
between your sumptuous repast and the bread and sweet herbs with which
we keep our bodies alive. I fear it would not be wise to awaken
memories. No, I must not think of it. But to-night I shall dream that I
have been to a banquet and walked with you in quiet paths, taking sweet
counsel. Oh, I am tempted. What a break in my life to spend a whole day
with you, and become once more, as it were, a citizen of the world! But
I will make a compromise. If you go up the mountain to-morrow morning to
see the sun rise, I will accompany you. Though a fast day, I can do
this; and I may take a modest breakfast with you."
This decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to
deny him. He folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart.
"You will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though
to-day I may not ask you to pass beyond."
So we wended back through the arches in the narrow passage between the
hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. We reached
the great quadrangle, lonely and deserted.
"Let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "I will show you our
little private door."
The great building was silent and empty. Our footsteps woke weird echoes
in the distant aisles. Salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door
of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we passed into the
choir.
"Here we attend mass," said our guide; "a small community of monks,
though I am more often at the organ. In days gone by, when they numbered
nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful institution--a
magnificent sight and sound. No need then to add to the funds by
teaching. All the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are
more useful. Nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its
repose is no longer unbroken. With a railroad at our very doors, who
can say that we are now out of the world? Ah!" as a man crossed the
choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. Would you like me
to give you some music?"
"It would be enchanting. But your repast--would you not lose it?"
"I have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for
the end." He beckoned to the man, who approached. "Hugo, have you
dined?"
"Si, Padre Salvador."
"Then come and blow for me a little."
He bade us seat ourselves in the stalls, where the organ was best heard.
We listened to their receding footsteps ascending the winding staircase
leading to the organ loft. In a few minutes we had lost all sense of
outward things. The loveliest, softest, most entrancing music went
stealing through the great building. Salvador was evidently
extemporising. All his soul was passing into melody. Divine harmonies
succeeded each other in one continued flow. It was music full of
inspiration, such as few mortals could produce; fugitive thoughts more
beautiful by reason of their spontaneity than any matured composition
ever given to the world. Here indeed was a genius.
Never but once before had we heard such playing. Many years had gone by
since one evening on the Hardanger Fjord, we glided through the water
under the moonlight and listened to such strains as Beethoven himself
could not have equalled. Many a hand oft-clasped in those days lies cold
and dead; life has brought its disillusions; the world has changed; but
even as we write the glamour of that moonlit night surrounds us, those
matchless strains still ring in our ears, lifting us once more to
paradise.
This monk's music brought back all those past impressions; "all the
sorrow and the sighing, all the magic of the hour." We listened
spell-bound, enraptured; and again we were in paradise. No wonder he
inspired his pupils to accomplish the impossible. It lasted only a
quarter of an hour, but during that time we never stirred hand or foot,
scarcely breathed. Ordinary life was suspended; we were conscious only
of soul and spirit. When this divine influence ceased we were hardly
aware of the silence that succeeded. The monk had thrown us into a
trance from which it was difficult to awaken. Only when his cloaked and
cowled figure once more entered the choir and quietly approached us did
we rouse to a sense of outward things.
"I see my music has pleased you," he said. "I do not affect to
depreciate its power, since it influences me no less than others. For
the time being I am lost to myself. All my soul seems expressing
thoughts that words could never utter. No credit is due to me for a
power outside and beyond me. The moment I sit down to the organ, Saint
Cecilia takes possession of me, and I merely follow whither she leads.
Of all arts, it is the most divine. Now before we separate let me take
you into the Chapel of the Virgin. The image, you know, is considered
the great treasure of the monastery."
In his voice there seemed almost an inflection of doubt or amusement.
"And you also look upon it in this light?" we asked. "You believe in all
the miracles, legends and traditions time has gathered round the image?"
"I must not talk heresy," smiled the monk; "but I believe more in my
music."
We had entered the small chapel, where a light was burning before the
celebrated image, black and polished as ebony; an image less than two
feet high, seated in a chair, with an infant in its arms. The
workmanship was rough and rude, the face ugly and African. There was
nothing about it to raise the slightest emotion, for it was not even
artistic.
"On this very spot," said the monk, "Ignatius Loyola is said to have
waited for hours in rapture watching the image and receiving
manifestations, after which he founded the Order of the Jesuits. He laid
his sword upon the altar, declaring that he had done with it for ever,
and henceforth his life should be devoted to paths of peace. In like
manner I have stood here for hours, waiting for inspiration, for some
manifestation, some token, though it should be only borne in upon the
mind with no outward and visible sign. And I have waited in vain.
Nothing has ever come to me. But I seat myself at the organ and seem
wafted at once into realms immortal; my soul awakens and expands; I
feel heaven within me. It is my one happiness and consolation; that and
being alone with nature."
He conducted us back to the screen.
"Then we cannot prevail upon you to be with us this evening?" we said in
a final effort. "You will not give us all the experiences of your past
life, spiritual and otherwise?--all you went through in your transition
state?"
"Tempt me not," returned the monk. "Your voice would persuade me against
my reason. I must not return to the sweets of the world even for an
evening. Think of the going back afterwards. But to-morrow morning
before dawn breaks in the east I will be with you."
He bade us farewell and closed the gate. We watched the solitary figure
glide down the choir until it disappeared. The quiet footsteps ceased to
echo, and we stood alone in the church. The silence was painful and the
building had no power to charm. We passed out to the great quadrangle
and soon found ourselves in a very different scene.