SALVADOR THE MONK.
Gipsies--Picturesque scene--Love passages--H. C. invited to festive
board--Saved by Lady Maria's astral visitation--The
fortune-teller--H. C. yields to persuasion--Fate
foretold--Warnings--Photograph solicited--Darkness and
mystery--Night scene--Gipsies depart--Weird experiences--Troubled
dreams--Mysterious sounds--Ghost appears--H. C. sleeps the sleep of
the just--Egyptian darkness--In the cold morning--Salvador keeps
his word--Breakfast by candlelight--Romantic scene--Salvador turns
to the world--Agreeable companion--Musician's nature--Miguel and
the mule--Leaving the world behind--Darkness flies--St. Michael's
chapel--Sunrise and glory--Marvellous scene--Magic
atmosphere--Salvador's ecstasy--Consents to take luncheon--Heavenly
strains--"Not farewell"--Departs in solitary sadness--Last of the
funny monk.
It was the other end of the settlement. All the houses were behind us;
the railway station was in a depression at our left. The plateau
expanded, forming a small mountain refuge, sheltered and surrounded by
great boulders that were a part of Mons Serratus towering beyond them.
Grass and trees grew in soft luxuriance. Under their shadow a picnic
party had encamped; noisy Spaniards who looked very much like gipsies;
an incongruous element in these solemn solitudes, yet a very human
scene. They were scattered about in groups, and the bright handkerchiefs
of the women formed a strikingly picturesque bit of colouring. Baskets
of rough provisions were abundant. A kettle hung on a tripod and a fire
burnt beneath it, from which the blue smoke curled into the air and lost
itself in the branches of the trees. The people were enjoying themselves
to their hearts' content. Here and there a couple had hoisted a red or
green umbrella, which afforded friendly opportunities for tender love
passages. Some were drinking curiously out of jars with long spouts
shaped like a tea-kettle. These they held up at arm's length and
cleverly let the beverage pour into their mouths. Practice made perfect
and nothing was wasted. Chatter and laughter never ceased. They were of
humble rank, which ignores ceremony, and when H. C. approached rather
nearly, he was at once invited to join their festive board and make one
of themselves.
One handsome, dark-eyed maiden looked at him reproachfully as he
declined the honour--the astral body of Lady Maria in her severest
aspect having luckily presented itself to his startled vision. The siren
had a wonderfully impressive language of the eyes, and it was evident
that her hand and heart were at the disposal of this preux chevalier.
"Senor," she said, "I am a teller of fortunes. Show me your hand and I
will prophecy yours."
H. C. obligingly held it out. She studied it intently for about half a
minute, then raised her eyes--large languishing eyes--and seemed to
search into the very depths of his.
"Senor, you are a great poet. Your line of imagination is strongly
influenced by the line of music, so that your thoughts flow in rhyme.
But the line of the head communicates with the line of the heart, and
this runs up strongly into the mount of Venus. You have made many love
vows and broken many hearts. You will do so again. You cannot help it.
You are sincere for the moment, but your affections are like champagne.
They fizz and froth and blaze up like a rocket, then pass away. You will
not marry for many years. Then it will be a lady with a large fortune.
She will not be beautiful. She will squint, and be a little lame, and
have a slight hump--you cannot have everything--but she will be amiable
and intellectual. I see here a rich relative, who is inclined in your
favour. It is in her power to leave you wealth. Beware how you play your
cards. I see by your hand that you just escape many good things by this
fickle nature. I warn you against it, but might as well tell the wind
not to blow. There is one thing, however, may save you--the stars were
in happy conjunction at your birth. The influence of the house of Saturn
does not affect you. I see little more at present. Much of your future
depends on yourself. To you is given, more than to many, the controlling
of your fate. You may make or mar your fortune. No, senor," as H. C.
laughed and tried to glide a substantial coin into her hand, "I do
not tell fortunes for money to-day. It is a _festa_ with our tribe,
almost a sacred day, the anniversary of a great historical event. To-day
we do all for love; but I should much like your photograph."
[Illustration: VALLEY OF MONTSERRAT.]
H. C. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put
aside for the Madrid houri who married the Russian nobleman. This he
presented with much grace to the enraptured Sibyl. Their heads were very
close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air.
We happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the Sibyl's
face seemed flushed and conscious, and H. C.'s poetically pale
complexion had put on a delicate pink. This was a little too
suspicious--even to our unsuspecting mind--and with a hasty bow to the
interesting assembly, and wishing them all good appetites and fair
fortunes, we went on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was
still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst H. C.
for the next ten minutes fell into silence.
The day wore on to evening. We watched the shades of night gathering
over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything grew hazy and
indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery.
The outlines of Mons Serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. The
stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their
awful and majestic silence. The great constellations were strongly
marked. Here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the
various houses of the settlement. Where the gipsy party had encamped,
silence and solitude now reigned. A black mark told where the tripod had
held the kettle and betrayed what had been. The whole encampment had
returned to the lower world by the evening train. We had watched them
enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. Their
spirits had not failed. As the train moved off they sent up a shout
which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. Presently, when
the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from
the world for a season. We were taking a last look at the Gothic arches,
through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. The night
was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. It might have
been a dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone
monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. Throughout the little
settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed;
here and there a light still glimmered. We caught sight of another
wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted
with his ground--perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks
abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming
darkness. We wondered whether it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking
fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven.
As we passed out of the arches we came upon our funny little monk, who,
having ended all his duties, was going to his night's rest. He caught
sight of us and gave a brisk skip.
"Welcome to Montserrat," he cried once more. "I am delighted to see
you." From long habit he evidently used the form unconsciously--it was
his peculiar salutation. "You are about to retire, senor. Let me conduct
you to your rooms. I should like to see you comfortably settled for the
night."
From his tone and manner he might have been taking us to fairyland; beds
of rose-leaves; a palace fitted up with gold and silver, where jewels
threw out magic rays upon a perfumed atmosphere. He swung back the great
gates of the Hospederia. We passed into an atmosphere dark, chilling,
and certainly not perfumed. Mysterious echoes died away in distant
passages. The little monk lighted a lantern that stood ready in the
corridor, and weird shadows immediately danced about. One's flesh began
to creep, hair stood on end. In this huge building of a thousand rooms
we were to spend a solitary night. It was appalling. As the monk led the
way passages and staircases seemed endless: a labyrinth of bricks and
mortar. Should we survive it: or, surviving, find a way out again?
[Illustration: A FEW OF THE GIPSIES AT MONTSERRAT.]
At last our rooms. Small candles were lighted that made darkness
visible. We should manage to see the outline of the ghosts that appeared
and no more. The little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams.
Pleasant dreams! Never but once before--and that in the fair island of
Majorca--did we spend such a night of weird experiences. If we fell
asleep for a moment our dreams were troubled. We awoke with a start,
feeling the very thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. The
corridors were full of mysterious sounds: our own particular room was
full of sighs. Ghostly hands seemed to pass within an inch of our face,
freezing us with an icy cold wind that never came from Arctic regions.
Once we were persuaded an unearthly form stood near us; to this day we
think it. We were wide awake, and when we sat up it was still there. The
form of a monk in cloak and cowl. A strange phosphoric light seemed to
emanate from it, making it distinctly visible. The face was pale, sad
and hopeless. Large dark eyes were full of an agony of sorrow and
disappointment. It was evidently the ghost of a monk who had repented
his vows and learned too late that even a convent cell cannot bring
peace to the soul. A strange thrill passed through us as we gazed, yet
of fear or terrors we felt nothing. The sadness and beauty of the face
held us spell-bound. We found courage to address it. "Spirit of the dead
and gone, wherefore art thou here? Why wander in this unrest? Can we do
aught to ease thee of thy burden? Will our earthly prayers and sympathy
avail thee in thy land of shadows?"
No doubt there was a slight suspicion of rhythm in the words that would
have become H. C. rather than our more sober temperament; but they came
of their own accord, and we did not wait to turn them into better prose.
We listened and longed for a reply, but none came. Nothing but a
deep-drawn sigh more expressive of sorrow than all the words that ever
were coined. The singular part of it was that whilst the apparition was
visible, all the mysterious sounds and echoes in the passages ceased,
and began again when it disappeared.
As disappear it did. No word was spoken; no sign was made. For one
instant a mad thought had passed through our brain that perhaps it was
about to conduct us to some buried treasure: some Aladdin's lamp, whose
possession should make us richer than Solomon, more powerful than the
kings of the earth. But the strange light grew faint, the outlines
shadowy, until all faded into thin air. The room was once more empty;
and we held no treasure. It was a long and troubled night. Rest we had
none. Yet next morning H. C.--whose poetical temperament should have
made him susceptible to all these influences--informed us that he had
slept the dreamless sleep of the just. He had heard and seen nothing.
This seemed unfair, and was not an equal division of labour.
Before daylight we were up and ready for our pilgrimage. It required
some courage to turn out, for the world was still wrapped in Egyptian
darkness. In the east as yet there was not the faintest glimmer of dawn.
In the house itself a ghostly silence still reigned. Apparently
throughout the little settlement not a soul stirred. Nevertheless it was
the end of the night, and before we were ready to sally forth there were
evidences of a waking world. We went down through the dark passages
carrying a light, which flickered and flared and threw weird shadows
around.
We opened the door and passed out into the clear, cold morning. The
stars still shone in the dark blue sky. Through the gloom, passing out
of the quadrangle, we discerned a mysterious figure approaching: a
cowled monk with silent footstep. It was Salvador, true to his word.
"We are both punctual," he said, joining us. "I think the morning will
be all we could desire."
It had been arranged that breakfast should be ready at the restaurant.
Salvador had refused to dine with us, he did not refuse breakfast. The
meal was taken by candle-light, and he added much to the romance of the
scene as he threw back his cowl, his well-formed head and pale, refined
face gaining softness and beauty in the subdued artificial light.
Salvador had the square forehead of the musician, but eyes and mouth
showed a certain weakness of purpose, betraying a man easily influenced
by those he cared for, or by a stronger will than his own. Perhaps,
after all, he had done wisely to withdraw from temptation.
This morning his monkish reticence fell from him; he came out of his
shell, and proved an agreeable companion with a great power to charm.
Once more for a short time he seemed to become a man of the world.
"You make me feel as though I had returned to life," he said. "It is
wonderful how our nature clings to us. I thought myself a monk, dead to
all past thoughts and influences; I looked upon my old life as a dream:
and here at the first touch I feel as though I could throw aside vows
and breviary and cowl and follow you into the world. Well for me perhaps
that I have not the choice given me. Why did you not leave me yesterday
to my solitude and devotions, and pass on, as others have done? You are
the first who ever stopped and spoke. To-day I feel almost as though I
were longing once more for the pleasures of the world."
[Illustration: MONS SERRATUS IN CLOUDLAND.]
We knew it was only a momentary reaction. He had the musician's highly
nervous and sensitive organisation. Our meeting had awakened long
dormant chords, memories of the past; but the effect would soon cease,
and he would go back to his monkish life and world of melody, all the
better and stronger for the momentary break in the monotony of his daily
round.
We did not linger over breakfast. At the door a mule stood ready
saddled. This also went with us in case of need. H. C. and the monk
were capable of all physical endurance. Like Don Quixote they would have
fought with windmills or slain their Goliaths. Nature had been less
kindly to us, and the mule was necessary.
It would be difficult to describe that glorious morning. When we first
started, the path was still shrouded in darkness. We carried lighted
lanterns, and Miguel, following behind with the mule, looked a weird,
picturesque object as he threw his gleams and shadows around. Our path
wound round the mountain, ever ascending. One by one the stars were
going out; in the far east the faintest glimmer was creeping above the
horizon. This gradually spread until darkness fled away and light broke.
We were high up, approaching St. Michael's chapel, when the sun rose and
the sky suddenly seemed filled with glory.
It was a scene beyond imagination. The vast world below us was shrouded
in white mist. Under the influence of the sun this gradually rolled
away, curling about the mountain in every fantastic shape and form, and
finally disappeared like a great sea sweeping itself from the earth. The
whole vast plain lay before us. Towns and villages unveiled themselves
by magic. Across the plains the Pyrenees rose in flowing undulations,
their snow-caps standing out against the blue sky. The winding river
might be traced in its course by the thin line of vapour that hung over
it like a white shroud. The whole Catalonian world, all the sea coast
from Gerona to Tarragona, came into view, with the blue waters of the
Mediterranean sleeping in the sunshine. In the far distance we thought
we discerned our lovely and beloved Majorca, and were afterwards told
this was possible.
All about us were deep, shuddering crevices, into which one scarcely
gazed for horror. Immense boulders jutted out on every hand; some of
them seeming ready to fall and shake the earth to its centre. Wild and
barren rocks gave foothold to trees and undergrowth more beautiful than
the most cultivated garden; nothing lovelier than the ferns and
wildflowers that abounded.
As the sun rose higher, warmth and brilliancy increased until the air
was full of light. We breathed a magic atmosphere.
"This is what I delight and revel in," cried Salvador the monk. "This
lifts me out of myself. It is one of the glories of Spain, and makes me
feel a new being with one foot on earth and one in heaven. Can you
wonder that I should like to inhabit yonder cave? Day by day I should
watch the sun rise and the sun set, all the hours between given to
happiness and contemplation. As I look on at these effects of nature my
soul seems to go out in a great apocalypse of melody. The air is filled
with celestial music. Yet no doubt our Principal is right, and in the
end the influence would not be good for me. I am a strange
contradiction. There are moments when I feel that I could go back to the
world and take my place and play my part in all its rush and excitement;
other moments when I could welcome the solitude of the desert, the
repose of the grave."
It was almost impossible to turn away from the scene, undoubtedly one of
the great panoramas of the world. Here, indeed, we seemed to gaze upon
all its kingdoms and glories. Without the least desire to become
hermits, we would willingly have spent days upon the mountain. As that
could not be we presently commenced our long descent, winding about the
mountain paths, gathering specimens of rare wildflowers, and gazing upon
the world below. We made many a halt, rested in many a friendly and
verdant nook, and took in many an impression never to be forgotten. On
returning to the settlement we felt we had been to a new world where
angels walked unseen. It was difficult to come back to the lower levels
of life. We had quite an affection for our patient mule, that looked at
us out of its gentle eyes as though it knew quite well the service
rendered was as valued as it was freely given.
Salvador joined us at luncheon: we would not be denied.
"It is a fast-day," he said; "how can I turn it into a feast?"
"You are a traveller, and as such are permitted an indulgence."
He smiled. "It is true," he returned. "I perceive that you know
something of our rules." Nevertheless he was abstemious almost to
fasting. "And yet it has been indeed a feast compared with my daily
food," he said when it was over. "Now would you like to go into the
church and have some music? My soul is full of the melody I heard on the
mountain."
So it happened that presently we were listening to such strains as we
never shall hear again. Once more we were lifted to paradise with melody
that was more heavenly than earthly. Again his very soul seemed passing
out in music. Had he gone on for hours we should never have moved. But
it came to an end, and silence fell, and presently we had to say
farewell.
"I cannot say it," he cried in a voice slightly tremulous. "It has been
a day of days to me, never to be repeated. Another glimpse of the world,
and a final leave-taking thereof. I will never again repeat this
experience--unless you return and once more ask me to guide you up Mons
Serratus."
This was very improbable, and he knew it. He grasped our hand in
silence, essayed to speak, but the farewell words died unuttered. Then
he silently turned, drew up his cowl and left us for ever. We watched
him disappear within the shadows of the church, heard a distant door
closed, and knew that in a moment he would have regained the solitude of
his cell.
We went back to the world. As we crossed the quadrangle the little lay
brother who had first received us caught sight of and skipped towards
us.
"Welcome to Montserrat. I am most happy to see you," he cried. "So you
have been to the top of the mountain to see the sun rise. And our good
Salvador has been your guide. He is lucky to get so many indulgences,
but he deserves them. What would the school do without him?--lose half
its pupils. And what would the convent do without the school?--starve.
Did you sleep comfortably in your beautiful rooms?"
We thought it hardly worth while to relate our ghostly visitations, and
left him with the impression that, like H. C., we had slept the sleep of
the just.
"And now you are going back to Barcelona," he said. "Well, there is
nothing more to be seen. After looking upon the beautiful black Virgin
and sunrise from St. Michael's chapel, you may depart in peace."
And in peace we departed when the time came, wondering whether we should
ever again look upon this little world and listen to the divine
harmonies of Salvador of Montserrat.