THE END OF AN IDYLL.
Days of chivalry not over--In the evening light--Night porter
grateful--Dragon in full force--Combative and revengeful--Equal to
the occasion--Gall turns to sweetness when H. C. appears--Last
night in Lerida--Bane of our host's life--Mysterious
disappearance--Monastery of Sigena--Devout ladies--Returning at
night--Place empty and deserted--Birds flown with keys--Quite a
commotion--"The senor is pleased to joke"--Was murder
committed?--Mysteries explained--Probably down the well--Drag for
skeletons--Host's horror--"We drink the water"--A tragedy--Out in
the quiet night--Discords--Lerida cafe--Create a sensation--Polite
captain--Offer declined--Regrets--Final crash--Paradise or
Lerida--Deserted market-place--Trees whisper their secrets--El
Sereno at the witching hour--Hard upon the angels--Not a bed of
roses--Alphonse--End of a long life--Until the dawn--Acolyte and
priest--"We must all come to it, senor"--El Sereno disappears for
the last time--Daybreak--In presence of death--Alone, but
resigned--Surpassing loveliness--Sacred atmosphere.
So the days of chivalry and devotion were not over: could never be over
as long as there are Alphonses and Nerissas in the world. As we went
back to the hotel in the evening light, the whole town seemed full of
romance. One by one the outlines faded and died out, and when we entered
the fonda the stars were beginning to shine.
The night porter was standing in the doorway, though his reign had not
yet begun. He made us a low bow.
"Senor, allow me to thank you for not complaining of me this morning to
the padrone. I am still full of remorse for having locked you out last
night, but it is seldom any of our visitors trouble the dark streets of
Lerida at midnight. Most of our guests are commercial travellers, who
have no eye for the ancient and picturesque, and are generally glad to
get early to bed."
Again assuring the worthy man of our good will, we passed up the shabby
old staircase. At the top we came into contact with the Dragon striding
along with bare arms and flourishing a rolling-pin. She looked the
picture of fiery indignation and we wondered what had gone wrong.
After some difficulty we managed to gather that the waiter, in spite of
her want of beauty, in spite of her being an appropriated blessing, had
offered her a chaste salute. In return for the affront, the
rolling-pin--it was a _washing_ pin, by the way--had come into sharp
contact with his skull, which, fortunately for him was a hard one. Since
then the Dragon had been marching up and down with threatening weapon
and flashing eyes, brandishing her rolling-pin like another Communist,
mouthing voiceless words.
As soon as she caught sight of H. C., however, her gall turned to
sweetness; she marshalled him to our rooms, threw wide the door, and
beamed on him one of her most cavernous smiles. That a chaste salute
from him would have been very differently received was evident.
It was our last night in Lerida. The landlord still attended us at
dinner, for the waiter was nursing his wounds in the kitchen. A violent
headache had come on, and he was vowing vengeance against the Dragon,
declaring she had imagined the whole thing.
"But for the servants, my life would be happy," said our host. "If they
keep the peace with me, they are disputing amongst themselves. The last
waiter and chambermaid I had, after quarrelling like cat and dog for six
months, suddenly went off one day together, and we never heard of them
again. It was a Sunday, and madame and I had gone off with some friends
by train to Sarinena--a long day's excursion, for we were going to the
Monastery of Sigena, near Villanueva. Has the senor visited the famous
monastery?"
We had never done so.
"It is to be regretted," returned the landlord, as he busily changed the
plates and poured out the wine. "The monastery is the most interesting
in our neighbourhood; and people come from far and wide to see it. In
situation it is most romantic, standing near a lovely stream full of
fine fish. The nuns, however, don't fish; the very thought would be
sacrilege. They are devout ladies, some of them very handsome; a pity so
much beauty should be wasted. They are of the order of St. John of
Jerusalem, which I have heard dates as far back as the twelfth century,
but I am not learned in those matters. I have seen the nuns at mass in
their chapel, and they looked like a vision of angels. But I was saying.
We had left the hotel in charge of the waiter and chambermaid. As it
happened, there were no guests staying here. When we came home at night,
we found the place locked and empty. Both servants had flown, and to add
insult to injury had taken the keys with them. Fortunately the glass
doors in this very dining-room had been left open, and by means of a
ladder, and climbing over walls at the risk of one's life, I managed to
get in, took the duplicate keys out of my desk, and admitted madame. It
caused quite a commotion."
"And had the enterprising pair taken nothing but the keys?" we asked.
"Was your gold plate safe, and madame's diamonds?"
"The senor is pleased to joke," laughed the landlord. "My gold plate is
pewter, and madame's jewelry is false, excepting her wedding-ring and
the few things she happened to have on that never-to-be-forgotten day.
No; they had taken nothing. But they had made a first-rate meal, and had
tapped and emptied three bottles of my very best Chambertin 1868
vintage, and consumed half a bottle of Chartreuse."
"But you have no proof that they went off together," we suggested. "It
may be that murder was committed. The dead body of the chambermaid all
this time may be crumbling to dust and ashes in some hole or corner of
your cellar. Have you a cellar, or any other place in which a murdered
body might be concealed?"
"Santa Maria!" cried our host, turning pale. "The idea never occurred to
me, but I shouldn't wonder if you are right. It would explain a good
deal that has remained a mystery. We have a deep well out in the yard;
so deep that we do not know the bottom, which is supposed to communicate
with the river. The man might easily have murdered the woman and thrown
her down. And we drink the water!"
"That is hardly the solution that suggests itself. After drinking your
three bottles of Chambertin and your half-bottle of Chartreuse, depend
upon it their heads began to go round; they felt the world coming to an
end, and determined to be beforehand with it. It is clear as daylight:
they both threw themselves down the well, and there you will find the
skeletons. You had better have it dragged and give them decent burial,
or you will certainly be seeing ghosts in the house."
By this time the landlord was trembling with horror; his eyes, grown
large and round, would almost have matched the Dragon's. He was no
longer in a fit state to pour out wine or change plates.
"And we drink the water," he murmured half a dozen times over. "We drink
the water. This accounts for my queer symptoms. But, after all, the
bodies cannot be there. They must have communicated with the river, and
so floated out to sea. I dare say they will some day turn up in the
Panama Canal or on the shores of New Zealand. Senor, I am quite certain
this is the true state of the case. I never could understand why those
two should go off together. They were always quarrelling, and seemed to
hate each other like poison, and I dare say they even disputed as to
which should go first down the well. But when all's said and done, it is
three years ago, and they will never come back to trouble me."
"Not even as ghosts?"
He shivered.
"I never saw a ghost, senor, but I suppose there are such things. I
shouldn't care to see one. Nevertheless, I will have the well
dragged--quietly, not to raise a scandal. I can pretend to have dropped
in a diamond ring belonging to a client. If the skeletons turn up we
must hush up the matter as well as we can, and so dispose of the ghosts.
They would never walk after decent burial. Ah, senor, what a tragedy you
have opened up! And all the time I was accusing the wretched pair of I
know not what!"
Fortunately for us this conversation took place towards the end of
dinner, or we should have fared badly. We left the landlord in his
dining-room. He had dropped into a chair and was gazing on vacancy,
evidently in deep thought as to how he could have the well dragged
without creating a scandal to the detriment of his hotel.
We went out into the quiet night, making sure the night porter was on
duty and would keep there. The streets were as dark, quiet and
ill-lighted as ever, and we took care to avoid Pandemonium. The
market-place, so full and lively this morning, was now empty and silent.
From the cafe already alluded to streams of light and strains of music
were flowing. We turned in out of curiosity. Half a dozen musicians at
the further end were making unearthly discords: shrieking and wailing
instruments set one's teeth on edge and went down one's back like cold
water. The room was fairly full, the atmosphere heavy with smoke; such
smoke as only the Catalonians know how to produce.
Our entrance created quite a sensation. We were recognised as English,
and the English who visit Lerida are few and far between. Was our visit
friendly or the opposite? Their glances plainly asked the question. Then
one in military uniform came up, and, with a military salute ventured to
sit down near us. We thought it a singular proceeding, but decided to
take it in good part. He proved to be a captain of the regiment
stationed at Lerida, and a really friendly and polite man.
"I perceive, sirs, that you are strangers," he said. "Can I be of any
service to you in a place where I am very much at home?"
To which we replied that our stay was drawing to a close, and we had
probably seen the best of the town. "There is nothing you can do for us,
though we are grateful for your good intentions. But if you would induce
those in authority to grant their passes into the fortress with less
restriction, you would confer a favour upon any who may come after us."
"A senseless restriction indeed," replied our new friend, "and we all
feel it so; but until some disappointed visitor of consequence appeals
to the Queen or the Madrid Government, the thing will go on. There is
absolutely no reason why all the world should not be admitted."
At this moment the musicians finished up with a crash. The sound was
horrible. H. C. made an excruciating grimace and our captain shook with
laughter.
"Do you call that music?" we asked.
"_I_ do not," he returned, "because I have spent much time in Paris,
where barbaric music would not be tolerated. But these frantic discords
just please the people of Lerida, who have not been educated to anything
better. It is over for the night, and now everyone will depart. They
have drunk their coffee or wine or spirit, sat a whole evening in a
clouded, heated atmosphere, listening enraptured to the strains which
have set you quivering, and are going home feeling that if this or
paradise were offered to them they would not hesitate to reject
paradise. Such is their life."
We got up to depart also.
"I am sorry that I can be of no use to you," said our polite captain;
"but if you are leaving Lerida to-morrow, time certainly runs short. I
can, however, give you my card, and place myself and all I have at your
disposal. If ever you visit Lerida again, and I am quartered here, I
hope you will find me out. I will at least promise you a pass into the
fortress; and there are a few things you would not be likely to see
without the open sesame of one of ourselves."
Upon which he shook hands, gave us a military salute, "wrapped his
martial cloak about him," and passed out into the night.
We listened to his quick receding footsteps and then turned away. The
silence was only broken by the distant cry of a watchman proclaiming the
hour and the weather. "El Sereno," as we called the old guardians of the
darkness in Majorca, where many a time we wandered with them in the dead
of night amidst the old palaces and watched them light up the wonderful
old Moorish remains with their swinging lanterns.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO POBLET.]
It was a very dark night, though the stars flashed overhead. We found
ourselves on the empty market-place, where trees whispered together. In
the morning, when fruit and flowers and a hundred stalls and a crowd of
noisy people called for all one's attention, the whispering trees were
neglected. Now it was their hour, and they told each other their mighty
secrets, and one felt that they were wiser and greater than mankind
in its little brief authority. We stood and listened, but they talked in
an unknown tongue. Almost as mysterious and full of meaning seemed the
outlines of the gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that
splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky.
From this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and
hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who,
purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service
had begun. But those days are over. For nearly two hundred years the
bells have been silent. The sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts
the precincts. Sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and
symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred
pavement.
Gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a
distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. It was a
watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our Burgos
_Sereno_.
He waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting
to find the inhabitants of Pandemonium lurking in secret corners. As he
walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time
with his footsteps. "It is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the
night is fair. _El sereno._" We gradually approached him, knowing well
we were in his mind. The rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern
had peace.
"Senor, instinct told me you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems your
hour for walking. In truth it is far better than midday, for the world
is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. I hope that wily porter
does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. To-day fifty people
have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to
see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, senor? She is not the
angel she looks----"
"Are you not rather hard upon the angels, _Sereno_?"
"I don't think I quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a
laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "No, she does not look an
angel--and she is not one either. It is said that when her husband
misbehaves, she beats him with her washing-pin; and it is also said
that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. It may be
a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other
way of venting her spleen. I don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of
roses, though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of
his bargain."
"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the
porter's domestic relations unprofitable.
"Just the same as ever, senor. There was no change anywhere. The
everlasting bells chime out the hours and the quarters, and the voices
of a half a dozen watchmen take up the tale. The hotel grows rather
worse and more unpopular, if that be possible, and for want of a good
inn the town is neglected. No one ever goes there a second time. In that
respect one is better off in Lerida."
We were standing near the new cathedral in the market-place, when
suddenly we saw a quiet figure hurrying towards us. Even afar off we
knew it well. It was our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary.
At once we felt something was wrong; the figure, in spite of quick
footsteps, was tragic in its bearing. We went up to him. He grasped our
hand and his face told its own tale.
"Oh, senor! the end has come, the end of a long life. Who would have
thought it would be so sudden? My poor Nerissa! My life's partner, and
my life's blessing! Two hours ago the heart suddenly failed. The doctor
gives her until the dawn. But she is quite ready and quite resigned.
'Think what it will be, Alphonse,' she said to me just now. 'To-morrow
morning I shall see once more.' Senor, I am broken-hearted. And now that
she is being taken from me, I feel that I have not prized her half
enough."
"You have been her joy and happiness on earth, and have an eternity of
happiness to look forward to. For you and for her life is only
beginning. The end of a long and happy life is a matter for rejoicing,
not for sorrow."
We had no need to ask a reason for his presence there. He passed on to
fulfil his mission.
[Illustration: OLD CATHEDRAL: LERIDA.]
Presently a small door was opened and there issued forth in the
stillness of the night an acolyte bearing a lighted lantern, followed
by a priest carrying the Host. Alphonse had gone before, and we felt
that the greatest kindness was to let him return alone, unhindered. The
small silent procession was full of mysterious pathos and solemnity. It
told of a soul about to take its solitary and awful journey to the
unknown and the unseen. Seldom, we felt, would extreme unction have been
administered to a soul so pure as that of our little fairy-queen. El
Sereno went down on one knee as it passed, and bared and bowed his head.
With arm outstretched resting on his staff of office, he looked quite
solemn and picturesque.
"We must all come to it, senor. But I often ask myself what consolation
even extreme unction can bring to a badly spent life."
We watched the little procession cross the great square, their footsteps
scarcely echoing. The sacred hush and atmosphere that surrounds the
dying seemed to go with them as they walked. Fitful gleams and shadows
were thrown out by the lantern--they might have been shades of departed
spirits. In the dark night, under the silent stars, and in that solemn
moment, we seemed brought into touch with the unseen world. We felt
deeply for Alphonse, who was passing through the great sorrow of his
life. His own silver cord would now loosen, and no doubt he too would
quickly follow into the unseen. His wife would take with her all his
hold upon life.
After this solemn incident we could only make our way back to the fonda.
El Sereno accompanied us to its threshold. We walked down the avenue
between the trees, that were still whispering their mighty secrets to
each other. Now they seemed laden with immortal mysteries: their burden
was of souls winging their flight to realms where no torment touches
them. They were in communion with the stars overhead shining down with a
serene benediction.
Our portal to-night was open and the night porter was at his post,
watching for his tardy visitors! wondering why they tarried. What to him
was that tragedy that was passing at the other end of the town?
We inquired for Rose. She had put up her washing-pin, and forgiven the
erring waiter; the sun had not gone down upon her wrath. Had her spouse
also forgiven the gay Lothario, or had they arranged for coffee and
pistols?
The senor was joking. Such manner of dealing was for gentlefolk. For his
part, if he owed any one a mortal grudge he would avenge himself by the
short Corsican way: a stab in the dark. A short reckoning and a long
rest. But he had never quarrelled in his life; never owed any man a
grudge. Life was too short; he was too lazy. He thought it a good plan
to let things take their course. If any one cared to embrace his wife,
they were welcome to do so. He had no jealousy in his composition. She
was now sleeping the sleep of the just: and for all he knew and for all
he cared, her dreams were of gay Lotharios whom she was chastening with
her washing-pin.
We said farewell to El Sereno, who lamented our departure on the morrow,
and feared he might see us no more.
This was probable. Lerida, for all its quaint streets, old-world nooks
and splendid outlines, was hardly a place to come to a second time. He
moved away rather sadly, for he had his duty to perform, and the moments
would not stand still.
We watched him receding in the dark night; a stalwart figure; an honest
man, with much that was good in him, though his lines were not cast in
grooves where influences for good are strong. At the end of the avenue
he called the hour and the night; then passed up out of sight into the
market-place once more. There in due time would return that quiet,
solemn procession of two; the acolyte bearing the lantern, the priest
with his bent back and the weight of years upon him bearing the Host:
their mission accomplished: the last rites administered: the pure soul
perhaps already far on its long journey.
The night passed on to dawn and daybreak and sunrise: a new day, a new
world. Was Nerissa still lingering here, or, as she had said, had her
sightless eyes opened to the world beyond? It was impossible to leave
Lerida without ascertaining how it fared with this couple that we had
found so interesting and exceptional. Though it delayed us some hours,
it must be done, the visit paid.
We breakfasted, attended by the erring waiter, who looked pale and
brooding and revengeful, as though he meditated drowning the Dragon in
her own soapsuds. Then, in the clear early morning, we went forth.
The way was familiar by this time. We knew its every aspect: all the
outlines were old friends. We passed up the avenue and through the
crowded market-place, where people laughed and talked and bought and
sold, as if life were one long joke and would last for ever, and there
was no such thing as death and decay. Down the long narrow street where
we again saw the men pressing the grapes, and noted the stain of the
rich red juice, and smelt the luscious perfume of the muscatel--for they
have red grapes here with the muscatel scent and flavour. Onwards into a
quiet side street and the quaint old house that now had upon it the dark
grey shadow.
We mounted the fine broad staircase with its carved oak balusters and
panelled walls. There was not a sound to be heard. At such moments
sympathy is quick to respond, and the awful messenger makes the weight
of his errand known.
The door was slightly ajar. We pushed it gently open and entered,
feeling ourselves in the presence of death. Peace had fallen upon the
house.
There in the quiet room was the vacant chair near the latticed window,
where so recently we had seen that wonderful embodiment of beauty in
age. It would never be seen again. Near the bed Alphonse was seated,
holding the hand of his dead wife, his other hand up to his face. He
looked the picture of sad despair. The aged form, so recently still
endowed with life and vigour, was now bent and bowed under the weight of
sorrow.
As we entered he glanced up, and stronger than all the evident grief we
were surprised to see an unmistakable look of resignation. Quietly
placing the cold hand that never would move or clasp his own again, he
rose and came towards us.
"Oh, senor, this is kind. You come to me in my loneliness. It is all
over. The sightless eyes are closed, the beautiful voice is still. I
have often prayed that I might be the last to be taken. Heaven is
merciful, and has answered me. As the dawn broke in the east her spirit
went. Raising her hand as though pointing to some unseen vision:
'Alphonse,' she said, 'I am called. You will soon join me, beloved.'
Then a glory seemed to pass over her face, and she was gone. Senor, come
near and look upon that beautiful face once more."
He approached the bed and with reverent hand drew down the sheet.
We were almost startled by the beauty disclosed. The face seemed to have
gone back to the days of its youth; it might have been that of a young
woman of surpassing loveliness. The rapt expression the old man had
spoken of was still there. It was impossible but that some divine vision
had been seen at the last by those eyes closed to mortal things. It
spoke of intense happiness, of a joy that was to be eternal.
"Alphonse, how can you look upon that face, which has the divine image
upon it and the divine glory, and be sad?"
"Senor, I have lost my all. I am very lonely. Yesterday I was rich; I
knew not how rich; to-day I am poor and stricken. Yet I am resigned; and
I am happy in the thought that in a few days--I verily believe in a few
days--my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our spirits will be
united in Paradise. I am not sad; only intensely lonely. Senor, you gave
her almost her very last pleasure. After you had left, she said that for
years our little room had not seemed so bright. You brought her a breath
from her old world and she declared that she felt her youth renewed. Was
it not the spirit telling her in advance how soon her youth should
indeed return to her? Oh, Nerissa, my life's joy, my best beloved, in
what realms is your pure spirit now wandering? Surely you need me to
perfect your happiness?"
We stayed awhile with him, and before leaving found the forlorn
attitude, the despairing droop had departed. As we said good-bye we
quietly placed money in his hand.
"To buy flowers," we explained. "Place them gently in her coffin. The
fairest flowers you can find. They will still be less fair than she."
"Ah, senor," he returned, "it is a long farewell. I shall look upon your
face no more. But when I meet her again we will talk of you. And do not
think that you leave me to utter solitude. I have many friends about me,
and though humble they are good. For my few remaining days I need have
no thought, and I have no fear."
We departed. The little episode was over. But it would be ever
associated in our mind with Lerida, enshrouding the town in a peculiarly
sacred atmosphere.