IN THE DAYS OF THE ROMANS.
Charms of Tarragona--Roman traces--Cyclopean remains--Augustus
closes Temple of Janus--Great past--House of Pontius Pilate--Views
from ramparts--Feluccas with white sails set--Life a paradise--City
walls--Cathedral outlines--Lively market-place--Remarkable
exterior--Dream-world--West doorways--Internal effect--In the
cloisters--Proud sacristan--Man of taste and learning--Delighted
with our enthusiasm--Great concession--Appealing to the soul--Senor
Ancora--Human or angelic?--In the cloister garden--Sacristan's
domestic troubles--Silent ecclesiastic--Sad history--Church of San
Pablo--Challenge invited--Future genius--Rare picture--Roman
aqueduct--A modern Caesar--Reminiscences--Rich country--Where the
best wines are made--Aqueduct--El puente del diablo--Giddy
heights--Lonely valley--H. C. sentimental--Rosalie and fair
Costello--Romantic situation--Quarrelsome Reus--Masters of the
world--Our driver turns umpire--Battle averted--Men of
Reus--Whatever is, is wrong--Driver's philosophy--Dream of the
centuries.
Only the broad daylight could discover all the charms of Tarragona: the
beauty of its situation, the extent of its ancient remains. The very
perfect walls, fine in tone, bore distinct Roman traces. Below them, on
a level with the shore, were other traces of a Roman amphitheatre. There
were also Cyclopean remains, dating from prehistoric times. Tarragona
was a great Roman station when the brothers Publius and Cneidos Scipio
occupied it. Augustus raised it to the dignity of a capital: and
twenty-six years B.C., after his Cantabrian campaign, he here issued his
decree closing the Temple of Janus--open until then for seven hundred
years.
Tarragona was already a large and flourishing city with over a million
of inhabitants. It was rich and highly favoured, and its chief people
considered themselves lords of the world. Many temples were erected, one
of them to the honour of Augustus, making him a god whilst still living.
There are fragments in the cloister museum said to have belonged to
this temple, which was repaired by Adrian.
On our upward way near the Roman tower we passed the still wonderful
house of Pontius Pilate, who was claimed by the Tarragonese as a
fellow-townsman. It is said to have been also the palace of Augustus,
and the lower portion bears traces of an existence before the Romans.
To-day it is a prison, and as some of its walls are twenty feet thick
the prisoners have small chances of escape. Few spots in Spain are more
interesting, or so completely carry you back to the early centuries. On
its south wall is an entrance to a short passage leading to the
Cyclopean doorway, communicating by a subterranean passage with the
comparatively modern Puerta del Rosario. To the east of this gateway we
soon reach the ramparts, just above a ruined fort, and near the modern
battery of San Fernando. From these ramparts you have the finest view of
Tarragona and its surroundings.
On one side stretch far and wide the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
Lateen-rigged feluccas, with white sails set, are wafted to and fro by
the gentle breeze. Life on board seems a paradise of luxurious ease and
indolence. Nothing marks the passing hours but the slow progress of the
sun. The sky is as intensely blue as the sea, and the air seems full of
light. You are dazzled by so much brilliance. Distant objects stand out
in clear detail. The wide undulating plain stretches far away to the
left, broken by towns and villages, the famous castle of Altafulla in
the distance. Below the town lies the aqueduct, one of the most perfect
Roman remains in Spain.
At our feet are the city walls, enclosing all the wonderful antiquities,
and above the picturesque roofs of the houses rise the matchless
outlines of the cathedral.
To this same cathedral we made our way this morning, passing through the
market-place lively with stalls, buyers and sellers; Spanish men and
women picturesque in their national costumes: a modern human picture
side by side with outlines of the highest antiquity.
Passing through an archway we found ourselves in the Cathedral Square,
dazzled by the splendour of the vision. Here the market had overflowed,
and the market-women, full of life and colouring and animation, sat in
front of their fruit and flower-stalls. One and all tempted us to buy,
and rare were the wares they sold. Again the new and the ancient blended
together; for beyond the women rose those marvellous outlines, sharply
pencilled against the brilliant blue sky: magnificent contrast of
colouring, wherein everything was in strong light and shadow.
Our strange experience of last night was still full upon us. We had
hardly recovered from the dream state into which the marvellous music of
Quasimodo had plunged us with strange mesmeric influence.
The beauty of the night, the pure pale moonlight effect, had not
prepared us for the splendours of to-day: so effective, lovely and
diversified a cathedral: the most remarkable exterior we had yet found
in Spain. The whole square with its surrounding houses is a dream. The
church dates from the eleventh century. Above the round apse of the
choir at the east end--probably the oldest part of the building--rose
outline upon outline, all bearing the refining mark of age. Much of it
appeared never to have been touched or restored. On the south side was a
tower, of which the lower part was Romanesque, the remainder fourteenth
century and octagonal. Apart from the east end most of the church is
transitional. The roofs are covered with pantiles, but they are not the
original covering, and are not quite in harmony with the rest of the
work.
The west doorways are very fine. Those that open to the aisles are of
the earliest date; the central and more important is fourteenth century,
deeply recessed, with a massive buttress on each side. This doorway
rises to a triangle, above which are many statues of the apostles in
Gothic niches. Above the Romanesque side doors are rose windows with
rare and delicate tracery, and the south door has a finely carved relief
of the Entry into Jerusalem.
The internal effect was most impressive. Few cathedrals are more solidly
built, yet few display greater ornamentation. The columns are splendid,
their richly-carved capitals redeeming the somewhat stern severity of
the pure transition work. The piers are very massive, and the eye is at
once arrested by the early-pointed clerestory and unusually large bays.
The view of the interior of the transept, above which rises the
octagonal lantern with its narrow pointed lights is especially striking.
A little of the coloured glass is very brilliant and sixteenth century,
but the greater part is modern. The chancel is pure Romanesque, the
chapels are chiefly fourteenth century. In the baptistery the font is a
Roman sarcophagus found in the palace of Augustus.
But the cloisters are the gem of the cathedral. Here again was an
architectural dream, grand in design, of noblest proportions: six
splendid bays on each side, each bay enclosing three round arches. These
are divided by coupled shafts of white marble, decorated with dog-tooth
mouldings. Above them two large circles are pierced in the wall, some
retaining the original interlacing work of extreme beauty and delicacy,
and of Moorish origin.
Many of the capitals are quaintly carved, with humorous subjects: one of
them, for instance, representing a procession of rats carrying a cat to
her burial. The cat shams death, and the too-confident rats omit to bind
her. Presently the tables turn: the cat comes to life, springs upon the
rats and devours them.
The verger or sacristan was very proud of these capitals, and of the
whole cathedral: full of energy and enthusiasm: understood every detail,
delighted to linger at every turn. He seemed intelligent and educated,
and declared he was only happy when gazing upon his beloved aisles and
arches. He begged us to give him an English lesson in architectural
terms, which he soon accomplished. Dressed in his purple gown, he looked
as imposing as any of the priests in their vestments, and more
intelligent than many.
Enchanted to find our enthusiasm equal to his own, he left the cloister
doorway unlocked, so that we might enter at any moment. This was a great
concession, for in Spain they keep their cloisters under constant lock
and key, partly for the sake of the fee usually given: a mercenary
consideration quite beneath our sacristan. He talked and exhibited out
of pure love for his work.
"The cathedral is my hobby and happiness," he said, "and I would rather
die than leave it. I know the history of every stone and pillar by
heart, could sketch every minute detail from memory. In those glorious
aisles, these matchless cloisters, I feel in paradise. I love to come
here when the church is closed and sit and study and contemplate. Born
in a better sphere, I should have become an architect. All these
outlines appeal to my soul, just as music appeals to Senor Ancora."
[Illustration: CLOISTERS: TARRAGONA.]
"Is he your wonderful midnight player?"
"Si, senor. Do you mean to say you have heard him?"
"We were with him last night, and spent more than two hours in the
cathedral listening to his wonderful music."
"It is hard to believe. Never will he admit any one to his midnight
vagaries, as I call them. I do not know how you won him over to let you
in; but he seems to guess things by intuition. Something must have told
him that you had a soul for music, and he could not find it in his heart
to refuse you."
"A curious, grotesque man, who almost gives one the impression of being
supernatural," we observed.
"We all think he is bordering upon it," returned the sacristan; "half
man, half angel. Curious and almost deformed as he looks, he is the envy
and admiration of the whole town, has the most beautiful wife and
loveliest children. He came here twenty years ago, a pale, slight,
ethereal youth of eighteen, looking as though he had dropped from the
stars, or some far-off paradise. People still wonder whether he did so
or not.--Look senor," pointing upwards. "Did you ever see such outlines,
such a vision of beauty? Is it not the very spot for such a soul as
Senor Ancora's?"
We were standing in the cloister garden, where orange trees and graceful
shrubs grew in wild profusion and exquisite contrast. In the centre of
the garden a fountain threw up its spray and plashed with cool musical
sound. Surrounding us were the wonderful cloister bays with their round
arches resting on the white marble columns, all enclosed in an outer
pointed arch. Above them rose the cathedral against the deep blue sky.
Outline above outline; Romanesque and Gothic; the lantern crowning the
whole. The shadows of the marble columns upon the ancient cloister
pavement were sharply defined.
"No wonder you love it," we said to the sacristan. "Rather we wonder you
do not apply for permission to live in the chapter-house, and take up
your abode here altogether."
"Ah, senor, like Ancora, I also have my domestic ties: a wife and
children to think about. But, alas, my wife has no soul, and cannot even
understand my love for the cathedral. That indeed ought to have been my
wife, and I should never have married commonplace flesh and blood. Here
I have been day after day for thirty years, in constant attendance, and
I grow to love it more and more, and daily discover fresh beauties.
There are no cloisters in the world like these. There is no vision on
earth to be compared with this, as we stand here and look upwards and
around. None."
As we stood listening to the sacristan's enthusiasm, a pale, refined,
grave-looking ecclesiastic passed out of the beautiful doorway leading
from the church, and with silent footstep walked through the cloister to
the chapter-house. He was dressed in a violet silk robe or cassock, over
which was a white lace alb. As he went by he bowed to us with great
gravity, but said not a word. There was a sorrowful, subdued look upon
the clear-cut features, the large grey eyes.
"That is one of our canons," said the sacristan, after he had
disappeared into the chapter-house; "the one I like best. He too loves
this wonderful building."
"He is sad-looking. One could almost imagine he had mistaken his
vocation, or gone through some great sorrow in life."
"You are right, senor: right in both instances. He was a man of noble
family, never intended for the church. Engaged to a lovely lady to whom
he was devoted, she died the very day before they were to have been
married. He remained inconsolable, and at last took orders. At one time
he had an idea of becoming a monk; but he is very clever, and was
persuaded to take up a more active life in the church. As you saw him
now, so he always is; grave, subdued, gentle and kindly. No one goes to
him for help in vain. Here he is venerated."
We felt drawn towards this refined ecclesiastic and wished to know him,
but no opportunity presented itself. The cloisters seemed to gain an
added charm by his presence. His dress and appearance exactly suited
them, giving them an additional touch of picturesque romance and human
interest. The whole scene inspired us with a strange affection for
Tarragona, and there are few places in Spain we would sooner revisit.
A little later, when we were going round the precincts, they seemed
suddenly to swarm with a small army of boys. These were turning out of
the new seminary, a mongrel building designed on old lines, therefore
neither one thing nor the other. We entered, and turning to the left,
found ourselves in modern cloisters echoing with the shouts of boys at
play: cloisters attractive only from the fact that they enclosed a
small, very ancient church--the church of San Pablo--a rare gem in its
way; with a square-headed doorway and Romanesque capitals, and a small
turret holding the bell, above which was a thin iron cross. It was a
lovely building, and lost in admiration we stood gazing. The boys who
came round us without the least shyness could not understand it.
"What do you see in it?" asked one of them. "We should like to knock the
old barrack down. It takes up our play-room. A wretched old building,
neither use nor ornament. But we can't get rid of it. It won't burn; it
is so solid that we can't demolish it; and we daren't use dynamite. We
have to put up with it."
"And you would rather put up with the grapes and the oranges in the
market-place?" we suggested.
"We should like to put them _down_, senor. Only try us."
Having invited the challenge, it had to be accepted: and the whole troop
tore off with one consent to drive bargains with the fruit-women. One
boy, however, remained behind; a fair, thoughtful lad of about fifteen,
with large, dreamy, beautiful brown eyes.
"Why don't you join them, and take your share of the spoil?" we asked
him.
"Senor, I would rather study this old chapel than eat all the grapes in
Catalonia," he replied. "My father is the sacristan of the cathedral. He
loves old buildings too, but not as I do, I think. I have made up my
mind to be an architect, and when I can do as I like I will build great
churches on such models as these, like the mighty men of old."
So the father's love had descended to the son, and in the latter may
possibly some day bear good fruit. The boy looked a genius. We turned
away, and he turned with us.
"What is your name?" we asked him.
"Hugo Morales, senor. Will you let me show you my favourite spot,
senor," he said; and forthwith led us to a short street of steps,
something like the streets of Gerona, ending in a lovely old arched
passage, through which one caught a glimpse of ancient houses beyond.
Above the archway rose a wonderful old house with an ajimez window of
rare beauty, and other Gothic windows with latticed panes and deep
mouldings. Then came the overhanging roof covered with pantiles. The
tone was perfect. Next to this was a small church with a Norman doorway,
crowned by a graceful belfry in which a solitary bell was hung. If not
the most ancient, it was certainly the most picturesque bit in all
Tarragona.
"And you really love it?" we asked this singular boy.
"With all my heart," he answered. "I often come here with my books and
do my lessons sitting on that old staircase that you see on the left.
The house is empty and no one interferes with me. But I must be off
home. A Dios, senor."
[Illustration: SAN PABLO: TARRAGONA].
"Good-bye, Hugo. Keep to your ideals and aspirations."
"No fear, senor. I mean to do so."
And away he went, none the less happy for sundry coins that rattled
musically in his pocket and would probably be spent in something more
lasting than fruit and flowers; whilst we went back to our beloved
precincts and studied the outlines of the Middle Ages.
* * * * *
One sunny afternoon we hired a conveyance and started for the Roman
Aqueduct. It was the only conveyance of the kind to be found in
Tarragona. The owner, who drove us himself, called it a victoria, and
seemed proud of it. Large and heavy, it might have dated from the days
of the Caesars. Its proper place undoubtedly was the Museum of Roman
Antiquities to which we had just paid a visit; and so perhaps there was
something a propos in the idea of its conveying us to a Roman aqueduct.
Our driver was dressed in a smock frock, and in the high seat in front
of us looked perched up like a lighthouse upon a rock--or a modern Caesar
in a triumphal progress.
We rattled through the streets, and soon found ourselves on the broad
white road that in time, if we persevered, would take us to Lerida the
chivalrous and true. Not the least intention had we of paying that
interesting old town a second visit, but the very fact of knowing that
our faces were set that way, brought our late experiences vividly before
us.
We wondered how it fared with our much-tried landlord; whether the
waiter was yet out of hospital, and he and the Dragon had made up their
differences or agreed to differ. Though the well had been dragged, it
was possible that the skeletons were still there; perhaps had risen to
the surface to refute the old saying that dead men tell no tales. We
thought of our polite captain, and almost wished we might come across
him in Tarragona. He would be sure to know our silent but interesting
old canon of the violet robe, and would open many doors to us. Above all
we wondered how Alphonse fared. By this time his wife would be resting
in her grave; and he, poor lonely wayfarer, would haunt the sad
precincts of the cemetery, and dream of his early days and of walking
through the world with the wife of his youth. No doubt he was right and
would soon follow her to the Land o' the Leal, hailing the hour of his
release.
But all this had nothing to do with our present journey. On each side of
the road we found a rich undulating country. We were in the
neighbourhood of vineyards, and the wine, when pure, is some of the best
that Spain produces. Here and there stood a picturesque farm-house, with
whitewashed walls and green venetians, and heaps of yellow pumpkins,
cantaloupe melons and strings of red peppers dangling from the
balconies: the usual thing in Spain and Italy and the countries of the
South. On a hillside, an occasional village slept in the sunshine; a
quiet little place, apparently without inhabitants or any reason for
existence.
[Illustration: AN OLD NOOK IN TARRAGONA.]
Presently we caught sight of the wonderful aqueduct built by the Romans
so many centuries ago, yet still almost perfect. In the days of the
ancients it brought the water to the city for a distance of twenty
miles. Those were the days when the Tarragonese called themselves lords
of the earth; when Augustus reigned in his palace and the amphitheatre
was the scene of wild sports, and temples existed to the heathen gods.
The portion of the aqueduct visible from the road was as it were a
gigantic bridge with two tiers of arches. It had all the tone of the
centuries, all the solidity which had kept it standing firm as a rock.
Nearly one hundred feet high and eight hundred feet long, it spanned a
green and lonely valley or ravine covered with heather. The people call
it el puente del diablo, and may be forgiven for thinking that more than
human hands helped to perfect the work.
We went to the topmost height and walked over the giddy stoneway to the
very centre. There we sat down and felt ourselves masters of the world.
Wild flowers grew in the cracks and crevices, and ferns and fronds, and
H. C. stretched over the yawning gulf for one almost out of reach, until
we gave him up for lost and began to compose his epitaph. But he plucked
his flower, and after looking at it with a sort of tender reverence,
placed it carefully in his pocket-book.
"Who is that for?" we asked, for there was no mistaking his soft
expression.
"The fair Costello. That exquisite vision that we saw in the opera-house
at Gerona. The landlord gave me her full name and address before we
left. I am thinking of proposing to her. Her presence haunts me still."
We knew how much this was worth; how long it would last.
"You would bestow it more worthily on Rosalie. There are many fair
Costellos in the world--there can be only one Rosalie."
"Do you think so?" replied this whirligig heart. "Certainly Rosalie's
eyes were matchless; I tremble when I think of them. And then we got to
know her, which is an advantage. After all it shall go to Rosalie. The
fair Costello might have a temper--there's no knowing."
[Illustration: ROMAN AQUEDUCT, NEAR TARRAGONA.]
We were undoubtedly in a situation favourable to romance. The scene was
magnificent. Surrounding us was a wide stretch of undulating country.
The land was rich and cultivated; towns and villages reposed on the
hill-sides. Far off to the right the smoke of busy Valls ascended,
and through the gentle haze we traced the outlines of its fine old
church. Following the long white road before us, the eye at length
rested on the blue smoke of quarrelsome, disaffected Reus, which
prospers in spite of its Republican tendencies. Here more distinctly we
traced the fine tower of the old church of San Pedro, in which Fortuny
the painter lies buried. Distant hills bounded the horizon, shutting out
the world beyond.
But there was no more interesting monument than the aqueduct on which we
stood. Its rich tone contrasted wonderfully with the subdued green of
the ravine, the deep shades of the heather, so full of charm and repose
to the eye tired with wandering over the glaring country and straining
after distant outlines. We stayed long, enjoying our breezy elevation;
going back in imagination to the early centuries of mighty deeds--those
Romans who were in truth masters of the world. At last, feeling that our
driver's patience was probably exhausted, and treading carefully over
the granite passage of the viaduct, we made our way to the prosy level
of mankind.
The driver had drawn under the shade of some trees, and was holding a
levee. Half a dozen other drivers were grouped round him, and the
bullock-carts with their patient animals were waiting their pleasure,
one behind another. They were all laying down the law with any amount of
gesture and loud tones; all more or less angry, each convinced that he
was in the right.
Our coachman, as owner of a superior conveyance and a man of substance,
was evidently acting as a sort of judge or umpire, and just as we came
up was delivering his weighty opinion. But it appeared to be the case of
the old fable again, and in trying to propitiate all he pleased none. A
pitched battle seemed averted by our arrival, which put an end to the
discussion. As strangers and foreigners were objects of interest, we had
to run the gauntlet of their scrutiny. But they were civil; and
curiosity satisfied, mounted their heavy waggons and set off down the
road towards Reus at break-neck speed, raising more dust and noise than
a hundred pieces of artillery.
Fortunately we were going the other way. As the driver mounted his box
he shrugged his shoulders.
"It is always the same," he observed. "These men of Reus are the most
revolutionary, most disaffected in all Catalonia. They always have a
grievance. Whatever is, is wrong. If it isn't political, it's social. If
it's not taxes, it's the price of wheat. Their life is one perpetual
contention, and every now and then they break out into open revolt. Only
the other day an old man of Kens, a distant connection, on his death-bed
declared to me that he had made all his miseries, and if he had his time
to come over again, would make the best of the world and look on the
bright side of things. Just what every one ought to do. Enjoy the
sunshine, and let the shadows look after themselves."
So our driver was a philosopher after all, and had more in him than we
had imagined. With Caesar's opportunities he might have proved another
Caesar. Whipping up his horses, he began his return journey up the long
white road.
Making way, the outlines of Tarragona came into view, bathed in the glow
of the declining sun. The effect was gorgeous; and we fell into a dream
of the centuries gone by, when the Romans marched up that very same road
with their conquering armies, overlooked the very same sea that now
stretched to right and left, blue and flashing, and made themselves
aqueducts. In this vision of the past we saw them building their mighty
monuments, looking about for fresh worlds to conquer; and we heard the
famous decree of Augustus closing the Temple of Janus as a sign that
quiet reigned upon the earth and the Star of Bethlehem was rising in the
East--divine signal and fitting moment for the coming of the PRINCE OF
PEACE.