LORETTA.
Our ubiquitous host--Curious mixture of nations--Francisco--His
enthusiasm carries the point--French lessons--English
prejudice--Landlord's lament--Days of fair Provence--Francisco
determines to be in time--Presidio--Tomb of the Scipios--Fishing
for sardines--Early visit to cathedral--Still earlier
sacristan--Francisco's delight--Freshness of early
morning--Reus--Bark worse than bite--Where headaches come from--An
evil deed--Valley of the Francoli--Moorish remains--Montblanch--The
graceful hills of Spain--Espluga--Francisco equal to
occasion--Beseiged--Donkeys versus carriage--Interesting old
town--Decadence--Singular woman--Loretta's escort--Strange
story--Unconscious charm--What happened one Sunday
evening--Caro--"The right man never came"--Comes now--How she was
betrothed--Primitive conveyance--Making the best of
it--Wine-pressers--Loving cup--Nectar of the gods--Fair
exchange--Rough drive--Scene of Loretta's adventures.
Our landlord was a curious mixture of three nations: French, Spanish and
Italian. He was small, dark and wiry, and seemed to possess the power of
being in half a dozen places at once, yet was never in a hurry. One
moment you would hear his voice in the bureau, the next in the kitchen,
and two moments afterwards you might behold his head stretched out of a
second-floor window watching the omnibus as it turned the corner on its
way from the station: watching and wondering how many passengers it
brought him. If he did not succeed, it should not be for want of effort;
but he had been there long, and apparently did succeed, flourish and
prosper. He was a very attentive host, anxious that we should see and
appreciate all the marvels of Tarragona. Having lost his wife, the hotel
had to be managed single-handed. One son, a boy of fifteen, was being
trained to succeed him. He also spoke French, Spanish and Italian
admirably, and his ambition now was to go to England to learn English.
So far he resembled our Gerona guide Jose, but the one had grown to
manhood, the other was a stripling, though a bright and interesting lad.
"You have not been to Poblet," our host remarked one morning, as he
waited upon us at our early breakfast in the salle a manger. A great
condescension on his part; everyone else was left to the tender mercies
of the waiter who was more or less a barbarian.
"No," we replied; "but we were even now debating the possibility of
going there this morning."
"It is quite possible, senor. You could not have a better day. The
weather is perfect. The train starts in an hour, and the omnibus shall
take you down. I will pack you a substantial luncheon, for you can get
nothing there. My son shall accompany you to carry the basket."
The boy, who happened to be standing near his father, grew elated.
"Oh, senor, say yes," he cried. "A day at Poblet will be splendid. I
shall have a whole holiday, besides getting off my French lesson this
afternoon."
"You shall talk French to us, Francisco, which will be better than a
lesson. We decide to go. Pack an excellent luncheon for three, not
forgetting a bottle of H. C.'s favourite Laffitte."
"Of which I have an excellent vintage," replied our host, who seemed
equal to any emergency. "Frisco, take care that you are ready."
"No fear about that," replied the boy, whose eyes sparkled with
anticipation. And he went off to put on his best Sunday suit. The
landlord on his part bustled off to the kitchen, where we heard him
giving orders to the uncertain chef. Presently he returned.
"You will allow me to put the smallest suspicion of garlic in your
sandwiches," he suggested insinuatingly. "It is the greatest
improvement. The English have an objection to it, but it is mere
prejudice."
A prejudice we unfortunately shared, and our host went back lamenting
our want of taste.
The little incident brought back vividly days when we sojourned in fair
Provence, and from the cottage doors, mingling with the pure air of
heaven wafted across the Mediterranean, there came the everlasting
perfume of garlic. Hotels, houses, cottages, all seemed full of the
terrible odour. The worthy people of Provence, with their dark skins and
slow movements, were indefatigable in trying to win us over to their
side. It was almost impossible to enter a public conveyance without
putting one's head out of window: and stronger than all the impressions
made upon us by the charms of Provence, its ripening vineyards, its
wines, all the beauties of sea and sky, mountain and valley, were our
garlic reminiscences. In Catalonia we had it to a less extent, but it
was an evil to be avoided. So our landlord went back depressed to his
kitchen to conclude the packing of the hamper.
Francisco appeared in his Sunday's best long before the omnibus. At
least half a dozen times he came up to our rooms to remind us that it
would only rush round at the last moment and would not wait. Going off
for a month's holiday could not have excited him more. With an agony of
apprehension he saw us walk to the end of the road and look down upon
the blue sea that stretched around in all its beauty and repose. Already
there were white-winged feluccas gliding upon its surface, their lateen
sails spread out, enjoying the cool of the morning.
The cliff was almost perpendicular. To our left a sentry paced to and
fro, to overlook the Presidio, a large convict establishment below us on
a level with the sea. If any convict had attempted to escape--a very
improbable event--he would quickly have been marked by the lynx-eyed
sentry, who was relieved every two hours.
Side by side with the Presidio were the remains of the old Roman
amphitheatre, dating back to the days of the city walls, the house of
Pontius Pilate, and all the vestiges of the past. Close to us rose the
old Roman Tower, from which very possibly Augustus had looked many a
time upon the undulating hills and far-stretching sea, feeling himself
monarch of all he surveyed.
But long years before, the Phoenicians--that enterprising people of
Tyre and Sidon, of whom so little is known, yet who seem to have
possessed the earth--had made a maritime station of Tarragona. What it
actually was in those days can never be told; no archives contain their
record; but in beauty and favour of situation the centuries have brought
no change.
The scene on which we looked that morning linked us to the past. Four
miles to the east, under the shadow of the hills, and within sight of
the quiet bays, reposed the Roman tomb of the Scipios, who, in
conjunction with Augustus, had so much to do with the making of
Tarragona. It is a square monument thirty feet high, built of stone,
guarded by two sculptured figures, with an inscription blotted out long
ages ago. A lovely spot for the long sleep that comes to all. The hills
are pine-clad, the bays sheltered; the blue sea sleeps in the sunshine;
no sound disturbs but the plashing of the water that does not rise and
fall as other seas that have their tides. Fishermen live in the
neighbourhood, and you may see them setting their nets or fishing from
the shore for sardines; with this exception the little place shows no
sign of life and is rarely trodden by the foot of strangers.
We felt its influence as we waited for the omnibus. There, at least, to
our right was something neither Augustus nor the Scipios had ever
seen--the small harbour with its friendly arms outstretched, embracing
all the shipping that comes to Tarragona. The east pier was partly built
with the stones of the old Roman amphitheatre, a certain desecration
that took place about the year 1500. A crowd of fishing vessels is
almost always at rest in the harbour, and larger vessels trading in wine
and oil.
We were not allowed to look upon all this unmolested. Francisco
constantly came to and fro to remind us that time was passing. At last
we turned at the sound of rumbling wheels; the omnibus came up. Our host
had neatly packed a luncheon-basket, and away rolled the machine through
the prosy streets. We had turned our back upon all the wonders of
Tarragona.
It required no slight courage to abandon our beloved cathedral for one
whole day. True, before breakfast we had gone up and looked upon the
magic outlines: that marvellous mixture of Romanesque and Gothic that
here blend together in strange harmony. Early as it was we had found the
sacristan, and he, in full measure of delight, had taken us through the
quiet aisles and arches, twice beautiful and impressive in their
solitude, and thrown wide the door of the matchless cloisters. They
were lovelier than ever in the repose that accompanies the early morning
light. But neither light nor darkness, morning nor evening, could abate
the enthusiasm of the sacristan.
All this was left behind as we rattled down the steep streets. The
station was on a level with the sea, and in front of it stretched the
harbour with all its shipping. The train was in waiting, and to
Francisco's evident pride and enjoyment we were soon whirling away in a
first-class compartment. He had never travelled in anything beyond a
second.
The freshness of early morning was still upon everything, and our
interesting journey lay through scenery rich and varied. Before reaching
Reus, the train crossed the river, then came to an anchor. We found the
station crowded with country people going to a neighbouring fair. The
town rose in modern outlines, above which towered the hexagonal steeple
of San Pedro. It was evidently a bustling, prosperous town with
manufacturing signs about it. Everything seemed in direct opposition to
Tarragona. The one ancient and stately, with its historic and cathedral
atmosphere in strong evidence; the other given over to manual work. The
one quiet and conservative, the other quarrelsome and republican. It was
from Reus that our carters with a grievance had come the day we visited
the aqueduct: and back to Reus they had all gone to continue their
warfare.
We recognised two of them on the platform, on their way to the fairs.
They also recognised us and touched their large round hats with a broad
smile plainly meant to intimate that their bark was worse than their
bite.
It is in Reus that many of the French imitation wines are made and sent
over the world, passing for Macon, Chablis and Sauterne. Much imitation
champagne and many headaches come from here. Enormous wine-cellars, in
point of size worthy of Madrid or Barcelona, groan with their
manufactured stores. Reus has many branches of industry and might be a
happy community if it would subdue its revolutionary discontent. It has
yet to redeem its terrible murder of the monks of Poblet in 1835.
To-day, however, the crowd in the station were bent on pleasure or
business and the warring element was put aside to a more convenient
season. They scrambled into the train, and away we went up the lovely
Valley of the Francoli as far as Alcober: a favourite settlement of the
Moors, where many Moorish remains are still visible. The fine Romanesque
church was once a mosque, so that it is full of the traditions of the
past. Onwards through lonely, somewhat barren country to Montblanch;
another old town apparently falling into ruin, with picturesque walls,
towers and gates. Onwards again under the very shadow of the Sierra de
Prades, rising in clear undulating outlines against the blue sky; a
stately, magnificent chain of hills. Where indeed do we find such
beautiful and graceful hills as in Spain?
Finally Espluga, the station for Poblet. Here Francisco alighted at
express speed, basket in hand. We followed more leisurely, trembling for
the Laffitte, but the boy was equal to the occasion. In spite of
enthusiasm, he had an old head upon his young shoulders, and even now
would have been almost equal to managing the hotel single-handed.
No sooner out than we were besieged by a man and a woman; the latter
begging us to take her donkeys, the former praising his comfortable
carriage. Discretion and the carriage won the day. A long donkey-ride
over a rough country did not sound enticing. As it turned out we chose
badly.
Poblet was some miles from Espluga, and we had to pass through the town
on our way to the said carriage. It had been taken on trust, neither
carriage nor donkeys being at the station.
The town lies at the foot of a towering hill. From the station you cross
over a picturesque stone bridge dark with age, spanning the rushing
river. Standing on the bridge you look down upon a romantic ravine and
valley, through which the river winds its course. On the further side
you enter the town: a primitive out-of-the-world spot, as though it had
made no progress in the last hundred years. The people correspond with
their surroundings. The streets were narrow and irregular, and the
virtue of cleanliness was nowhere conspicuous. Our landlord had well
said that if we did not take our luncheon with us, we should take it
with Duke Humphrey.
Nevertheless, there was that in Espluga which redeemed some of its
disadvantages. Groups of houses with picturesque roofs and latticed
windows: houses built without any attempt at beauty, yet beautiful
because they belonged to a long-past age when men knew nothing of
ugliness and bad taste. No one had thought it worth while to pull down
these old nooks and remains and rebuild greater, or even adorn them with
fresh paint. Consequently we saw them arrayed in all their early charm.
It seemed a very sleepy town, with little life and energy. People plied
their quiet trades. Everything was apparently dying of inanition.
Our donkey-woman was an exception: comely and wonderfully good-tempered,
with a surprising amount of energy. Not having succeeded in hiring her
donkeys, she was not to be altogether outdone by the carriage-man, and
insisted upon accompanying us through the town, to carry the basket and
show us the way. The man had disappeared to make ready.
"You have made a mistake, senor, in not taking my donkeys. They are
beautiful creatures; six grey animals, as gentle as sheep. As for the
carriage he praises, I pity you. The road is fearfully rough. When you
reach Poblet, you will have no breath left in your body. All your bones
will be broken."
This sounded alarming; but we discounted something for disappointed
ambition.
"Are these donkeys all your living?" we asked, already feeling a certain
regret that we had employed the man and not the woman.
"Not quite, senor. And then, you know, we live upon very little. You
would be surprised if I told you how few sous a day have sufficed me.
Hitherto I have lived at home with my mother and sisters, who do
washing. We have had that to fall back upon when my donkeys are not
hired. It is lucky for me, since few people come at this time of the
year: very few at any time compared with what you would imagine. The
world doesn't know the beauties of Poblet. It languishes in solitude.
You will see when you get there. My beautiful donkeys!" she continued.
"I love them, and they love me. I have some strange power over all
animals. They seem to know that I wish them well. The very birds perch
upon my shoulders as I go along, if I stop and call to them."
"Where have you learned your charm?" we asked, much interested in the
woman. The loud voice of the station had disappeared, and she now talked
in gentle tones.
"Charm, senor? I never thought of it in that light. If it is a charm, it
was born with me. It is nothing I have learned or tried to cultivate,
for it comes naturally."
"Can you transfer the power to others?" asked H. C. "Really," he added
in an aside, "if this woman were in a higher station of life I could
quite fall in love with her. She must be made up of sympathy and
mesmerism. What a mistake it was to hire that wretched scarecrow of a
driver. Don't you think we might take the woman as a conductor and so
combine the two?"
We ignored the question.
"No, senor," replied the woman of strange gifts; "I cannot give my power
to anyone. But why do you call it a power? It is merely an instinct on
the part of the animals, who know I wish them well and would take them
all to my heart, poor dumb, patient, much-tried creatures. Shall I tell
you how I came to keep donkeys? It was not my own idea. I did not go to
them: they came to me. It is ten years ago now, when I was eighteen. I
went out one Sunday evening in August all by myself. We had had a
quarrel at home. My mother wanted me to marry a man I hated, because he
was well-to-do. I said I would never marry him if there was not another
man in the world. My sisters were all angry, and said that with one well
married they would soon all get husbands. I was the youngest. At last I
burst into tears, and told them they might all have him, but I never
would. And with that, between rage and crying, I went off by myself out
into the quiet country. I took the road to Poblet, and wandered on
without thinking.
"At last I came in sight of Poblet, and felt it was time to turn back. I
had recovered my calmness, for I reflected as I went along that they
could not make me marry the man, and that their vexation was perhaps
natural. We were poor and struggling: he was rich compared with us.
Well, senor, just as I turned I saw a beautiful grey donkey with a black
cross on its back coming towards me across the plain. I thought it
singular, for it was all alone, and I had never seen a donkey alone
there before. There was something strange-looking about it. Evidently it
has strayed, I thought, and must just stray back again. But with my love
for animals I could not help stopping and watching. It came straight up
to me, and put its nose into my hand, just as if it knew me. 'Where have
you come from?' I said, patting its head. 'Your owner will be anxious.
You must go straight home.' But there it stood, and there I stood; and
for at least five minutes we never moved.
"Then I felt it was ridiculous, and set off home. Will you believe,
senor, that the animal followed me like a dog. I could not get rid of
it. When I arrived home the donkey arrived with me. What could I do?
There was an empty stable next door, and I put it in there, thinking it
would be claimed and perhaps I should get a small reward. The animal
went in just as if the stable had been always its home. As I was
leaving, it turned and looked at me, and said as plainly as possible, 'I
hope you are not going to let me starve.' I went in and told them what
had happened. 'It must be your lover who has taken the form of a
donkey,' laughed my eldest sister. 'He knows you are fond of animals,
Loretta, and has arranged this plan with the devil to make you like
him.' 'I should soon prove the greater donkey of the two, if I allowed
myself to marry him,' I retorted."
"Was the donkey never claimed, Loretta?"
"Senor, you shall hear. To sum up the story, the donkey never was
claimed. We made every inquiry; we did all we could to find the owner;
it was in vain; he never turned up, and to this day the donkey remains
mine. People said he was a supernatural donkey, but of course I know
better. The next thing was, how to make him earn his living, for I was
determined never to part with him. Then the idea came to me to convey
people to Poblet. The story got known, and sometimes at the station
there would be quite a fight for Caro, as I called him. There is still.
It gave me a start, and now in that very stable I have six beautiful
donkeys that could not be equalled. And they all love me, and answer to
their names, and come when I call them. Whichever I call comes; the
others don't stir."
It was a singular but by no means impossible story. As H. C. had said,
there was a certain mesmeric influence about the woman to which the
sensitive animal world might very probably respond.
"And your lover? You did not take compassion upon him?"
"No, senor," laughed the woman, with a decided shake of the head; "but
one of my sisters did; the eldest, who had been the most angry with me.
And for the first six years they led a regular cat-and-dog life. Then he
tumbled over the bridge into the river and was nearly drowned. He was
saved, but his leg was broken and had to be taken off, and after that
somehow his temper improved. My sister laughs and says she loves him
better with his one leg than ever she did when he had two. She is
welcome to him."
"But you," we observed, feeling the question a delicate one, "why have
you never married? By your own confession you are twenty-eight."
The woman laughed and blushed. "The right man never came, senor, and I
was in no hurry. I was quite happy as I was. Five men in this town asked
me to marry them. I did not care for any of them. 'Will you love my
donkeys?' I said to each. Not one of them said Yes; so I said No to all
But now I have said Yes at last. And there he goes," she added.
A tall strong man with a plain but amiable and honest face crossed the
road, and catching sight of the donkey-woman sent her a beaming nod and
went on his way.
"You have chosen well, Loretta. He will make you a good husband."
"I think so," returned the woman, and evidently her heart was in the
matter. "When I asked Lorenzo if he would love my donkeys, he said: Yes,
a dozen if I had them. So I took him to the stables, and called Caro,
and it came and put its nose into his hand just as it had done to me
that very first evening at Poblet. 'You're the man for me,' I said: and
that was our betrothal."
"And suppose Caro had turned his back upon him?" we inquired. Loretta
blushed.
"Senor, I should have been angry with Caro: and I should have had
compassion upon Lorenzo. But Caro had too much sense, and knew Lorenzo
was to be its master. He is a carpenter, senor, and has a good trade.
There is your carriage already waiting."
[Illustration: ON OUR WAY TO POBLET.]
"Ah, Loretta, you should have told us this story before. We should not
have refused your donkeys. It would be an honour to ride the wise and
gentle Caro."
"Another time, senor. You will be coming again, then you shall have
Caro, though twenty others fought for him. No one comes to Poblet once
without coming a second time. You will see."
As Loretta had said, the carriage was waiting. The carriage, save the
mark! If we had regretted the donkeys before seeing it, what did we do
now? It was nothing but a country cart covered with a white tarpaulin,
and a door behind about a foot square, through which we had to scramble
to find ourselves buried in the interior. The whole concern was only fit
for a museum of antiquities, like the Tarragona victoria. But the thing
was done, and we had to make the best of it.
Passing through the streets, we came upon more men pressing out the
grapes. It was a much larger affair than that of Lerida, and the juice
poured out in a rich red stream. Four strong men were at work.
We stopped the cart, struggled out of what Francisco called the
cat-hole, and watched the process. It was a case of mutual interest. The
men had their heads bound round with handkerchiefs. The thoroughfare was
the end of the town, wide and cleanly. Altogether this was an
improvement upon the Lerida wine-press, and when these men offered us of
the juice in a clean goblet, we did not refuse them. This attention to
strangers was evidently a peace-offering; a token of goodwill; and the
loving-cup was cool, refreshing and delicious. Such must have been the
true nectar of the gods.
"Almost equal to Laffitte," said H. C. "I don't know that I ever tasted
anything more poet-inspiring. Let us drink to the health and happiness
of the fair Loretta. Lorenzo is a lucky man."
With some genuine tobacco and a few cigars such as they had never seen
or heard of, the men thought they had made an excellent exchange. We
left them as happy as the gods on Olympus.
Soon after this we found ourselves in the open country. The roads were
of the roughest: hard and dry, now all stones, now all ruts: some of the
ruts a foot deep, into which the cart would sink to an angle of
forty-five degrees. There were no springs to the cart; never had been
any. It was stiff and unyielding, and evidently dated from the stone
age. We did not even attempt to keep our seats, but flew about like
ninepins.
"The Laffitte will be churned into butter," groaned H. C. spasmodically,
feeling a general internal dislocation. "Butter-wine. I wonder what it
will be like. A new discovery, perhaps."
But the luncheon-basket was in comparative repose. How Francisco managed
we never knew; habit is second nature; he neither lost his seat nor let
go the basket. Never in roughest seas had we been so tossed about. The
next day we were black and blue, and for a week after felt as though we
had been beaten with rods.
At last after what seemed an interminable drive, but was really only
some three miles, we turned from the main road and the common--evidently
the scene of Loretta's donkey adventure--into a narrow, shabby avenue of
trees. At the end appeared the outer gateway of the monastery, where we
were too thankful to dispense with the cart and its driver.