THE RUINS OF POBLET.
A dream-world--Ruins--Chapel of St. George--Archways and Gothic
windows--Atmosphere of the Middle Ages--Convent doorway--Summons
but no response--Door opens at last--Comfortable looking
woman--Ready invention--Confusion worse confounded--True
version--Francisco painfully direct--Guardian gets worst of
it--Picturesque decay--Gothic cloisters--Visions of beauty--Rare
wilderness--King Martin the Humble--Bacchanalian days--When the
monks quaffed Malvoisie--Simple grandeur of the church--Philip Duke
of Wharton--Cistercian monastery--History of Poblet the
monk--Monastery becomes celebrated--Tombs of the kings of
Aragon--Guardian sceptical--Paradise or wilderness--Monks
all-powerful--Escorial of Aragon--The great traveller--Changing for
the worse--Upholding the kingly power--Time rolls
on--Downfall--Attacked and destroyed--Infuriated mob--Fictitious
treasures--Fiendish act--Massacre--Ruined monastery--Blood-red
sunset--Superstition--End of 1835.
Once within the gateway we were in a dream-world; a world of the past; a
world of ruins, but ruins rich and rare.
From the outer gateway a long avenue of trees and buildings led to the
monastery. Far down you looked upon a second gateway with a wonderful
view of receding arches and outlines. Between the two gateways on the
left were the workshops of the artisans of the days gone by, now closed
and desolate. Just before reaching the second gateway, on the right, we
found the small fifteenth-century chapel of St. George, with the
original stone altar and groined and vaulted roof. On the left within
the gateway was an ancient hospital and chapel, both crumbling into
picturesque decay: and on higher ground, the palace of the bishops,
where they lived and ruled in the days of their glory.
Exquisite outlines of crumbling archways and Gothic windows surrounded
us. Over all was a wonderful tone of age, soft and mellow. Towers and
steeples rose in clear outlines against the sky, outlines still perfect
and substantial. But the outer buildings, which had been palatial
dwellings, were mere empty shells overgrown with weeds, given over to
the bats and the owls. A wonderful bit of moulding or fragment of an
archway, Roman or Gothic as might happen, showed the beauty and
magnificence of what had once been, and would still exist but for the
barbarities of man. Some of the outer walls might have defied a
millennium of years. It was a dead world of surpassing beauty and
refinement: a series of crumbling arches and moss-grown fragments of
gigantic walls. We had it all to ourselves; the perfect repose was
unbroken; no restless forms and loud voices intruded; no jarring element
broke the spell of the centuries. We were in the very atmosphere of the
Middle Ages. In days gone by the monastery must have been of regal
splendour, as it was unlimited in power.
At last we reached the convent doorway and a bell went echoing through
the silence. No one responded, and we began to fear that perhaps the
custodian had gone off like our night porter in Lerida, taking the keys
with him. A second summons produced echoing footsteps, and the door was
opened by a comfortable looking woman, who was neither a ruin nor a
fragment nor specially antique.
"Excuse me for keeping you waiting," she said. "I am not the guardian,
only his humble wife. In fact he calls me his chattel. I object to the
term. We did not expect any one here to-day, and he has just gone out to
do a little commission."
But we discovered that this was a stretch of the imagination. In reality
the old man, seized with a fit of laziness, was only then dressing. He
appeared on the scene almost at once, somewhat to his spouse's
confusion. But she made the best of it, and patting her capacious apron
and stiffening her neck, walked off with a proud step and a jaunty air
to her special quarters.
"We have had no one here for a fortnight," said the guardian. "I began
to think we might advertise ourselves as closed for the winter season,
like the seaside casinos. Quite worn out with doing nothing, I thought I
might as well spend the morning in bed for a change. Of course just as
an umbrella brings sunshine, so my staying in bed brought visitors."
"But your wife said that you had gone out to do a commission," cried
Francisco, with all a boy's direct statement of the truth.
"Did she indeed now," replied the old guardian calmly. "That was
over-zeal on her part; done with a good motive, but still wrong. I shall
have to chastise her."
"How shall you do it?" asked Francisco. "Beat her?"
"We don't beat women, young senor," replied the guardian severely. "My
chastisement takes the form of admonition."
"When I wanted punishing, my father used to beat me with a cane,"
returned Francisco. "I don't think admonition would have done me any
good at all. I don't suppose it will do your wife any good. On the very
next occasion she'll tell another white lie. Much better give her a
caning and have done with it."
"Did your father ever cane his wife?" asked the old man drily.
"She would have been much more likely to cane him," returned Francisco
emphatically. "Does your wife beat you?"
The old man felt he was getting the worst of it; was being driven into a
corner by this enfant terrible; and took refuge in silence.
This interesting conversation took place just inside the doorway, where
we found ourselves lost in the beauty of the scene. A court with round
arches on either side resting on pillars with small capitals. Above them
the walls were in their rough, rude state, full of picturesque decay,
but here as in many parts of the interior much had been restored.
Nevertheless, so much of the original remains that the restoration does
not offend. It has been well done. Before us, at the end of the short
entrance-court was a large and splendid archway, and beyond we had a
distant view of the Gothic cloisters.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO CLOISTERS: POBLET.]
The interior was so immense, the passages were so intricate, we could
never have found our way without the custodian. Nothing could be
lovelier than the half-ruined cloisters. The large exquisite windows
were of rich pointed work, seven bays on each side, pillars and tracery
either almost all gone, or partly restored. In one corner of the
quadrangle was a hexagon glorieta enclosing the fountain that in days
gone by supplied monks and bishops with water. Weeds and shrubs and
stunted trees grew about it; a rare wilderness. Above rose the outlines
of battlemented walls; of ruined pointed windows, lovely in decay; of
crumbling stairways, rich mouldings and pointed roofs. The cloister
passages opened to enormous rooms. On the east side was the
chapter-house, supported by four exquisite pillars, from which sprang
the groining of the roof; the doors and windows were specially graceful
and refined; the floor was paved with monumental stones of the
dead-and-gone abbots, many of the inscriptions effaced by time.
Near this was the large refectory with pillars and pointed vault. Up the
staircase, which still remains, we passed to the palace del Rey Martin;
King Martin the Humble as he was called; and large and baronial in days
gone by the palace must have been, its very aspect transporting one to
feudal times. Below the palace were enormous vaults where the wine was
once stored: great vats and channels, and a whole series of processes to
which the wine was subjected. Those must have been bacchanalian days,
and supplies never failed. All the rooms--the Chocolateria, where the
abbots took their chocolate, the Novitiate, of enormous dimensions, the
Library, the room of the Archives, the room that contained the rich
monastery treasure, another that had nothing but rare MSS., some of
which are scattered but many more destroyed--all these rooms seemed
countless, and each had its special charm and atmosphere.
It was impossible to enter the refectory with its vaulted roof lost in
the semi-obscurity which reigned, without conjuring up a vision of monks
and abbots who in past centuries feasted here and quaffed each other in
draughts of rich Malvoisie. In the palace del Rey Martin, we imagined
all the regal pomp and splendour in which the king delighted. In the
wine vaults we beheld the wine running in deep red streams, traced it to
the refectory table, and noticed the rapidity with which it disappeared
before the worthy abbots. In the vaults it passed through every stage,
from the crushing of the grape to the final storing in barrels.
On one side of the cloisters was the partly restored church, high and
wide, with a magnificent nave of seven fine bays, so slightly pointed as
to be almost Romanesque. We were lost in wonder at the size of the
building, its simple grandeur, even as a partial ruin. Open to it from
the north side is the great sacristy, saddest room of all. For here we
find a solitary tombstone on which is inscribed the name of Philip Duke
of Wharton, who came over to the monastery, a lonely exile, and died at
the age of thirty-two, without friend or servant to soothe his last
moments, knowing little or nothing of the language of the monks who
surrounded him. Most melancholy of stories.
In the church, on each side of the high altar were remains of once
splendid tombs. They are now defaced, and the effigies have altogether
disappeared. Here was once the tomb of Jayme el Conquistador, which we
had looked upon that very morning with our amiable sacristan on the left
of the Coro in Tarragona cathedral. Its ancient resting-place in the
great monastery church is now an empty space.
The aisle behind the high altar contains five chapels, and behind these
outside the church lies the cemetery of the monks, a beautiful and ideal
spot with long rows of round arches one beyond another, so that you seem
to be looking into vistas of countless pillars. Above the arches and
pillars are walls of amazing thickness, with windows and projections,
all ending in moss-grown, crumbling outlines. Below, small mounds and
tombstones mark the resting-place of the dead. Here they sleep
forgotten; no sign or sound penetrates from the outer world, and those
who visit them are comparatively few.
The whole monastery is nothing but an accumulation of crumbling walls
still strong and majestic, of church and cloister, of palace and
palatial courts, of refined Gothic windows with broken tracery, of
ancient stairways and flying arches. Over all was the exquisite tone of
age.
It was originally a Cistercian monastery, dating from the middle of the
twelfth century. Its abbots were bishops, who lived in great pomp and
almost unlimited wealth and power. "Which they used according to their
lights," said our custodian; "sometimes wisely, sometimes wastefully. I
should like to have been cellarman to the old abbots in the days when
the vaults were full of wine and a few quarts a day more or less were
never missed."
"Is there any legend connected with its origin?"
"Indeed, yes, senor. When was there ever an old institution in Spain
without its legend? As the senor knows and sees, the monastery dates
back to the year 1150. But long before that, in the days of the Moors, a
hermit named Poblet took refuge here that he might pray in peace. An
emir found him one day, captured him and put him into prison. Angels
came three times over and broke his chains. The emir grew frightened,
repented, set the hermit at liberty, and gave him all the surrounding
territory in this fertile valley of La Conca de Barbera. In 1140 the
body of Poblet was miraculously discovered. It was nothing but a heap of
bones, and so I suppose they were labelled, or how could they have
identified them--but I don't know about that. The bones of course became
sacred and had to be duly honoured. So Ramon Berenguer IV. built the
convent of El Santo; the bones were interred under the high altar, and
the king gave enormous grants to the clergy. The place grew celebrated
above all others in Catalonia; it become a sort of Escorial, and here
the kings of Aragon for a long time were buried."
"And the bones of the hermit--where are they?"
"Nobody knows," replied the guardian, shaking his head wisely. "They may
pretend, but nobody knows. Is it likely? And what does it matter for a
few human bones? Just as if they could work miracles or do any good. A
poor old hermit, with all our weaknesses upon him!"
"Then you don't believe the legend?"
"Not I, senor. I believe much more in the jovial times the old abbots
indulged in. At least we have a capacious refectory and inexhaustible
wine vaults to prove what fine banquets they had in the Middle Ages. We
have come down to poor times, in my opinion. The world in general seems
very much what this monastery is--a patched-up ruin."
"If the world were only half as beautiful," said H. C., "we should spend
our years in a dream."
"It would not be my sort of dream, senor," returned the old guardian
drily. "I have been here for twenty years, and confess I would give all
the ruins in the world for a good and gay back street in Madrid or
Barcelona. To you, senor, who probably come from the great cities of the
world and mix with gay crowds--well, I dare say you think this paradise.
To me it is a dreary wilderness."
It was not to be expected that the old custodian would appreciate all
the beauty and refinement, all the ecclesiastical, regal and historical
atmosphere that surrounded it with a special halo. And perhaps twenty
years' contemplation of the outlines would have made many a better man
long for a change of scene. Custom stales and familiarity breeds
contempt. But not twice twenty years could have made us unmindful of the
singular beauty of Poblet.
[Illustration: MONKS' BURIAL GROUND: POBLET.]
We had got round to the lovely cloisters again, and Francisco declared
it was time to display the luncheon-basket. So there, in the silent
cloisters, surrounded by all the tone and atmosphere and outlines of the
early centuries, we spread our feast.
The old guardian was equal to the occasion and produced table and
chairs. Those he placed in the quadrangle, under the blue skies. The
lovely glorieta was on one side of us; on the other, by looking through
the broken tracery down the silent passage, we caught the outlines of
the great church; a wonderful view and vision.
Our host, better than his orders, had packed up two bottles of wine, and
H. C. in the largeness of his heart presented the guardian with a
brimming bumper of choice Laffitte, that nearly half emptied one of the
bottles. Like a true courtier, he bowed and drank to our health and
happiness, and when the wine had disappeared, patted his fine rotundity
with affectionate appreciation.
"Senor," he cried, "this is better than anything I ever tasted. A bottle
of this a day would reconcile me even to the solitude of Poblet. Surely
the old abbots never had anything equal to this--even when they drank
Malvoisie. It has set the blood coursing through my veins as I have not
felt it for twenty years. For such as this some people would sell their
souls."
The excellent fumes must have penetrated even to the guardian's private
rooms, for at this moment, with an air of great innocence, the wife
appeared upon the scene. Francisco declared she had heard the cork drawn
and arrived for a share of good things. With true gallantry, but a
sinking at the heart for the diminishing Laffitte, H. C. poured out
another bumper and offered it to the lady, whose proportions matched her
husband's. It was accepted with a reverence, and if appreciation were a
reward for the empty bottle, H. C. had his to the full. Then the
comfortable pair retired to the cloister passage, where the guardian had
his own table and chairs and display of photographs, and there they sat
down and contemplated life under Laffitte influence. Judging by their
expressions they were in the enjoyment of infinite beatitudes.
[Illustration: RUINS OF POBLET.]
It was a calm, quiet, delicious hour, far removed from the world. For
the moment we were back in the centuries, picturing scenes of the past.
Days when Poblet rose from small things to great; when its abbots became
mitred; when they could ask nothing of the kings of Aragon that was not
immediately granted. The kings delighted to honour them. Wealth flowed
into the treasury; power multiplied. At last they ruled as despots. The
kings built them a palace within the hallowed precincts. Side by side
dwelt humble monk and crowned head. Humble? Where the regal will
clashed with the monkish, the king went on his knees and gave way. It
became the Escorial of Aragon, a thousand times more beautiful and
perfect than that other Escorial reposing on the hill-slopes of Castile.
Here it pleased the kings to be buried, and close to the monks' cemetery
reposed the dead who had held the sceptre. No special tomb or carved
sarcophagus marked their rank. In death all should be equal. Or if there
were tombs decorated with gold and enriched with sculpture, they were
placed in the great church. What more indeed could they want than these
wonderful arcades reposing under the pure skies of heaven.
But the monks grew stiff-necked and proud; waxed rich and powerful,
grasping and avaricious. Since kings bowed down to them, they were the
excellent of the earth. Humility fled away. They were paving the road to
their own downfall. At last they would only admit those of highest rank
into their community. Of course they upheld the kingly power whilst
trying to make it subservient to themselves. The throne was their
stronghold: Republicanism meant confiscation. The revolutions of the
world have attacked the religious orders before all else with hatred and
violence.
Time rolled on. Ferdinand VII. died, and in the War of Succession they
became politically unpopular. Socially they had long been disliked for
their oppression of the peasantry; but strong and rich, the feeling had
to be cherished in silence. The monks were Carlists to the backbone.
At length, in the year, 1835, Poblet was attacked by the peasantry, who
came down like a furious avalanche upon the building that for its beauty
should have been held twice sacred.
By this time, too, a change for the better had come over the monks. Much
wealth and influence had gone from them; they were quietly doing good.
But the traditions of the past are slow in dying. The mob believed the
monastery was a vast treasure-house; untold riches lay buried in
fictitious graves, hidden in tombs and hollow pillars. It was now that
the men of Reus proved capable of fiendish acts of excitement. The monks
were driven from their refuge and many were cruelly massacred. The
pent-up fury of ages was let loose like a torrent. No power could stay
the thirst for so-called revenge. It was their hour; a short-lived hour;
but how much was accomplished! The monastery was ruined. The mob,
infuriated at finding no heaps of gold, no hidden treasures, tore down
pillars, defaced monuments, desecrated the church, left the beautiful
traceried windows in ruins, and then set fire to the building.
The sun had risen on as fair and peaceful a scene as earth could show;
it set on the saddest of devastations. Yet, thanks to the solid masonry,
much escaped. For the monks it was lamentation and mourning and woe. It
has been recorded that the sun went down in a deep-red ball, reflection
of the blood of the martyred monks. But the people are superstitious. We
have seen it ourselves sink over the Spanish plains also a fiery-red
ball, intense and glowing, when the world was at peace. Yet, it must
have been a special sunset on that memorable day of 1835, for it is
recorded that long after the sun disappeared clouds shot to and fro in
the sky like swords of flame. But this, too, we have gazed upon in days
of peace and quietness.