THE GARDEN OF SPAIN.
Charms of Tarragona--Dream of the past--Quasimodo comes not--Of
another world--Host's offer--Francisco inconsolable--A mixed
sorrow--No more holidays--List of grievances--Fair
scene--Luxuriance of the South--Hospitalet--Pilgrims of the Middle
Ages--Amposta--Centre of lost centuries--Historical past--Here
worked St. Paul--Our fellow-travellers--Undertones--Enter old
priest--Draws conclusions--Love's young dream--Impressions and
appearances--Not always a priest--Fool's paradise--Youth and
age--Awaking to realities--Driven out of paradise--Was it a
judgment?--Calmness returns--Judging in mercy--Nameless
grave--"Writ in water"--Withdrawing from the world--Entering the
church--Busy life--Romances of the Confessional--"To Eve in
Paradise"--Tortosa--Garden of Spain--Vinaroz--Wise mermen--Cradle
of history and romance--Gibraltar of the West--A race
apart--Benicarlo--Flourishing vineyards--"If the English only
knew"--Eve recognises priest--"I am that charming daughter"--Lovely
cousin engaged--Count Pedro de la Torre--Mutual
recognitions--Congratulations--Breaking news to H. C.--Despair--"To
Adam in Hades"--Gallant priest--Saved from temptation.
With sorrowful hearts we turned our backs one morning upon Tarragona.
Though bound for Valencia, Tarragona the delightful possessed charms
Valencia could never rival. Not again should we meet with such a
cathedral, such cloisters, or even so original and enthusiastic a
sacristan. We were leaving all that wonderful historical atmosphere that
made this exceptional place a Dream of the Past, and great was our
regret.
We had stood near the tomb of the Scipios and fancied ourselves back in
the days when our own era was dawning. Before us the ever-changing yet
changeless sea looked just as it must have looked when they, loving it,
decided to sleep within sound of its waters. In a last moonlight visit
to the cathedral we had waited and listened in hope of hearing
Quasimodo's footsteps, seeing his quaint and curious form approaching.
He never came. No unseen talisman whispered to him our desire. Perhaps
it was as well. A second experience is never the same as the first. The
subtle charm of the new and the strange, the unexpected, the unprepared,
is no longer there. Quasimodo now dwelt in our minds as a being
spiritual, intangible, of another world. That he belonged to the highest
order in this, is certain. The influence of his music haunted us, haunts
us still. In waking and sleeping dreams we live over and over again the
weird charm and experience of that wonderful night; see the moonbeams
falling in shafts of clear-cut light across pillars and aisles and
arches; hear and feel the touch, as of a passing breath, of the ghostly
visitants from Shadow-land. All the marvellous music steals into our
soul. There can be but one Quasimodo in the world. We doubt if there was
ever another at any time endowed with his marvellous faculty. It was
pain and grief to feel that we should see and hear him no more.
Our very host added slightly to our reluctant leaving by declaring that
if we would only stay another week he would charge us half-price for
everything: nay, we should settle our own terms. Francisco was
inconsolable, but perhaps a little selfishness was mixed with his
sorrow.
"No more holidays," he cried. "No more excursions to Poblet; no escape
from French lessons. And yet, senor, there are other places besides
Poblet, and every one of them would have delighted you. Think of all the
lost luncheons; all the first-class compartments that will now be empty.
There are lovely excursions, too, by sea." The boy's catalogue of
grievances was as long as Don Giovanni's list of transgressions.
But time the inexorable refused to stand still, and when the final hour
struck, the relentless omnibus carried us away.
Francisco accompanied us to the station, having an idea that without his
help we should inevitably go wrong. He was a witness to the abominably
rude station-master, who in this respect has not his equal in Spain,
according to our experience. Finally we moved off.
At the moment we felt a distinct mental wrench. Tarragona was indeed
over. To our right was the harbour with its little crowd of
fishing-boats; out on the sea lovely white-winged feluccas glided to and
fro. The whole journey was one of extreme beauty. Very soon we had the
sea on our left, and often the train skirted the very waves as they
rolled over their golden sands. The coast was broken and diversified,
now rising to hills and cliffs, now falling to a level with the shore.
Where we passed inland the country was rich and fruitful, showing more
and more the luxuriance of the South.
Many of the towns had historical interests or remains to make them
remarkable. At Hospitalet we found ourselves on the site of a House of
Refuge for pilgrims from Zaragoza who in the Middle Ages were wont to
cross the mountains in caravans after visiting the scene of some
miraculous pillar or image. Near this we skirted a fishing village,
where the train was almost washed by the sea that, blue and flashing,
stretched far and wide. The little fleet was moving out of the small
harbour as we passed, each followed by its shadow upon the water.
Picturesque Amposta was the centre and atmosphere of the lost centuries.
It existed long before the Romans, who, on taking it, made it one of
their chief stations. Here came Hercules, and after him St. Paul, who
did much work and ordained a bishop to carry on his labours. Later came
the Moors, when it reached the height of its glory. In 809 Louis le
Debonnaire, son of Charlemagne, besieged it, was repulsed, returned in
811 and conquered. The Moors quickly retook it, but the disorganised
inhabitants had become nothing better than pirates. So in 1143 the
Templars came down upon them, and inspired by the late victory at
Almeria, aided by the Italians, conquered in their turn: only to be
turned out again the following year by the inevitable Moors.
Everywhere the eye rested upon a lovely scene of river, sea and land,
intensely blue sky and brilliant sunshine. In our carriage we had a very
interesting bride and bridegroom. She seemed to worship the very ground
he trod upon, and both were evidently in paradise. At the same time he
accepted the worship rather too much as his due--gracefully and
graciously, but still distinctly his right. They were in the mood to
admire lovely scenery, and undertones of delight were frequent.
Presently an old priest entered the carriage, sat himself down beside
us, and they quickly fell under his eye. He looked on with a smile of
amusement at the silent unmistakable worship. We thought he drew his
conclusions as one who observes a scene in which he has no part or lot.
"Love's young dream," he said to us under cover of the rattle of the
train. "My experience tells me it is only a dream, varying in length
according to the constancy of the dreamers. You think I have no right to
give an opinion? Then, senor, I should tell you that, like the world in
general, you judge by appearances and judge too hastily. That is the
difference between impressions and appearances. Of first appearances
beware; of first impressions be assured. They have never failed me."
We agreed with the old priest, but made no remark.
"You think I have no business to judge of these matters?" he continued
with a smile; "and you are mistaken. I was not always a priest clad in
black robe and beaver hat, separated from the world by the barrier of
the Church. In early life I took up law, pleaded, and generally won my
cause. Then I pleaded my own cause with a beautiful woman, won her and
married her. I, too, dwelt in my fool's paradise; thought the world all
sunshine, the hours all golden. I was young and in those days handsome.
Never can I reconcile the ugly, grey-headed man one becomes in age, with
the charm and elegance of one's youth. But time has no mercy. However,
the fact remains that in those days I was young and handsome."
The old priest was handsome still; but again we were silent.
"Then one fine morning I awoke to realities," he went on. "The angel
with the flaming sword had come and driven me out of my paradise. Yet I
had not transgressed. It was the woman, whom I fondly hoped heaven had
given me as a life-long companion. She was beautiful; there was an
indescribable charm about her; but she was frivolous and inconstant. She
left me one day with one whom I had thought my friend. He was rich and
free to roam. I heard of them in other countries: wandering to and fro
like spirits ill at ease.
"Finally they went to Rome. Was it a judgment upon the wife who had
proved faithless to her husband, the man who had betrayed his friend?
Both took the fever at the same time and died within a week of each
other. They were buried side by side in a small cemetery near to the
Eternal City. Some years after I went to Rome. I had lived down my
life's tragedy and could gaze upon their graves with calmness. As I did
so, and realised the certainty of retribution, I prayed that I might
judge in mercy. They had blighted my life, but looking on those nameless
graves I felt for the first time that I could forgive. Yes, the graves
were nameless, for no stone had been placed over them. This I did. By
way of inscription I merely recorded the initials on each: and the text
'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'
"That very same day I was wandering about the English cemetery in Rome,
and came upon the text 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water;'
doubtless the expression of one whose life had been a failure or
disappointment. 'My friend,' I thought, 'you are not to be pitied half
so much as those whose names are writ in Sin.'
"It was about this time that I determined to enter the Church. Since
that terrible blow I had grown to hate the world, withdrew more and more
from society. I had no near ties on earth. Again and again I thanked
heaven that no child had been born to me. As soon as I had made the
resolution I put it in force, and cannot say that I ever regretted it.
Gradually all morbidness left me. I lead a busy life; I delight in
society; people consider me a very jovial old priest. But I never lift a
finger to promote a marriage; I never solemnise one without a sigh and a
wonder as to what will be the end of it. And let me tell you a secret. I
never hear in the confessional that love is on the wane between husband
and wife, without pouring out upon them the sternest vials of my wrath,
threatening them with all the terrors of purgatory if so much as a
breath of inconstancy of mind or thought is whispered. Oh, if I were not
pledged to silence, what Romances of the Confessional could I not tell
you!"
We had listened without interruption. Sitting side by side it was easy
to talk without being overheard. The train clattered and beat and
throbbed on its way. The happy pair were at the other end of the
carriage. H. C., who sat opposite to us, instead of giving his
undivided attention to the scenery, was composing a sonnet to the fair
lady, which he headed, "To Eve in Paradise"--a questionable compliment.
Tortosa, with its narrow streets and gloomy palaces, its strong walls,
ancient castle and bridge of boats, all visible from the train, had
passed away. One lovely view gave place to another.
"It is indeed a rich country through which we are travelling," said the
priest, "the very Garden of Spain, which appears to me to find its
culminating point round about Valencia. Our whole progress is marked by
historical footsteps. I never visit Tortosa without thinking of St.
Paul, and a little of his amazing energy seems to fall upon me. He
becomes a real presence to me. An influence he must and will be in all
places and in all ages. Then comes Vinaroz with its crumbling walls--one
of the loveliest spots in the whole province. I always think its people
are like mermen, neither one thing nor the other. They fish the sea and
plough the land by turns. Both occupations yield them good fruit, so
perhaps they are wise. The fish are abundant, the lampreys excellent. It
was here the Duc de Vendome died from a surfeit of fish, of which he was
passionately fond. But for this, Philip V. would probably never have
entered upon his long and eventful reign. Look at those white-winged
boats gliding upon the blue waters! Where is there another sea like the
Mediterranean? It is the very cradle of history and romance; scene of
half the mighty events of the world. Were I an idle man I would spend my
life upon its surface."
"What is that distant object?" indicating an enormous perpendicular rock
some five miles away, that stood a picturesque, castle-crowned islet,
round which the sea was breaking in faint white lines.
"We call it Gibraltar of the West," replied the priest. "An interesting
place to visit, and larger than you would imagine, with its 3000
inhabitants. They are curious people: in some things almost a race
apart. It is neither an island nor yet part of the mainland. You cannot
gain entrance by water, though surrounded by the sea. The only passage
to it is a narrow strip of sand reaching to the shore. It was here that
Pope Benedict XIII. took refuge after the Council of Constance had
pronounced against him. And here comes Benicarlo with its old walls," he
continued, as the train drew up at the small station. "The ancient town
is worth a visit. Its people, poor and wretched, might be flourishing
and well-to-do, for the neighbourhood is wonderfully productive. The
vineyards are amongst the best in Spain; the luscious wines are sent to
Bordeaux to mix with inferior clarets, which find their way to the
English market. Ah! the English little know what adulterated articles
are sold in England that the French would never look at."
At this moment our fair Eve, who for the last few minutes had come out
of paradise, looked attentively at the priest, hesitated a moment, then
spoke.
"From the singular likeness," she said, "I think you must be related to
the Duke de Nevada in Madrid? Forgive me if I am mistaken."
"Senora," replied the old priest with a polite bow, "Juan de Nevada is
my elder and much-loved brother, though we seldom meet--for Madrid is
the one place I never visit. I am gratified that you see in me the least
resemblance to that truly noble and great man."
"Have you never heard him speak of the Senor de Costello?" continued the
lady.
"Without doubt," returned the priest. "They are neighbours in Madrid. I
have heard him mention a very charming daughter, and also very charming
cousin who lives in Gerona."
"I am that charming daughter," laughed the fair Eve; "but the term
applies much more correctly to my lovely cousin. Her beauty has created
a furore in Madrid. We are great friends, and she stays with us part of
every year. She has just become engaged to your brother's eldest son,
and therefore some day will be Duchess de Nevada--though I trust the day
is far distant. You have doubtless heard of the engagement?"
"Indeed, yes," returned the priest. "Only last week I wrote my nephew a
long letter congratulating him upon his good fortune. But how comes it,
madame, if I may be so indiscreet, that my fair travelling companion
should not herself eventually have become Madame de Nevada?"
"For the excellent reason that sits opposite to me," quickly replied
this lovely Eve, laughing and blushing in the most bewitching manner.
Upon which she introduced her husband to the priest as Count Pedro de la
Torre.
The name explained what had puzzled us for some time. We were haunted by
a feeling of having met this young man in a previous state of existence,
but now discovered that we had really met him in Toledo. He was amongst
the group who had sat that first night of our arrival at the other end
of the table, smoking and drinking wine and coffee. He it was who had
come forward to speak to the man in the sheepskin, and then handed him a
bumper of wine. He had left the very next day, and we had seen less of
him than of the others.
We recalled the circumstance to his memory.
"I recognised you at once," he said, "but thought you had forgotten me.
That man in the sheepskin was my father's head huntsman, a privileged
being who was born and brought up on the estate, gave us our first
lessons in sport and looks upon us as his own children. My father's
place--my own, I fear, before long--is near Toledo. If you ever visit it
again we should be delighted to show you hospitality. We live with my
father when not in Madrid. He is old, in failing health, and could not
bear the idea of my leaving home. On my part I was too glad to remain in
the dear old nest."
"And we see that we have to offer you our congratulations," bowing as in
duty bound to his lovely partner.
De la Torre laughed. "You make me your debtor," he replied. "But however
profound your congratulations, they can never equal those I offer to
myself. I am indeed far more blest than I merit."
"Wait until I show you my true character," laughed madame, "take the
reins of government into my own hands, and leave you with no will of
your own--a henpecked husband. At present I tender you a velvet hand;
presently it may turn into----"
"If it changed into a cloven foot," he interrupted gallantly, "I should
still say it was perfect."
"Ah, you are in paradise," cried the old priest with a sigh; "in
paradise. Try to remain there. Do not summon the angel with the flaming
sword. Be ever true and tender to each other. Talk not of cloven feet.
Let it ever be the velvet hand, the glance of love, the gentle accents
of forbearance. You have every good gift that heaven and earth can give
you. Be worthy of your fate."
We interpreted as gently as possible to H. C. the sad news of the
engagement of the beauty of Gerona, the lovely Senorita de Costello. It
was a great shock. He turned deathly pale and remained for a time
staring at vacancy. Then with a profound sigh he tore up his
half-finished sonnet, "To Eve in Paradise," and began another
self-dedicated, "To Adam in Hades." He keeps it in a sacred drawer,
enshrined in lavender and pot-pourri.
"All this rencontre is very a propos," said the old priest. "Again the
world is smaller than it seems. And we are getting on. Here is Castellon
de la Plana already, with its fine fruit and flower gardens and
picturesque peasants. Alas, we see less costume everywhere than of old.
The taste of the world is not improving."
Very pleasantly passed the remainder of the journey, through a country
beautiful and fertile. Everywhere we saw traces of vineyards and
cultivated lands. Here and there oxen were ploughing. Often we saw them
thrashing out the rice. Many an old and picturesque well stood out
surrounded by trellis-work covered with vine-leaves. But the vines were
not festooned after the picturesque manner of North Italy, where you
walk under the trellis and pluck the grapes that hang in rich clusters.
Here the vines are trained on sticks or grow like currant bushes, and as
in Germany, lose their beauty.
A single field will produce at the same time fruit-trees, almond or
olive, corn and grapes, all mingling their beauty and perfume. We passed
a multitude of orange and lemon groves with all their deep, rich, sheeny
verdure. Nuts and olives, almonds and carobs abounded. Many a palm-tree
added its Oriental grace to the landscape. The whole country seemed to
revel in sunshine and blue skies. At Saguntum, that town of the
ancients, the heights were crowned by walls, fortresses and castles,
imperishable outlines grey with the lapse of centuries.
As it chanced we were all bound for Valencia. Our interesting bride and
bridegroom were staying there one night and continuing their journey the
next day. The priest was to spend a week there.
"I have a proposal to make," said de la Torre, as we neared the capital.
"We telegraphed for rooms and ordered dinner in our sitting-room. You
three gentlemen must join us. It will only be adding three covers--an
effort the chef will be equal to."
"Let me add my persuasions," added Countess de la Torre graciously and
gracefully. "Remember we have been united a whole week and are quite an
old married couple. You would give us great pleasure."
But this, strongly supported by de Nevada the priest, we felt bound to
decline. It would have been cruel to intrude so long upon a tete-a-tete
which just now must form the delight of their existence.
"I must be obdurate," said the priest. "In the first place your delicate
paradise food--which no doubt consists of crystallised fruits and
butterflies' wings--would be wasted upon three hungry travellers
dwelling without the enchanted gates. But let us compromise. We are all
staying at the same hotel. We three unappropriated blessings will dine
together, and after that we will come and take our coffee and Chartreuse
with you, remaining exactly one hour by the clock: not a moment more."
So it was settled.
Soon after this all the church towers and steeples of Valencia came into
view. Across a stretch of country, we saw the blue sea sparkling in the
evening sunshine. In the air, above the rush of the train, there was a
sound of ringing bells.
"It must be a gala day," said Madame de la Torre, listening for a moment
to the swelling clamour.
"It is for your arrival, madame," returned the priest gallantly. "They
wish to do you honour."
Our fair Eve laughed. "Monsieur de Nevada," she cried, "you were never
intended for a priest. It was a mistaken vocation. You ought to have
married, and your wife would have been your idol."
Under the circumstances it was a somewhat unfortunate speech. The drama
in de Nevada's life had taken place long before her birth. She evidently
knew nothing of the story. But the priest had outlived his sorrow, and
was of an age to sit loosely to the things of earth. A momentary shadow
passed over his face, gone as soon as seen.
"Madame," he laughed in clear tones, "if I were forty years younger and
Mademoiselle de Costello were not Madame de la Torre, she would almost
induce me to forget my vows. As it is, all is well. I am saved from
temptation. Valencia at last! Never did journey pass so quickly and
pleasantly."
A well-appointed omnibus was in waiting. We filled it comfortably, and
in a few moments found ourselves at the Hotel Espana. The manager
settled us in admirable quarters, and having some time to spare before
dinner we went out to survey the fair city by evening light.