Glories of Spain Part 24

The streets were very steep, stony and winding. Water streamed from the houses and ran down the hills, and the place altogether looked very hope-forsaken, for it especially needed sunshine. Yet in spite of all we found it very interesting, and its situation is so striking that it could never be otherwise. We waded on and thought the rain would never cease or the walk ever end.

At last the inn, which would hardly have been found without our guide.

He pointed to it with pride, but we could not rise to the sentiment.

The entrance was small, and we soon found ourselves mounting a narrow wooden staircase which had neither the fashion of Barcelona nor the dignity of Gerona. The first landing opened to a long low room of many windows, looking old enough to have seen the birth and death of many a century. This was given over to the servants of the house, and the humbler folk whose rank ent.i.tled them to a place below the salt. They were seated at round tables--but certainly were not knights--in detachments of eight or ten, and their boisterous manners and loud voices kept us at a respectful distance, without any desire for a nearer approach. For ourselves, we had to go a stage higher in the world, represented by the second floor. Here we found the quality at breakfast--the substantial mid-day meal: a worthy crew hardly a degree better than those we had just interviewed. They proved, indeed, the roughest specimens we had yet met in Catalonia: an a.s.semblage of small farmers, pedlars and horse-dealers. Had the landlord added house-breakers to his list, one or two might have answered to the description.

But as travelling, like adversity, makes us acquainted with strange companions, and we cannot always choose our types, we sat down to table with a good grace. The only alternative was to fast, a penance in which H. C. had no faith whatever. To-day this motley a.s.semblage seemed peculiarly objectionable, without any of the redeeming points such people often have: honest, straightforward speech, directness of purpose and modesty of manner which are a certain subst.i.tute for cultivation, and atone for the want of breeding. Nothing of this was perceptible to-day.

The room like the one beneath was long and low, but lighted only by one window at the end, so that we were in a semi-obscurity still further increased by the weeping skies. A redeeming feature was the civility of the inn people, a fault their slowness. To make matters worse, the food was coa.r.s.e and ill-served, and we had to pa.s.s almost everything. Long before dejeuner came to an end we left them to it and went forth to explore. We had very little time to spare, having arranged not to spend the night in Manresa: a lucky arrangement on our part, for picturesque and striking as the place really is, its resources are soon exhausted. A wet evening in such an inn would have landed one in the profoundest depths of melancholy.

On leaving the table we found that for the moment the rain had ceased.

Our guide evidently thought it his duty to look after us, and no sooner caught sight of us as we pa.s.sed downwards than he sprang up, leaving upon his plate a delicious piece of _black-pudding_. In vain we offered to wait whilst he finished his bonne-bouche. "You are very good, senor, but it is not necessary," he replied. "I am very fond of black-pudding, but this was my third helping, and really I have had enough."

This seemed probable. "Apparently the supply equals the demand," we said. "You must have a liberal master in the landlord of the inn."

"Yes, that is true," returned Sebastien--for such he soon told us was his name. "But we only have black-pudding once a week, and we ought to have it twice. We are agitating for it now, and as the padrone knows the value of a good servant I expect we shall get it."

Sebastien would not leave us again and became our shadow, sublimely indifferent to the rain which every now and then came down in waterspouts. To this day we feel that we saw Manresa under a cloud. It was a study in grey; and if we paid it another visit in sunshine we should probably not know it again. For this H. C. was responsible in preaching up his rainy season: the true fact being that the next day and for ever after we had blue skies and cloudless sunshine.

Manresa is rich in outlines. Its church towers stand out conspicuously on the summit of the rock on whose slopes much of the town is built. On leaving the inn we saw before us one of the old churches standing in solemn repose, grey and silent above the houses. The interior proved uninteresting in spite of the nave, wide after the manner of the Catalan churches. Sebastien thought every moment spent here waste of time. "It is cold and ugly," he declared, const.i.tuting himself a judge--and perhaps not far wrong. "It makes me shiver. But when the altar is lighted up on a Sunday evening, and the place is full of people, and the organ plays, and the priest gives the Benediction, then it is pa.s.sable."

We felt inclined to agree with him, and wished we could see the effect of a Benediction service, but as this was not possible we left the church to its silent gloom and shadows, Sebastien cheerfully leading the way.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MANRESA.]

The streets, decayed and old-world looking, had a wonderfully picturesque and pathetic element about them, and on a bright day would have been full of charm. A ca.n.a.l ran through one of them, spanned by a picturesque single-arch stone bridge. On each side the houses rose out of the water, reminding one of Gerona or a Venetian street; handsome, palatial, full of interesting detail; a mult.i.tude of balconies, many of rich wrought ironwork; many a Gothic window with deep mullions; many an overhanging cas.e.m.e.nt, from which you might have dropped into the running stream. Waterspouts stood out like gargoyles, and slanting tiled roofs were full of colouring. Towering above these rose a lovely church tower, splendid with Gothic windows, rich ornamentation and an openwork parapet, with a small round turret at one corner.

We stood long on the bridge, gazing at the wonderful scene, all its infinite detail and harmony of effect; the deep shadows reflected in the dark water which needed so much the blue sky and laughing sunshine. It was evident that Sebastien could not understand what kept us spell-bound. He stood by in patience, now looking intently as though trying to learn what was pa.s.sing in our minds, now directing his attention to the water and the houses, as though to guess the secret of their fascination. Apparently he was hail-fellow-well-met with every one in the town--that dangerous element, a popular character; for not a creature pa.s.sed us, man or woman, youth or maiden, but he had something to say to them.

"You seem to know every one, Sebastien," we remarked, as we took our kodak out of the case he had slung over his shoulder, in the wish to carry away with us some of these splendid outlines.

"What would you, senor? The town is not large, the inhabitants do not change, and I was born and bred here. I am fond of company, and make friends with them all. I wanted to be a soldier and go out and see the world, but they said my sight was not strong enough, and they would not have me; so I turned to and took service in the hotel. I am comfortable enough, and just earn my living, without a trifle over for the old mother, but I don't see much prospect of rising unless I am promoted to the dining-room."

"Your eyes look quite strong," we said; large blue eyes, bright and clear, without a sign of weakness about them.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MANRESA FROM THE RIVER: MORNING.]

"They are as strong as yours, senor--if I may say so without offence. I never could make out what they meant. Sometimes I have thought my old mother was at the bottom of it, and because I was her only child, went to the authorities and begged them to spare me. I don't _know_ that she did, but I have my suspicions. One day I taxed her with it point-blank.

She was very confused for a moment, and then told me not to be foolish--the authorities wouldn't pay attention to such as her, even if she had gone to them. I'm not so sure of that. It is well known the old mother has seen better days, and when she goes out dressed in her best, with her black lace mantilla over her head, which she has had ever since she was a young woman, why, she commands respect, and I can quite believe the authorities would listen to her."

"Why not try again with those eyes of yours?" we suggested. "You cannot be more than nineteen."

"Not more than nineteen!" returned Sebastien, opening the said eyes very wide. "Why, senor, I am twenty-three, going on for twenty-four. I know I look young, and do what I will I can't help it, and can't make myself look any older. I have tried hard to grow a moustache, but it is only just beginning to sprout."

He laughed, and we laughed with him, for the down upon his upper lip was of the most elementary description. He looked youthful in every way, but we cheered him with the reflection that it was a fault time would inevitably rectify.

"I have one consolation," he said. "At the fonda I get as much black-pudding as I want--once a week; in the army they don't give black-pudding at all. So if I have lost something, I have gained something too."

"Sebastien, we are ashamed of you! Would you sacrifice your birthright for a mess of pottage?"

"What does the senor mean?" asked Sebastien, looking puzzled.

"Have you never heard of Esau?"

"Never, senor. Was he a Spaniard or an Englishman? And was he, too, fond of black-pudding?"

It was impossible to help laughing; but we pa.s.sed over the question, feeling that a course of Bible history begun on the bridge would come to an untimely end. So we left him to his ignorance and his preference for black-pudding, pa.s.sed away from the ca.n.a.l, the old bridge and ancient outlines, and climbed about the steep decayed streets. The rain poured through the water-spouts, and every now and then we came in for an unwelcome shower-bath. This highly amused Sebastien, who never enjoyed the fun more than when he himself was victim.

Suddenly we found ourselves confronted by one of those views which come upon one as a revelation of what nature sometimes accomplishes. We had seen nothing equal to it, nothing to resemble it since the days of Segovia. In sunshine the likeness might have been still more striking.

We had pa.s.sed by a steep descent into the lower part of the town and stood upon the hill side. To our right rose the great collegiate church of La Seo, crowning a ma.s.sive and majestic rock. Houses stretched far down the slopes, and the church rose above them in magnificent outlines.

It was built of yellow greystone that harmonised wonderfully with the grey skies. For the time being these had ceased to weep, and everything was bathed in a thin mist, which rolled and curled about and threw a wonderful romance and glamour over the scene, especially refining and beautifying.

Still below us, on the left, ran the broad river, with its dark, almost blood-red waters flowing swiftly under the high, picturesque bridge. We traced its winding course between deep banks far out into the country; just as we had traced it from the heights of Montserrat, not far off as the eagle flew. Here too everything was veiled in a thin mist.

The rock on which the church stood consisted of a series of hollows, where grew lovely hanging gardens and flowering trees. The church with its striking outlines looked ma.s.sive enough to defy the ages. It was of the true fourteenth century Catalan type, and took the place of a church that had existed here in the tenth century. Its b.u.t.tresses are especially large and prominent. The lofty tower stands over the north aisle. Four arched stone ribs crown the steeple, within which a bell is suspended. A fine Romanesque doorway leads into the modern uninteresting cloister. Other fine doorways lead into the interior of the church. Its great size, high and wide, is impressive, but the details are trivial.

The capitals of the enormous octagonal columns are poor, and the arches they support, thin and almost contemptible, take immensely from the general effect.

Here also, there was no need to remain long. With the charms of Barcelona cathedral lingering in the mind as a dream and a world's wonder, the collegiate church of Manresa, with all its loftiness and expanse, was cold and lifeless, without sense of beauty or devotion. In its striking situation lies the chief merit of the town.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MANRESA FROM THE HILL-SIDE: EVENING.]

We went down the banks, stood on the shallows and watched the deep red waters rushing through the bridge. Beyond it was a slight fall over which the waters poured in a crimson stream. Near the bridge stood a large, ancient crucifix. On the farther bank of the river rose the outlines of the Cave of Ignatius Loyola. Above the cave has now been built a great church, and the cave itself, reached by a short pa.s.sage in its north-east corner, has been turned into a votive chapel, to which pilgrims flock at stated times.

Manresa is of course for ever a.s.sociated with the name of Loyola. He had been staying some time at the Monastery of Montserrat, preparing his mind for the great change he intended to make in his life. As he wandered about the mountain in his cavalier's dress, he must have looked far more fitted to lead an army than to become a member of the Church militant.

One of his most frequent visits was to the Hermitage of St. Dismas, high up amongst the rocks. Here dwelt a saintly priest, Juan Chanones, who gave Loyola much holy counsel. It must needs be that Loyola earnestly weighed the cost of what he contemplated; impossible but there were moments when the tempter placed before him in the strongest colours imaginable the allurements of the life he was renouncing. When the final die was cast there must be no turning back, no lingering regrets. Loyola was one of the last men to be vacillating or lukewarm; with him it was ever one thing or the other; and so in the quiet monastery, far out of the world, he considered well his decision.

Chanones was the very man for such a crisis. The hermit was one who imposed upon himself every possible penance. He fasted, wore a hair shirt, and spent many hours of the twenty-four in long prayers and devotions. Loyola had begun by confessing to him the whole of his past life, and confiding his hopes and aspirations for the future: how he wished to become a monk and devote his days to religion. He was already a mystic, full of ecstasies, seeing visions and dreaming dreams.

Chanones strengthened his resolutions and fired him yet more with the spirit of mysticism.

Under his influence, the night before leaving the monastery he hung up his sword and dagger beside the image of the Virgin as a sort of votive offering, declaring that henceforth he had done with the world and with wars. His only warfare should be spiritual: fighting against the powers of darkness and the influence of evil. He spent the whole night in prayer before the altar; where according to his mystic moods, visions and revelations had been vouchsafed to him.

But earlier in the evening a slight event had happened.

It was the eve of the Annunciation, in the year 1522. Loyola had come down from the hermit's cave dressed in the rich garb of a cavalier which as yet he had not thrown off. In the Hospederia of the monastery were many poor pilgrims; beggars dressed in rags. Meeting one of these, Loyola persuaded him to exchange his rags for his own splendid dress.

Disguised in his sackcloth gown and girdle, few would have recognised the once magnificent knight. His head, accustomed to a helmet, was now bare. His left foot was unshod, on his right he wore a sandal of gra.s.s.

He was lame from that wound in his leg which had been the turning-point of his career. Never perfectly healed, of late it had become inflamed and painful. In this garb he spent his last night at Montserrat.

Next morning he went forth at daybreak with a few companions, one of whom was Juan Pascual. They had not proceeded many miles before they were overtaken by a hasty messenger who asked Loyola if it was he who had presented a beggar with the rich dress of a cavalier. The story had been doubted and the man put into confinement. Loyola declared that it was true, lamented the trouble he had brought upon the beggar, and prayed he might be liberated; adding that he had made the exchange from motives of penance and religion, as well as disguise. The messenger returned to the convent, and the little band of pilgrims continued on their way.

They journeyed slowly, but the distance was not great. At noon they were overtaken by the mother of Pascual, who in company with others, was returning from celebrating the Feast of the Annunciation at Montserrat.

This lady, Inez, directed him to the hospital of Santa Lucia, where he would obtain relief for his leg, which threatened to become troublesome if not dangerous. Inez quickly discovered that Loyola was no ordinary pilgrim, and supplied him with food from her own table during the five days he remained in the hospital.

The day after his arrival he went up to the great church of La Seo, and remained in prayer for five hours, seeking direction for his movements.

At the end of five days he left the hospital for a room found him by Inez. Here he at once adopted that spirit of fasting and penance which knew no moderation and with him became fanaticism. The food sent by Inez he gave away, and lived upon black bread and water. He constantly went bare-headed and bare-footed, wore a hair shirt like Chanones, and occasionally added to his sufferings by putting on a girdle made of the leaves of the p.r.i.c.kly gladiole. He neglected himself in every way, never cutting his nails or combing his hair and beard; so that he who had once been the most fastidious of cavaliers now became a byword to those who met him and gazed in contempt and derision. He spent much time at the hospital nursing the sick, devoting himself to the most forbidding cases.

This life continued for four months, and then he withdrew to the cave which he declared had been miraculously revealed to him. It overlooked a valley called by the people the Vale of Paradise, and its existence was known to few.