Glories of Spain Part 37

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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sage 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 Ja.n.u.s 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.

CHAPTER XXVII.

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 G.o.ds--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 pa.s.sengers 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 antic.i.p.ation. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sing. 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-cla.s.s 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, pa.s.sing 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.