The driver had drawn under the shade of some trees, and was holding a levée. 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 Cæsar's opportunities he might have proved another Cæsar. 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 Janus 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 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 José, 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 à 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.