Soon after this we found ourselves in the open country. The roads were of the roughest: hard and dry, now all stones, now all ruts: some of the ruts a foot deep, into which the cart would sink to an angle of forty-five degrees. There were no springs to the cart; never had been any. It was stiff and unyielding, and evidently dated from the stone age. We did not even attempt to keep our seats, but flew about like ninepins.
"The Laffitte will be churned into butter," groaned H. C. spasmodically, feeling a general internal dislocation. "Butter-wine. I wonder what it will be like. A new discovery, perhaps."
But the luncheon-basket was in comparative repose. How Francisco managed we never knew; habit is second nature; he neither lost his seat nor let go the basket. Never in roughest seas had we been so tossed about. The next day we were black and blue, and for a week after felt as though we had been beaten with rods.
At last after what seemed an interminable drive, but was really only some three miles, we turned from the main road and the common—evidently the scene of Loretta's donkey adventure—into a narrow, shabby avenue of trees. At the end appeared the outer gateway of the monastery, where we were too thankful to dispense with the cart and its driver.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
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.