"For many years I have paid them an almost daily visit," was the reply. "I live not very far off, and they speak to me of the past. A long past, sirs, for I am old. I have no need to tell you that. You see it in my face, hear it in my voice. In three years I shall be a centenarian, if Heaven spares me as long. I do not desire it. A man of ninety-seven has almost ceased to live. He is a burden to himself, a trouble to others. I was once chief architect of this city, and many of the more modern buildings that your eyes have rested upon are due to me. In my younger days I had a boundless love for the work of the ancients. Gothic and Norman delighted me. Half my leisure moments were spent in our wonderful cathedral, absorbing its influence. Ah, sirs, the cathedrals of Catalonia are the glories of Spain. I dreamt of reproducing such buildings; but we are in the hands of town committees who are vandals in these matters. Fifty years ago—half a century this very month—the destruction of this church and these cloisters was taken into consideration. They wanted to pull down one of the glories of Barcelona and build up a modern church and school. I was to be the architect of this barbarous proceeding. It happened that this was one of my most loved haunts. Here I would frequently pace the solitary cloisters, thinking over my plans and designs, trying to draw wholesome inspiration from these matchless outlines. I was horrified at the sacrilege, though it was to be to my profit. I fought valiantly and long; would not yield an inch; pleaded earnestly; and at last persuaded. The idea was abandoned. That you are able to stand and gaze to-day upon this marvel is due to me. Ever since then I have looked upon it as my own peculiar possession. Day after day I pay them a visit. My failing sight now only discerns vague and shadowy outlines. It is enough. Shadowy as they are, their beauty is ever present. What I fail to see, memory, those eyes of the brain, supplies. Rarely in my daily visits do I find any one here. Few people seem to understand or appreciate the beauty of these cloisters. They are like a hermit in the desert, living apart from the world. But here it is a desert of houses that surrounds them. Like myself, they are an emblem of death in life."
We started at this echo of our own words. Could his sense of hearing be unduly awakened? Or was the emblem so fitting as to be self-evident?
"You have long ceased to labour?" we observed, for want of a better reply to his too obvious comparison.
"For five-and-twenty years my life has been one of leisure and repose," he answered. "It has gone against the grain. I was not made for idleness. But when I was seventy-two years old, cataract overtook me. A successful operation restored my sight, but the doctors warned me that if I would keep it, all work must be abandoned. Since then I have more or less cumbered the ground. But for many friends who are good to me, life would be intolerable. Heaven blessed my labours, and gave me a frugal wife; I have all the comforts I need and more blessings than I deserve. This child is my favourite little great-granddaughter, and is often my charming companion to these cloisters. A dreary scene, gentlemen, for a child of tender years, but they read a solemn and wholesome lesson. Unconsciously she imbibes their influence. They tell her, as I do, that life is not all pleasure; that as these ancient architects left beautiful traces and outlines behind them, so we must build up our lives stage by stage, taking care that the outlines shall be true and straight, the imperishable record pure and beautiful. For every one of us comes the placing of the keystone, with its momentous Finis. But, blessed be Heaven, as surely beneath it appears the promised Resurgam."
We walked round the cloisters together, and for a full hour this patriarch, with the support of our arm, charmed us with reminiscences of Barcelona, descriptions of the lovely monuments of Spain he had visited in the course of his long life. In spite of his years, his memory still seemed keen and vivid, his mind clear. He had not passed into that saddest of conditions a mental wreck.
"And I pray Heaven to call me hence ere such a fate overtake me," he said, in answer to our remark upon his admirable recollection. "Whilst memory lasts and friends are kind, life may be endured. I possess my soul in patience."
We parted and went our several ways, leaving the little cloisters to solitude and the ghosts that haunted them. The streets of Barcelona grated upon us after our late encounter. It was returning to very ordinary life after the refined and delightful atmosphere of the past ages. We crossed the Rambla, and entering a side street quickly reached the cathedral, which became more and more a world's wonder and glory as we grew familiar with it, an unspeakable delight. In this little City of Refuge we again for a time lost ourselves in celestial visions. In this inspired atmosphere all earthly influences and considerations fell away; sorrow and sighing were non-existent: a millennium of happiness reigned, where all was piety and all was peace.
CHAPTER XV.
MONTSERRAT.
Early rising—Imp of darkness—Death warrant—The men who fail—Ranges of Montserrat—Sabadell—Labour and romance—The Llobregat—Monistrol—Summer resort—Sleeping village—Empty letter-bags—Ascending—Splendid view—Romantic element—Charms of antiquity—Human interests—Mons Serratus—A man of letters—Solitude à deux—Fellow travellers—Substantial lady-merchant—Resignation—Military policeman—"Nameless here for evermore"—Round man in square hole—Romantic history—Cherchez la femme—Woman a divinity—Good name the best inheritance—No fighting against the stars—Fascinations of astrology—Love and fortune—Too good to last—Taste for pleasure—Ruin—Sad end—Truth reasserts itself—Fortune smiles again—Ceylon—Philosophical in misfortune—A windfall—Approaching Montserrat—Paradise of the monks—Romance and beauty—New order of things—Gipsy encampment.
WE rose early one morning for the purpose of visiting Montserrat the sublime, the magnificent, and the romantic.