No monastery can be more romantically placed; perhaps none ever equalled it; yet of late years some of its romance and beauty has disappeared. The lovely old buildings that were a dream of Gothic and Norman refinement, of architectural perfection, have given place to new and hideous outlines. Nothing remains to show the glory of what has been but one side of a cloister through whose pointed arches you gaze upon a perfect Norman doorway—a dream-vision. A railway has brought Montserrat into touch with the world, and to accommodate the crowd of visitors, a new Hospederia has been built containing a thousand rooms, resembling an immense and very hideous prison. The passages are long, dark, narrow and cold. Rooms open on each side—single rooms and sets of rooms. The latter are furnished with a kitchen; so that a family or party of friends may come here with bag and baggage, pots, pans and all kitchen equipage, servants included, and encamp for as long or as short a time as may please them.
Our train stopped at the little station under the very shadow of the mountain. This was the more crowded part of the settlement, and on the left we noticed what looked like a party of gipsies encamped, enjoying an open air feast with much laughter and merriment. The monastery buildings were at the other end of the plateau.
We left the station under the pilotage of our friend the postman, carrying his mail-bag. Before us, raised on a terrace, was a long row of buildings old and new, of every shape and size. These were the dependencies, and helped to form the little world of Montserrat. Towering behind, up into the skies, were the precipitous sides, peaks and pinnacles of the great mountain.
"There lies the Post Office," said our man of letters, "and that is my destination. If you have any intention of remaining the night, you should first pay a visit to the little house on the right. The funny little monk who attends to visitors will receive you, conduct you to the Hospederia and give you rooms. In summer every room is often occupied to overflowing, but now you will have the place to yourselves—you and the ghosts—for I maintain that it is haunted. I will not say farewell, señor; we shall frequently meet during the day. There is small choice of ways in this little settlement; but for all that you will find that Montserrat is one of the glories of Spain."
He went his way, and we wondered what news from the outer world could now have any interest for the monks who were as dead to that world as though they reposed under their nameless graves in the little cemetery.
CHAPTER XVI.
A HIDDEN GENIUS.
Monk's face—Superfluous virtue—"Welcome to Montserrat"—Mean advantage—Exacting but not mercenary—Another Miguel—Missing keys—Singular monk—Hospederia—Uncertainty—Monk's idea of luxury—Rare prospect—Haunted by silence—Father Salvador privileged—Monk sees ghosts—Under Miguel's escort—In the church—Departed glory—The black image—Gothic and Norman outlines—Franciscan monk or ghost?—Vision of the past—Days of persecution—Sensible image—Great community—Harmony of the spheres—Sad cypresses—Life of a hermit—Monk's story—Loving the world—Penitence—Plucked from the burning—Talent developed—A world apart—False interest—Salvador—Temptation and a compromise—Salvador extemporises—"All the magic of the hour"—Salvador's belief—Waiting for manifestations.
WE turned to the right, and entering the building indicated, passed into a bare, unfurnished room. Through a square hole in the wall, not unlike a buttery-hatch, a monk's face peered at us with large coal-black eyes, startling in their effect; a small, spare monk, with unshaven face, round head and black hair, habited in the ugly dress of the Jesuit order. It struck us rather unpleasantly that everything about him was black, not the eyes and hair only. He evidently belonged to a sect who thought washing superfluous, if not sinful.
"Ah!" he exclaimed in quite friendly tones. "Welcome to Montserrat! I am very happy to see you."
"We might be chums of a lifetime," said H. C., shuddering, as the well-disposed ecclesiastic advanced a dusky hand; for we saw it coming and meanly put him in the foreground. In spite of his Napoleon manner, he had to shake it. The little monk was not to be frowned down.