CHAPTER XXVII

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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 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 anticipation. 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 shore 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 passing. 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-class 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, passing 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.

Poblet was some miles from Espluga, and we had to pass through the town on our way to the said carriage. It had been taken on trust, neither carriage nor donkeys being at the station.

The town lies at the foot of a towering hill. From the station you cross over a picturesque stone bridge dark with age, spanning the rushing river. Standing on the bridge you look down upon a romantic ravine and valley, through which the river winds its course. On the further side you enter the town: a primitive out-of-the-world spot, as though it had made no progress in the last hundred years. The people correspond with their surroundings. The streets were narrow and irregular, and the virtue of cleanliness was nowhere conspicuous. Our landlord had well said that if we did not take our luncheon with us, we should take it with Duke Humphrey.

Nevertheless, there was that in Espluga which redeemed some of its disadvantages. Groups of houses with picturesque roofs and latticed windows: houses built without any attempt at beauty, yet beautiful because they belonged to a long-past age when men knew nothing of ugliness and bad taste. No one had thought it worth while to pull down these old nooks and remains and rebuild greater, or even adorn them with fresh paint. Consequently we saw them arrayed in all their early charm. It seemed a very sleepy town, with little life and energy. People plied their quiet trades. Everything was apparently dying of inanition.

Our donkey-woman was an exception: comely and wonderfully good-tempered, with a surprising amount of energy. Not having succeeded in hiring her donkeys, she was not to be altogether outdone by the carriage-man, and insisted upon accompanying us through the town, to carry the basket and show us the way. The man had disappeared to make ready.

"You have made a mistake, senor, in not taking my donkeys. They are beautiful creatures; six grey animals, as gentle as sheep. As for the carriage he praises, I pity you. The road is fearfully rough. When you reach Poblet, you will have no breath left in your body. All your bones will be broken."

This sounded alarming; but we discounted something for disappointed ambition.

"Are these donkeys all your living?" we asked, already feeling a certain regret that we had employed the man and not the woman.

"Not quite, senor. And then, you know, we live upon very little. You would be surprised if I told you how few sous a day have sufficed me. Hitherto I have lived at home with my mother and sisters, who do washing. We have had that to fall back upon when my donkeys are not hired. It is lucky for me, since few people come at this time of the year: very few at any time compared with what you would imagine. The world doesn't know the beauties of Poblet. It languishes in solitude. You will see when you get there. My beautiful donkeys!" she continued. "I love them, and they love me. I have some strange power over all animals. They seem to know that I wish them well. The very birds perch upon my shoulders as I go along, if I stop and call to them."

"Where have you learned your charm?" we asked, much interested in the woman. The loud voice of the station had disappeared, and she now talked in gentle tones.

"Charm, senor? I never thought of it in that light. If it is a charm, it was born with me. It is nothing I have learned or tried to cultivate, for it comes naturally."

"Can you transfer the power to others?" asked H. C. "Really," he added in an aside, "if this woman were in a higher station of life I could quite fall in love with her. She must be made up of sympathy and mesmerism. What a mistake it was to hire that wretched scarecrow of a driver. Don't you think we might take the woman as a conductor and so combine the two?"

We ignored the question.

"No, senor," replied the woman of strange gifts; "I cannot give my power to anyone. But why do you call it a power? It is merely an instinct on the part of the animals, who know I wish them well and would take them all to my heart, poor dumb, patient, much-tried creatures. Shall I tell you how I came to keep donkeys? It was not my own idea. I did not go to them: they came to me. It is ten years ago now, when I was eighteen. I went out one Sunday evening in August all by myself. We had had a quarrel at home. My mother wanted me to marry a man I hated, because he was well-to-do. I said I would never marry him if there was not another man in the world. My sisters were all angry, and said that with one well married they would soon all get husbands. I was the youngest. At last I burst into tears, and told them they might all have him, but I never would. And with that, between rage and crying, I went off by myself out into the quiet country. I took the road to Poblet, and wandered on without thinking.

"At last I came in sight of Poblet, and felt it was time to turn back. I had recovered my calmness, for I reflected as I went along that they could not make me marry the man, and that their vexation was perhaps natural. We were poor and struggling: he was rich compared with us. Well, senor, just as I turned I saw a beautiful grey donkey with a black cross on its back coming towards me across the plain. I thought it singular, for it was all alone, and I had never seen a donkey alone there before. There was something strange-looking about it. Evidently it has strayed, I thought, and must just stray back again. But with my love for animals I could not help stopping and watching. It came straight up to me, and put its nose into my hand, just as if it knew me. 'Where have you come from?' I said, patting its head. 'Your owner will be anxious. You must go straight home.' But there it stood, and there I stood; and for at least five minutes we never moved.

"Then I felt it was ridiculous, and set off home. Will you believe, senor, that the animal followed me like a dog. I could not get rid of it. When I arrived home the donkey arrived with me. What could I do? There was an empty stable next door, and I put it in there, thinking it would be claimed and perhaps I should get a small reward. The animal went in just as if the stable had been always its home. As I was leaving, it turned and looked at me, and said as plainly as possible, 'I hope you are not going to let me starve.' I went in and told them what had happened. 'It must be your lover who has taken the form of a donkey,' laughed my eldest sister. 'He knows you are fond of animals, Loretta, and has arranged this plan with the devil to make you like him.' 'I should soon prove the greater donkey of the two, if I allowed myself to marry him,' I retorted."

"Was the donkey never claimed, Loretta?"

"Senor, you shall hear. To sum up the story, the donkey never was claimed. We made every inquiry; we did all we could to find the owner; it was in vain; he never turned up, and to this day the donkey remains mine. People said he was a supernatural donkey, but of course I know better. The next thing was, how to make him earn his living, for I was determined never to part with him. Then the idea came to me to convey people to Poblet. The story got known, and sometimes at the station there would be quite a fight for Caro, as I called him. There is still. It gave me a start, and now in that very stable I have six beautiful donkeys that could not be equalled. And they all love me, and answer to their names, and come when I call them. Whichever I call comes; the others don't stir."

It was a singular but by no means impossible story. As H. C. had said, there was a certain mesmeric influence about the woman to which the sensitive animal world might very probably respond.

"And your lover? You did not take compassion upon him?"

"No, senor," laughed the woman, with a decided shake of the head; "but one of my sisters did; the eldest, who had been the most angry with me. And for the first six years they led a regular cat-and-dog life. Then he tumbled over the bridge into the river and was nearly drowned. He was saved, but his leg was broken and had to be taken off, and after that somehow his temper improved. My sister laughs and says she loves him better with his one leg than ever she did when he had two. She is welcome to him."

"But you," we observed, feeling the question a delicate one, "why have you never married? By your own confession you are twenty-eight."

The woman laughed and blushed. "The right man never came, senor, and I was in no hurry. I was quite happy as I was. Five men in this town asked me to marry them. I did not care for any of them. 'Will you love my donkeys?' I said to each. Not one of them said Yes; so I said No to all But now I have said Yes at last. And there he goes," she added.

A tall strong man with a plain but amiable and honest face crossed the road, and catching sight of the donkey-woman sent her a beaming nod and went on his way.

"You have chosen well, Loretta. He will make you a good husband."

"I think so," returned the woman, and evidently her heart was in the matter. "When I asked Lorenzo if he would love my donkeys, he said: Yes, a dozen if I had them. So I took him to the stables, and called Caro, and it came and put its nose into his hand just as it had done to me that very first evening at Poblet. 'You're the man for me,' I said: and that was our betrothal."

"And suppose Caro had turned his back upon him?" we inquired. Loretta blushed.

"Senor, I should have been angry with Caro: and I should have had compassion upon Lorenzo. But Caro had too much sense, and knew Lorenzo was to be its master. He is a carpenter, senor, and has a good trade. There is your carriage already waiting."

[Illustration: ON OUR WAY TO POBLET.]

"Ah, Loretta, you should have told us this story before. We should not have refused your donkeys. It would be an honour to ride the wise and gentle Caro."

"Another time, senor. You will be coming again, then you shall have Caro, though twenty others fought for him. No one comes to Poblet once without coming a second time. You will see."

As Loretta had said, the carriage was waiting. The carriage, save the mark! If we had regretted the donkeys before seeing it, what did we do now? It was nothing but a country cart covered with a white tarpaulin, and a door behind about a foot square, through which we had to scramble to find ourselves buried in the interior. The whole concern was only fit for a museum of antiquities, like the Tarragona victoria. But the thing was done, and we had to make the best of it.

Passing through the streets, we came upon more men pressing out the grapes. It was a much larger affair than that of Lerida, and the juice poured out in a rich red stream. Four strong men were at work.

We stopped the cart, struggled out of what Francisco called the cat-hole, and watched the process. It was a case of mutual interest. The men had their heads bound round with handkerchiefs. The thoroughfare was the end of the town, wide and cleanly. Altogether this was an improvement upon the Lerida wine-press, and when these men offered us of the juice in a clean goblet, we did not refuse them. This attention to strangers was evidently a peace-offering; a token of goodwill; and the loving-cup was cool, refreshing and delicious. Such must have been the true nectar of the gods.

"Almost equal to Laffitte," said H. C. "I don't know that I ever tasted anything more poet-inspiring. Let us drink to the health and happiness of the fair Loretta. Lorenzo is a lucky man."

With some genuine tobacco and a few cigars such as they had never seen or heard of, the men thought they had made an excellent exchange. We left them as happy as the gods on Olympus.

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.

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