Висенте Бласко-Ибаньес
The Shadow of the Cathedral
Gabriel wept, remembering their last interview in an Italian hospital, clean and sweet, but with the frozen atmosphere of charity. As he was not her husband he could only visit her twice a week. He presented, himself ragged and downcast, seeing her in an armchair daily paler and weaker, her skin of a waxen transparency and her eyes immensely enlarged. He knew a little about everything, and he could not conceal from himself the gravity of her illness. She waited quietly for death. "Bring me some roses," she said, smiling to Gabriel, as if in the last moment of her life she wished to acknowledge the natural beauty of the world made hideous and darkened by man. The "companion" lived on dry bread, refusing the help of his comrades only a little less poor than himself, sleeping on the ground, in order to take her on his next visit a bunch of flowers.
"She died, Sagrario," groaned Luna, "and I know not where they buried her; possibly she may have served for a lecture at the school of anatomy; she fell into the common grave like those soldiers whose heroism remains in obscurity. But I still see her; she has followed me in all my misfortunes, and I think she lives again in you."
"But uncle," said Sagrario, gently, touched by his recital, "I cannot do what she did. I am an unhappy woman, without strength or will."
"Call me Gabriel," said Luna, vehemently. "You are my Lucy, who again crosses my path; I knew it from the first, and for a long while I have been searching my feelings, analysing my will, and I have arrived at one certainty—that I love you, Sagrario."
The young woman made a gesture of surprise, drawing further from him.
"Do not draw away, do not fear me. I am a feeble man, you are a weak woman; you have suffered much, and have bid good-bye to the joys of the earth, but you are strong through misfortune and can look the truth in the face. We are both wrecks of life, and the only hope left us is to wait and die quietly in the desert island which is our refuge. We are undone, rent and swept away; Death has laid his hand upon us; we are fallen and shapeless rags after having passed through the mills of an absurd society. For this reason I love you, because you are my equal in misfortune; elective affinity unites us. Poor Lucy was the work-girl enfeebled by sweating, weakened from her birth by poverty. You were the girl of the people drawn from her home by the attraction of the well-being of the privileged; seduced, not by love, but by the caprices of the happy; the girl offered as a sacrifice to the Minotaur whose remains were afterwards thrown on to the dunghill. I love you, Sagrario; we are two fugitives from society, whose paths must join; I am hated as dangerous, you are despised as an outcast; misfortune has laid hold on us. Our bodies are weakened and we bear the wounds of the conquered, but before death claims us, let us make our lives sweet by love. Let us seek for roses as did poor Lucy."
He pressed the young woman's hands, who, bewildered by Gabriel's words, knew not what to say, and wept softly. Upstairs, in the upper storey of the Claverias, the Chapel-master played his harmonium. Gabriel knew the music: it was Beethoven's last lament, the "Must it be," that the great genius sang before his death with a melancholy that made one shiver.
"I love you, Sagrario," continued Gabriel, "ever since I saw you return to this house, bravely facing the odious curiosity of the people around. I have spent weeks and months by the side of your machine, seeing how industriously you worked. I have studied you and read you. You are a sincere and simple creature; your mind has none of the doublings and hidden corners of those complicated and tortuous souls used to the artifices of civilisation. I guessed day by day, by your gentle glance and the attention with which you listened to me, your gratitude for the little I was able to do for you. I remembered the dark period of your life, your slavery to the flesh; and finding me always gentle with you, protecting you from your father's anger, your gratitude has grown and grown, till to-day you love me, Sagrario. You yourself have not realised it, you know not how to explain it, but your being responds to mine like those chemical substances I spoke of. That single and eternal love is a lying invention of the poets, of which facts often make a mockery. One can love several people with equal warmth: the indispensable thing is the affinity. You who formerly loved a man to madness, what do you feel for me? Have I deceived myself? You really love me?"
Sagrario continued weeping, with her head bent, as though she did not dare to look at Luna. He reassured her gently: she must call him Gabriel, speak to him as "thou." Were they not companions in misfortune?
"I am ashamed," murmured the young woman. "So much happiness disturbs me. Yes, I like you. No, I love you, Gabriel. I would never have confessed it; I would have died sooner than reveal my secret. What am I that anyone should love me? For many days I have not looked in the glass, for I should weep at the remembrance of my lost youth. And then my story—my terrible story. How could I imagine that you—or, I should say, that thou, wouldst read my thoughts so clearly? See how I tremble; the shock has not yet ceased, the surprise of finding my secret discovered. A man like you to descend to me, ugly and sick for ever. No, do not speak of the other man; I forgot him long ago. And am I going to remember him now that you give me the charity of your love? No, Gabriel, you are the greatest and best of men; you are like a god to me."
They remained silent a long while with their hands clasped, looking into the darkness of the murmuring garden. From above still sounded the lament of the genius at his fading life.
Sagrario leant on Gabriel as though her strength were failing, and as if terrified at so much happiness, she wished to take refuge in his arms.
"Why have I known you so late!" she said in a low voice. "I should have wished to love you in my youth, to be beautiful and healthy only for you, to have the beauty and charm of a great lady to soften the rest of your life. But my gratitude can offer you little, nothing but ill-health; the seeds of death are in me, and slowly I shall fade away. Gabriel, why did you set your heart on me?"
"Because you are an invalid, and unfortunate as I am. Our misery is the loving affinity. Besides, I have never loved like most men. In my travels I have seen the most beautiful women in the world without the slightest glow of desire. I am not of an amorous temperament. From my adventures in Paris when I was young I always returned with a feeling of disgust. My love for the unfortunate has mastered me to the point of blunting my feelings. I am like a drunkard or a gambler, who, obsessed by their passion, feel nothing before a woman. A studious man, buried in his books, feels very little the calls of sex. My passion is pity for the disinherited, and hatred of injustice and inequality. It has so entirely absorbed me, enslaving all my faculties, that I have never had time to think of love. The female does not attract me, but I worship a woman when I see her sad and unfortunate. Ugliness makes more impression on me than beauty, because it speaks to me of social infamies, it shows me the bitterness of injustice, it is the only wine which revives my strength. I loved Lucy because she was unfortunate and dying. I love you, Sagrario, because in your early youth you were a wanderer in life, one whom no one would love. My love is for you, to brighten what remains to you of life."
Sagrario leant on Gabriel's breast.
"How good you are!" she sighed; "what a beautiful soul!"
"Yours is the same, poor Sagrario. Your life has been a snare. You sold yourself through hunger and despair as do thousands of others; you thought to find bread in the false pretences of love. Everything is for the privileged of this world: the arms of the father, the sex of the daughter, and when those arms are weakened, or the youthful body loses its charms, they are thrown on one side and replaced. The market is abundant; I love you for your misfortunes. Had I seen you young and beautiful as in former times, I should not have felt the slightest attraction. Beauty is a bar to sentiment. The Sagrario of former times, with her dreams of being a great lady flattered by the words of youthful lovers, brightly dressed like brilliant birds, would never have thought of a vagabond aged by misery, ugly and sick. We understand each other because we are unfortunate; misery allows us to see into each other's souls; in full happiness we should never have met."
"It is true," she murmured, leaning her head on Gabriel's shoulder. "I love that misery which has allowed us to know, each other."
"You will be my companion," continued Luna, in a soft tone. "We will pass our lives together till death breaks the chain. I will protect you, although the protection of a sick and persecuted man is not worth much."
He passed his arm round the woman, raising her head with his other hand, fixing his eyes on those of Sagrario, which were shining in the starlight bright with tears.
"We shall be two souls, two minds who cherish one another without giving rein to passion, and with a purity such as no poets have imagined. This night in which we have mutually confessed one to another, in which our souls have been laid open to one another is our wedding night; kiss me, companion of my life!"
And in the silence of the cloister they kissed each other noiselessly, slowly, as though with their lips joined they were weeping over the misery of their past, and the brevity of a love around which death was circling. Above, the lament of Beethoven went on unfolding its sad modulations, which floated through the cloister and round the sleeping Cathedral.
Gabriel stood erect sustaining Sagrario, who seemed almost fainting from the strength of her feelings; he looked up at the luminous space with almost priestly gravity, and said, whispering close to the young woman's ear:
"Our life will be like a deserted garden, where amid fallen trunks and dead branches fresh foliage springs up. Companion, let us love one another. Above our misery as pariahs let spring arise. It will be a sad spring, without fruit, but it will have flowers. The sun shines for those who are in the open, but for us, dear companion, it is very far. But from the black depths of our well we will clasp each other, raising our heads, and though his heat will not revive us, we will adore him like a distant star."
CHAPTER X
In the beginning of July Gabriel began his nocturnal watch in the Cathedral.
At nightfall he went down into the cloister, and at the Puerta del Mollete, joined the other watchman, a sickly-looking man who coughed as badly as Luna, and who never left off his cloak even in the height of summer.
"Come along, we are going to lock up!" said the bell-ringer, rattling his bunch of keys.
After the two men had entered the church, he locked the doors from outside and walked away.
As the days were long, there still remained two hours of daylight after the watchmen entered the Cathedral.
"All the church is ours, companion," said the other watchman.
And like a man used to the imposing appearance of the deserted church, he settled himself comfortably in the sacristy as in his own house, opening his supper basket on the chests, and spreading out his eatables between candelabras and crucifixes.
Gabriel wandered about the fane. After many nights of watching, the impression produced when he first saw the immense church deserted and locked up had not yet faded. His footsteps resounded on the pavement, his strides shortened by the tombs of prelates and great men of former days. The silence of the church was disturbed by the strange echoes and mysterious rustlings; the first day Gabriel had often turned his head in alarm, thinking he heard footsteps following him.
Outside the church the sun was still shining, the coloured wheel of the rose window above the great doorway glowed like a luminous flower-bed; below, among the pillars, the light seemed overcome by the darkness; the bats began to descend, and with their wings made the dust fall from the shafts in the vaulting. They fluttered round about the pillars, circling as in a forest of stone; in their blind flight they often struck the cords of the hanging lamps, or shook the old red hats with dusty and ragged tassels that hung high above the cardinals' tombs.
Gabriel made his rounds throughout the church. He shook the iron railings in front of the altars to make sure they were securely locked, pushed the doors of the Muzarabe Chapel, and that of the Kings, threw a glance into the Chapter-house, and finally stopped before the Virgin del Sagrario; through the grating he could see the lamps burning, and above, the image covered with jewels. After this examination he went in search of his comrade, and they both sat down in the crossways, either on the steps of the choir or of the high altar; from there you could take in the whole of the church at one glance.
The two watchmen began by carefully putting on their caps.
"They will probably have ordered you," said Gabriel's companion, "to respect the Church, and that if you want to smoke a cigar you must go up to the gallery of the Locum; and that if you wish to sup you must go into the sacristy. They said the same to me when I first entered into the service of the Church. But these are only the words of people who sleep comfortably and quietly in their own houses. Here the principal thing is to keep good watch, and beyond that, each one may do as seems best to him to pass the night. God and the saints sleep during these hours; they really must want some rest after spending the whole day listening to prayers and hymns, receiving incense, and being scorched by wax tapers close to their faces. We watch their sleep, and, the devil! we are surely not wanting in respect if we allow ourselves a little liberty. Come along, companion, it is getting dark; let us club our suppers."
So the two watchmen supped in the crossways, spreading the contents of their baskets on the marble steps.
Gabriel's comrade carried at his belt, as his only arm, an ancient pistol, a present to the Obreria which had never been fired; to Luna, Silver Stick pointed out a carbine, a legacy to the sacristy from the ex-civil guard, in memory of his years of service. Gabriel made a gesture of repulsion. It was all right standing there, he would get it if it were wanted; so he left it in the corner with some packets of cartridges, mouldy from the damp and covered with cobwebs.
As the night fell the colours from the windows above became obscured, and in the darkness of the naves all the lights from the various lamps began to shine like wavering stars; all the outlines of the church were lost, and Gabriel fancied himself once more sleeping at night on the open ground. It was only when he went the rounds with his lantern in his hand that the outlines of the Cathedral rose out of the shadow ever vaster and more mysterious. The pillars seemed to start out to meet him, rising suddenly up to the roof with the flashes of light from the lantern, the squares in the tiled floor seemed to dance with every swing of the light, and every now and then Gabriel could feel on his head the flutter of passing wings. To the screams of the bats were added the hooting of other frightened birds, who in their flight knocked against the pilasters; they were the owls who came down attracted by the oil in the lamps, and who nearly extinguished them with the sweep of their wings.
Every half-hour the silence was disturbed by the sound of rusty wheels and springs, and then a bell with a silvery tone struck; these were the gilded giants of the Puerta del Reloj, marking the passing of time with their hammers.
Gabriel's companion complained greatly of the innovations introduced by the cardinal for the annoyance of poor folks. In former times he and his old comrade, once they were locked up, could sleep as they pleased without fear of being reproved by the Chapter. But His Eminence, who was always endeavouring to find some means of annoying his neighbour, had placed in different parts of the Cathedral certain little clocks brought from abroad, and now they had to go every half-hour, open them and record their visit. The following day they were examined by Silver Stick, and if any carelessness was discovered he imposed a fine.
"An invention of the demon not to allow us to sleep, comrade. But all the same we might manage a nap if we help one another. While one sleeps a bit the other must undertake to check these cursed machines. No carelessness, eh, fresh man? The pay is short and hunger great, and we cannot afford fines."
Gabriel, always good-natured, was the one who made most rounds, looking scrupulously after the markers, while his companion, the Señor Fidel, rested quietly, praising his generosity. They had given him a good companion; he liked him much better than the old one, with his imperious manners of an old guard, always squabbling as to whose turn it was to get up and make the round.
The poor man coughed as much as Gabriel; his catarrhs disturbed the silence, echoing through the naves till it seemed like several monstrous dogs barking.
"I do not know how many years I have had this hoarseness," said the old man; "it is a present from the Cathedral. The doctors say I ought to give up this employment; but what I say is—who is to support me? You, companion, have begun at the best time. There is a coolness here that all those would envy who are generally perspiring about this time in the cafes of the Zocodover. We are still in summer, but you can imagine the damp which penetrates everything; and you should see what it is in winter! we must really dress up as maskers, covered with caps, shawls and cloaks. They have the charity to leave us a little fire in the sacristy, but many mornings they find us almost frozen. Those of the Chapter call the choir 'kill canon,' and if those gentlemen complain of one hour's stay in this ice-house, having eaten well and drunk better, you may just fancy what it is for us. You have had the good luck to begin in summer, but when the winter comes on you will just have a good time of it!"
But even though it was the best part of the year, Gabriel coughed much, his illness increasing from the dampness of the Cathedral.
On moonlight nights the church was strangely transfigured, and Gabriel remembered sundry operatic effects he had seen during his travels. The white tracery of the windows stood out against the blackness with milky whiteness, splashes of light glided down the pilasters, some even from the vaulting. These mocking spectres moved slowly along the pavement, mounting the opposite pillars and losing themselves in the darkness; those rays of cold and diffused light made the shadows seem even darker as they brought out of the darkness here a chapel, beyond, a sepulchral stone or the outline of some pilaster; and the great Christ, who crowned the railings of the high altar, glowed against its background of shadow with the brilliancy of its old gilding, like some miraculous apparition floating in space in a halo of light.
When the cough would not allow the old watchman to sleep, he told Gabriel of the many years he had carried on this nocturnal life in the Primacy. The office had some resemblance to that of a sexton, for he spent most of it among the dead in the silence of desertion, never seeing anyone till his watch was finished. He had ended by becoming used to it, and it had cured him of many fears he had in his youth. Before, he had believed in the resurrection of the dead, in souls, and the apparitions of saints. But now he laughed at all that. Whole years he had carried on this night work in the Cathedral, and if he heard anything it was only the scampering of rats, who respected neither saints nor altars, for after all they were only wood!
He only feared men of flesh and blood, those robbers who in former times had more than once entered the Cathedral, obliging the Chapter to establish this night vigilance.
He entertained Gabriel with the account of all the attempts at robbery which had happened during the century. In the Cathedral was enough wealth to tempt a saint, Madrid was near, and he much feared the "swell" thieves. But thieves would have to be clever and fortunate to get the better of them. Silver Stick, the bell-ringer, and the sacristan made their nightly inspection before locking up, Mariano then taking the keys away with him to the belfry. No one could think of breaking the locks and bolts, for they were of antique and extremely strong work; besides, they two were there inside to give the alarm on hearing the slightest noise. Formerly, by the help of the dog, the watching had been more complete, for the animal was so alert that no passer-by could approach the doors for an instant without his barking. After its death the Señor Obrero spoke month after month of getting another, but he had never fulfilled his promise. But all the same, without the dog, they two were there and that meant something, eh! He with his old pistol which had never been fired, and Gabriel with his carbine, which was still standing in the corner where his predecessor had left it. He plumed himself upon the fear he and his companion would excite, but, called back to reality by Luna's smile, he added:
"At any rate, in case of emergency we can reckon on the bell that summons the canons; the rope hangs down in the choir, and we have only to ring it. And just imagine what would happen if it rang in the silence of the night! All Toledo would be on foot, knowing that something serious was taking place in the Cathedral. With this and those cursed markers that will not let one sleep, one might say that even the king was not so well guarded at night as this church."
In the morning when the watch was ended, Gabriel would return to his house, perished with cold, longing to stretch himself in bed. He would find Sagrario in the kitchen, warming the milk he was to drink before turning in. His gentle companion still called him "uncle" in the presence of the household, and only used the loving "thou" when they were alone. When he was in bed she would bring the steaming milk, making him drink it with maternal caresses, smoothing the pillows; after which she would carefully close the windows and doors so that no ray of light should disturb him.
"Those nights in the Cathedral!" said she complainingly. "You are killing yourself, Gabriel. It is not fit for you. My father says the same. As it is certain there is nothing beyond death, and that we shall not see one another, do try and prolong your life by being careful. Now that we know each other, and are so happy, it would be so sad to lose you!"
Gabriel reassured her. This would not go on beyond the summer; after that they would give him something better. She must not be so sad; such a little thing did not kill one. He would cough just as much living in the Claverias as passing the night in the Cathedral.
After dinner he would go into the cloister, completely rested by his morning's sleep. It was the only time of the day in which he could see his friends; they either came to find him, or he went in search of them, going to the shoemaker's house or up into the tower.
They greeted him respectfully, listening to his words with the same attention as before; but he noted in them a certain air of proud independence, and at the same time of pity, as if, although grateful to him for having transmitted his ideas to them, they pitied him for his gentle character, so inimical to all violence.
"Those birds," said Gabriel to his brother, "are flying on their own account. They do not want me, and wish to be alone."
Wooden Staff shook his head sadly.
"God grant, Gabriel, that some day you may not repent of having spoken to them of things they cannot understand! They have greatly changed, and no one can endure our nephew, the Perrero. He says that if he is not allowed to kill bulls in order to get rich, he will kill men to get out of his poverty; that he has as much right to enjoyment as any gentleman, and that all the rich are robbers. Really, brother, by the Holy Virgin! have you taught them such horrible things?"
"Let them alone," said Gabriel, laughing; "they have not yet digested their new ideas, and are vomiting follies. All this will pass, for they are good souls."
The only thing that vexed him was that Mariano withdrew from him. He fled his company as if he were afraid. He seemed to fear that Gabriel would read his thoughts, with that irresistible power that from boyhood he had held over him.
"Mariano, what is the matter with you?" said he, seeing him pass through the cloisters.
"Much that is out of gear," answered his surly friend.
"I know it, man—I know it; but you seem to avoid me. Why is this?"
"Avoid you—I?—never. You know I always love you. When you come to my house you see how we all welcome you. We owe you a great deal; you have opened our eyes and we are no longer brute beasts. But I am tired of knowing so much and being so poor, and my companions are thinking the same. We do not care to have our heads full and our bellies empty."
"Well, then, what remedy have we? We have all been born too-soon. Others will come after us, finding things better arranged. What can you do to right the present, when there are millions of workers in the world more wretched than yourselves, who have not succeeded in finding a better way out even at the cost of their blood, fighting against authority?"
"What shall we do?" grumbled his companion. "That is what we shall see, and you will see also. We are not such fools as you think. You are very clever, Gabriel, and we respect you as our master, for everything you say is true. But it seems to us that when you have to do with things—practical things: you understand me? when one must call bread, bread, and wine, wine: am I explaining myself?—you are, begging your pardon, rather soft, like all those who live much in books. We are ignorant, but we see more clearly."
He walked away from Gabriel, who-was quite unable to understand the true bearing of this aberration among his disciples. Several times when he went up to the tower to spend a few moments with his friends, they would suddenly cease their conversation, looking anxiously at him as though they feared he might have overheard their words.
It was several days since Don Martin had been in the cloister. Gabriel knew through Silver Stick that the chaplain's mother had died, and a week afterwards he saw him one evening in the Claverias. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks thin, and his skin drawn as though he had wept much.
"I come to take farewell, Gabriel. I have spent a month of sorrow and sleeplessness nursing my mother. The poor thing is dead; she was far from young, and I expected this ending, but however strong and resigned one may be, these blows must be felt. Now the poor old woman is gone I am free; she was the only tie that bound me to this Church, in which I no longer believe. Its dogma is absurd and puerile, its history a tissue of crimes and violence. Why should I lie like others, feigning a faith I do not feel? To-day I have been to the palace to tell them they may dispose of my seven duros monthly and my chaplaincy of nuns. I am going away. I wish not only to fly the Church, I wish to get out of her atmosphere; and a renegade priest could not live in Toledo. You see this masquerade? I wear it to-day for the last time; to-morrow I shall taste the first joy of my life, tearing this shroud into shreds, such small shreds that no one will be able to use them. I shall be a man. I will go far away, as far as I can. I wish to know what the world is like as I have to live in it. I know no one, I shall have no assistance. You are the most extraordinary man I have ever known, and here you are hidden in this dungeon by your own free will, concealed in a Church which to your views must be empty. I am not afraid of poverty. When one has been God's representative on six reals a day one can look hunger in the face. I will be a workman; I will dig the earth, if necessary. I will get employment on something—but I shall be a free man."
As the two friends walked up and down the cloister Gabriel counselled Don Martin in determining the place to which he should direct his steps, as his thoughts wavered between Paris and the American republics, where emigration was most needed.
As the evening fell, Gabriel took leave of his disciple; his fellow-watchman was waiting for him in the cloister ready for locking-up time.
"Probably we shall never meet again," said the chaplain sadly. "You will end your days here, in the house of a God in whom you do not believe."
"Yes, I shall die here," said Gabriel, smiling. "He and I hate one another, but all the same it seems as if He could not do without me. If He goes out into the streets it is I who guide His steps, and again at night, it is I who guard His wealth. Good-bye, and good-luck, Martin. Be a man without weakness. Truth is well worth poverty."
The disappearance of the chaplain of nuns was effected without scandal. Don Antolin and the other priests thought the young man had moved to Madrid through ambition, to help swell the number of place-hunting clerics. Gabriel was the only one who knew Don Martin's real intentions. Besides, an astonishing piece of news, that fell on the Cathedral like a thunderbolt, soon caused the young priest to be forgotten, throwing all the gentlemen of the choir, all the smaller folk in the sacristies, and the whole population of the upper cloister into the greatest commotion.
The quarrels between the Archbishop and his Chapter had ended, everything that had been done by the cardinal was approved of in Rome, and His Eminence fairly roared with joy in his palace, with the fiery impetuosity of his usual feelings.