Everything was flourishing, everything was smiling in that small, sad corner of the world… Everything resumed its function, everything was returning to life, reborn… everything, except the cloddish parishioners, who carried on, day and night, in their perpetual stupor, more dead to the world than their inanimate surroundings.
‘The truth is that preaching or prayers have achieved nothing, absolutely nothing here!’ the priest mused sadly. ‘I have been able to jolt the stones hereabouts, but not to do anything to move these crude and dirty people. I have shifted boulders from where they stood, dragging them down the mountain to the church… but I have not had the strength to tear these woodlanders out of the eternal slumber that oppresses them. But now perhaps they will come back to life… and what could not be achieved by entreaties and kind words will henceforth be accomplished by tangible examples and deeds completed. When they see that out of the ruins the church has soared upwards again, on graceful new wings, they will all feel restored, with a will to live life fully again. Then I shall say to them, ‘Look, just look at the poor old lady from centuries long ago, see how she is now decked out in new clothes, as though ready to go to a wedding! Look how she swings her brand-new door in the middle of the façade; how she shows off all the fresh proud pointing which runs from the entrance all the way round to the apse; look how she blinks with the stained glass in her windows; see how she holds her head high, with that bell tower built up again from its courses of stone that had been lying in a heap on the ground! And you, what can you do? You too can lift up your heads once more, raise your spirits, because for the church and for you the hour of resurrection has come!’
As the day for reopening the church to its parishioners approached, Father Llàtzer was becoming more and more confident that God would touch their hearts, so that, in the presence of the newly risen church, they would fall prostrate with admiration, as though before the radiance of a great prodigy.
The pity was that things were not completed as quickly as he would have liked. And the reason for this was that, once the building work was finished and the craftsmen had been paid off, the three inhabitants of the house had to set about cleaning from top to bottom the whole of the church interior. It was such a long and laborious chore, daunting for all of them. All the dust and powder from working the stone had fallen in white patches on the old black dirt which covered the floor, the product of centuries of neglect on the part of the woodlanders. It was necessary now to remove from the statues of saints and the altars themselves and from the holy vessels the layers of dust that covered everything, dust which grotesquely disguised the true colours and shapes of each single item. A thorough brushing was needed to remove the new dust which had quickly gone to settle in hidden nooks and crannies, as though resisting capture. It was necessary also to bring down the black cobwebs which clung high up in the rafters like clusters of sleeping bats. Then there were the thick patches of mould, like a rash covering the columns, panels and tracery of the altar screens, which had to be carefully cleaned off… And it was such hard work to remove all that dank, stale residue which had been patiently tended over long years by the venerable ministration of dead centuries. The filth seemed to be at home there, drowsing in corners and cracks. When they removed it from one place, it quickly fled to snuggle somewhere else. Momentarily disturbed, flecks of dust flew around everywhere like tiny malign imps, until they fell asleep again once they had landed in a new place…
Then there began a long, undignified tussle between the dust, which settled everywhere, and the priest with both of his aged companions who pursued it with committed patience. Scrubbing, wiping and washing, working in silent concentration through every corner of the temple, it seemed that the three of them were performing a quite unwonted ceremony of purification. It took on the character of a strange ritual cleansing, a kind of exorcism to rid the church of the evil spirits idly lingering or drowsing in the dust. Mariagna in particular, with her air of dumb resignation, so long-suffering and inexpressive, as though she had taken a vow of humility and silence, went thoroughly over each of the altars, one panel at a time, cleaning the candlesticks and lampstands one by one, just as if she were following to the very letter the complicated rules of some mysterious rite. ‘Away with you!’ she seemed to be saying, in a kind of muttered prayer, to the grime that lurked in the embossing and in cracks. ‘Away with you, all you bone idle dust! Get up, get moving and get on your way in the name of God! Away with you damned cobwebs! Go and get spun in the pine trees out in the woods! Off you go, tiresome fluff! Outside with you this instant, and don’t let us see you ever again!’
And so Mariagna went about her duty, in an attitude of complete devotion, making many reverential bows and crossing herself at each altar… and with her feather duster in her hand, as though it were the aspergillum, she ceremonially made to despatch the filth from the sacred objects, driving it out for a bracing walk far from the house of the Lord…
Church of Sant Pau de Montmany, Rovira farm and the Bertí cliffs.
(Courtesy of Salvador Llobet/the Municipal Archive, Granollers)
IX
The Bells Ring Out
When the day arrived for Mass to be celebrated for the first time since completion of the building work, the church was gleaming like a mirror. The freshly washed white cloths on all the altars, the glossy decoration on the frames of the altar cards, and the candlesticks holding their new candles, all together formed the impression of a fine bunch of flowers. The high altar could not have looked more splendid. The braid on the canopy, the moulding on the steps, the scallops decorating the niches, cornices and side panels… everything shone as though freshly regilded. Curly heads of little cherubs smiled from the bases and the capitals of the columns, looking at the hanging bunches of golden grapes that were entwined along the twists of the pillars. The figures of the saints, previously so knocked about and shabby, had been brought back from death into life. All the images were clothed in carefully repaired tunics and neatly darned capes, like rustic saints, poor but well turned out. Saint Isidore’s dangling arm had been put back in place, repaired and now resting again on his hoe; Saint Sebastian, freshly repainted, stood tightly bound to the tree trunk where he was martyred, with the arrows in his flesh resilvered; and Saint Paul, the stocky patron saint of the parish, thundered out his message from the stand in the centre of the high altar.
Overcome with joy, the priest was beside himself with expectation, impatiently anticipating the time for the bells to ring calling his parishioners to prayer and for them to be shown that gift from God which was sure to work the miracle of bringing them back to life. Long before daylight he was already going back and forth in the church, putting the finishing touches to the altarpieces. In order to see how wonderful the high altar would look when it was all illuminated, he did a rehearsal by lighting tapers and candles on the side table, on the steps, in the niches and along the edge of the cornice… And when it was all lit up, when the altar was resplendent with so many twinkling points of brightness, shining, burning, glowing, sparkling like a golden brazier, the priest felt half-forming on his lips some words which were probably inspired by the Bible and which always came to him whenever hope and joy sprang forth in his heart: ‘The way of the temple had been effaced, and the people had forgotten its ceremonies; but I have raised up the ruins of the house of the Lord and have lit the lamps in the tabernacle…’
Then he awoke from that ecstasy which had possessed him for an instant, and he once more started giving orders to the old couple, as though to use in some constructive way the time which was dragging painfully before the sun would rise and before Mass would begin.
‘Josep!’
‘Father…’
‘Start laying out the ornaments and my vestments, ready for the service. You’ve already put everything in the sacristy, haven’t you? The amictus, the alb and its ribbon?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And you, Mariagna, go to the garden and pick all the r
oses you can find… Make up some bunches and we shall put them in the vases… I want the altar to have a lot of flowers on it.’
‘Very well, Father.’
And as soon as he saw the brightness of morning coming up behind the terraces at Uià, he could restrain himself no longer.
‘Come along, Josep, the time has come. Go and give the bells a good airing!’
But, no sooner had he given the order than he immediately had second thoughts, saying to himself: ‘No, no! Josep would not be capable of ringing them properly… He is a good man, uncomplaining, obedient… but insensitive, simple-minded, doltish… He has neither the soul nor the spirit to make the bells speak as I want them to…’
‘No, Josep, don’t you go,’ he said to the old man, who was just starting to climb the steps up to the belfry. I want to ring them myself… I shall make them say what they have to say…’
And as he climbed the stairs, in a state of illumination, transfigured, as though seized by inspiration, he was murmuring quietly to himself: ‘They have stayed silent for too long, the poor bells! Now that they have got their voices back, they must speak forth with a triumphant sound… they must intone such a chant of glory as was never heard before… a kind of hallelujah which will be a hymn of praise to the Lord for having allowed me to rebuild the church… and a loud awakening call to the slumbering people of the woods…’
And up he went briskly to the top of the steps, as the old man was coming back down, humbly. Once in the belfry, the first thing the priest did was to make the sign of the cross, praying for God to inspire him. Then he eagerly grasped the rope of the big bell… and, feeling the counterweight only just jerking into a slight movement despite all his heaving, he was struck by a sudden dismay… ‘Mercy on us! What if the bell was not now able to chime, after such a long time without being rung…’ But he gave the rope one more really strong tug, and then, making a single full turn on its mounting, the bell spoke forth: Dong… ‘Thanks be to God, thanks be to God!’ Then one more heave… and the great bronze artefact, turning comfortably now, began to sing majestically: Dong… dong… dong… ‘That’s it! That is it!’ thought Father Llàtzer, filled with joy. ‘This is the Te Deum of which I had dreamed for celebrating the poor church’s resurrection!’ Dong… dong… dong… ‘Thanks be to you, good Lord, great thanks!’ Dong… dong… dong…
But then the priest suddenly remembered that his main duty was to awaken his slumbering parishioners, his dead parishioners, with a joyful peal to stir their spirits, to brush away their drowsiness, to lift from them the dead weight under which they lay… And, turning to the smaller bell, he grasped its clapper with one hand and began the most rapid, repeating peal that he could manage: Ding, ding-ding! Ding, ding! ‘Come on, come on now; stir yourselves, you dwellers in darkness!’ said the priest, as though to add emphasis to the voice of the bells. Ding, ding-ding! Ding, ding! ‘And come along, all of you, right away!’ Ding, ding-ding! Ding, ding! ‘And you shall see the miracle of the church that has come back to life…’ Ding, ding-ding! Ding, ding!
Then Father Llàtzer stopped for a while, and looking out through the belfry window, he tried to see if the ravines were awakening. But… everything was silence and solitude. The last wisps of shadow were slipping away from the deepest nooks, to be replaced by the first patches of morning mist weaving in and out of the pine trees or dispersing in the air. But of living beings… there was no sign. Not a sign nor a shadow. This was when the priest decided that he must redouble his own effort and the call of the bells, and he began then to sound a peal with both clappers at once. It was a desperate clangour made to bring souls towards eternal life. Dong! Dong! Ding, ding, ding! Dong, dong! Ding, ding!
However, despite the desperate pealing of the bells, there was still no sign of life from the people, and the priest, with his hope very nearly gone, disillusioned and drained, began to ring out the call to Mass, unhurriedly now. Those initial, anxious wake-up calls were replaced by the deliberately idling triple sequence: Dong… dong… dong! And it was that measured appeal which worked the miracle…
When Father Llàtzer looked out again through the belfry window, he felt his heart beginning to swell. From the half-ruined houses of the ravines white scarves and long black shawls were beginning to come out and, like corpses in shrouds emerging from tombs, they were making their way very steadily towards the church. The priest raised his eyes heavenwards, because he believed that the hour of resurrection had arrived.
Lunch at La Rovira.
(Courtesy of Josep Vilardebò i Puig)
X
Bad Stock!
Dong… That first single chime from the church belfry resounded through the shadowy ravines like some mysterious word that could not be properly understood. The bells had been silent for so long that, when they now sent forth this initial call, it was as though they were tongue-tied, like a child first beginning to babble. Then, however, on the second strike, Donnng… the bronze voice became clearer, and soaring upwards, it flew and carried strongly, spreading everywhere, way over the cliff tops and into the deepest recesses of every gorge. Each measured strike of the big bell was like a fresh breath of life, warm, gentle, affectionate, which was gradually going to thaw the torpor of nights eternal.
But that was nothing compared with the effect achieved next by the smaller bell… As soon as its joyful clamour broke out, then everything was quickly enlivened. Enervated grass festooning the ditches suddenly stirred, shaking off the dewdrops. From shrubs and bramble patches birds emerged in flocks, squawking and twittering, alarmed by the clangour from the bell tower. The thickest parts of the dismal woods, deadened by somnolence and cold, were being probed by the tremulous ringing sound which seemed to rub up against the trees and to tickle their leaves, as though deliberately trying in this way to arouse feeling in the inert, numbed trunks and the mist-shrouded branches.
Then the merry pealing climbed higher, ever higher, going up towards the cliff tops, the hills and the crags, until they crowned with a joyful noise the whole circle of dark mountains walling in the hollow from which the sound arose. And when the lively fanfare arrived as far as the tumbledown hamlet on the other side of the pass above Ocata, everybody was perplexed by the uplifting sound. The people there stretched their arms and rubbed their eyes, like corpses being roused on hearing the trumpet of Judgement Day.
The old woman at Can Pugna muttered, as she strained to hear:
‘I don’t know if I’m hearing things or dreaming… but I think they’re ringing the church bells.’
Over on the opposite hillside, the girl who looked after the pigs at Rovira shouted out in surprise:
‘Don’t you hear, master, don’t you hear? Listen how the bells are chiming!’
The blind farmer at Uià put his head out of the window in order to hear better the stirring sound.
Disturbed by that restless music of bells, which seemed to be announcing urgently the resurrection of the flesh and the promise of eternal life, the woodsmen did not know what to do nor what to decide upon. It was so long since they had set foot inside the parish church that they were extremely reluctant to go down there. Ever since the day that the new priest had called them to gather in the cemetery, in order to preach to them about the sacred duty of repairing the buildings, not one of them had shown their face anywhere near the place. If ever they had to travel from one side of the parish to the other, rather than going by the church buildings they chose to go the long way round, cutting across the slopes near the Sunyer farm or going right round along the foot of the cliff. All this was from fear of bumping into that crazed priest who wanted to stir them into action and drag them out of the quietude of their sleepy mountains. So how uncomfortable, how embarrassing it now was to think about going back to the church, freshly repaired from top to bottom, no thanks at all to them! And how the new priest would smirk, as though reminding them that he had not had any need at all of his parishioners’ help.
Then, while they were still w
restling anxiously with this uncertainty about what to do, what to say… suddenly the frantic chiming of the small bell ceased and the big bell began to ring out slowly the call to Mass: Dong… Dong… Dong… Whereupon men and women from the woods were jerked into motion, and as though obeying a stern order of the kind that cannot be quibbled about or contradicted, they all reluctantly got ready to go down into the ravine, with dejected and resigned looks on their faces. The men, as though mechanically, took down from pegs their outdoor wraps and capes, while the women brought out their headwear from settle drawers. There was nothing else for it… Those three resonant, regular strokes were a command whose observance had been handed down from fathers to sons through centuries and centuries. There was nothing else for it… They had to lower their heads, resign themselves and set off downhill. What they were obeying was not so much the voice of the Lord, transmitted by the bell, as the law of timeless custom, passed down from generations of yore. They were doing what their parents before them had done, what their grandparents had done, what all their ancestors had done, way back through the most distant centuries. There was nothing else for it… It was like the nightly course of the stars in the sky, like the changes of the earth’s seasons: something which cannot be rebelled against. They all had to bow their heads at the pealing which rang out from the belfry, in the same way that they submitted to the heat of the sun and the chill of the night, to rain and to fine weather, to darkness and to light. Nothing else for it… No way of answering back… So on their way down to the church, they looked pensive and worried as they went through the woods, inwardly resentful while outwardly meek, like sheep driven along by blows from the stout stick of a tough domineering shepherd. They went one step at a time, but they were moving along… Come on now, on you go! With scarves on their heads or capes around their shoulders, they looked like tormented souls who, having been brought out of limbo, were condemned to follow a route which they dreaded, like it or not…
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