Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"Señor, for the love of heaven, give me charity." The building was large, the worshippers were few, it was easy to converse.

"But what do you mean?" we said. "You look too respectable to be asking alms. Surely you cannot be in want?"

"In want? I am starving."

And throwing back her mantilla she disclosed a face still young, still fair to excess, but pale, pinched and careworn.

We felt terribly uncomfortable. She walked and spoke as a lady. There was a refinement in her voice and movement that could only have come from gentle breeding. How had she fallen so low? Eyes must have asked the question tongue could not.

"Listen, señor," she said, as though in reply. "Listen and pity me. I was tenderly and delicately brought up, possessed a comfortable home, indulgent parents. We lived in Madrid, where my father held an office under Government. I was an only child and indulged. Pale, quiet and subdued as you see me now, I was passionate, headstrong and wilful. I fell under the influence of one outwardly an angel, inwardly a demon. He was a singer at the opera, and his voice charmed me even more than his splendid presence. He was beneath me, but we met clandestinely again and again, until at last he persuaded me to fly with him. I was infatuated to madness. All my past life, all past influence, teaching, thought of home, love of parents—all was thrown to the winds for this wild passion. We were secretly married before we fled, for mad as I was I had not lost all sense of honour. Almost from the very first day retribution set in. My father had long suffered from disease of the heart though I knew it not, and the shock of my flight killed him. The home was broken up, my mother was left almost destitute, and in a frenzy of despair, a moment of insanity, took poison. I was an orphan, and then discovered that my husband had thought I should be rich. On learning the truth, he began to ill-treat me. His fancy had been caught for a moment by my fair face. Of this he soon tired and, base villain that he was, transferred his worthless affections elsewhere. Things went from bad to worse. There were times when he even beat me—and I could not retaliate. I had come to my senses; I recognised the hand of retribution, and accepted my punishment. But what wonder that in my misery I learned to seek oblivion in the wine cup? Perhaps my worthless husband first gave me the idea of this temptation, for he was seldom sober. It was in one of those terrible moments that he fell from a height and so injured himself that after five days of intense agony he died. I was free but penniless; knew not where to go, which way to turn. I had not a friend in the world—all had forsaken me. There was but one thing I could do. I had a voice and could sing. I sang in cafés, at small concerts, wherever I could get an engagement and earn a trifle. Now I am in Zaragoza. Most nights I sing in the great café, but my small earnings all go in the same way—to satisfy my craving for wine. Wine, wine, wine; it is my one sin, but oh! I feel that it is fatal. I know that it is surely drawing my feet to the grave. And after that?"

She shuddered; then pointed to a tawdry image of the Virgin, before which we stood.

"There, before that altar, I have knelt day after day and prayed to be delivered; but I have prayed in vain; no answer comes, and the chains are binding about me. Señor, I saw you enter; recognised that you were a stranger. Something told me I might address you and you would at least listen; would not spurn me or turn away in hateful contempt. But what can you do? I have asked for alms. I have told you I am starving—and so I am; but it is the soul that is starving more than the body. You will bestow your charity upon me—I know you will—and it will not go in food but in wine. Ah, if you could cure me, or give me an antidote that would send me into a sleep from which I should never waken, that indeed would be the greatest and truest charity."

Then we realised that the pale face and pinched look were not due to want of food. The cause was deeper and more hopeless. It was one of the saddest stories we had ever listened to; and it came upon us so abruptly that we felt helpless and bewildered: sick at heart at the very thought of our want of power to minister to this mind diseased.