Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

The omnibus passed into narrower thoroughfares, without any trace of fair, sign or sound of excitement or flaming torches. All was delightfully dead as the most advanced antiquarian could desire when we drew up at the Fondu de los Italianos.

Most of the hotels in the smaller towns of Spain have little to do with the ground floor of the building, often nothing but a cold, unlighted, deserted passage, sometimes leading to a stable yard. No one receives you, and you have to find your own way upstairs. When there is a choice of staircases you probably take the wrong one. On this occasion we had only one course before us—broad white marble stairs that bore witness to a very different destiny in days gone by, the pomp and splendour of life, the glory of the world. At the head of this sumptuous staircase our host met us with a polite bow and welcome; and throughout Spain we never met landlord more intelligent and well-informed, more agreeable and anxiously civil. We were puzzled as to his nationality. He did not look Catalonian, or Spanish of any sort, spoke excellent French, yet was decidedly not a Frenchman. When the mystery was solved we found him an Italian. A man ruling very differently from our energetic hostess at Narbonne, who, full of electricity herself, seemed to have the power of galvanising every one else into perpetual motion.

Our Gerona host was quiet and passive, as though all day long he had nothing to do but rest on his oars and take life easily. He never hastened his walk beyond a certain measure or raised his voice above a gentle tone. Yet, like well-oiled works, he kept the complicated machinery in order. There was no friction and no noise, but everything came up to time. He was last in bed at night, first up in the morning. A tall, thin, dark man, with an expression of face in which there was no trace of impatient fretting at life. If wealth had not come to him (we knew not how that was), evil days had passed him by. He had learned the secret of contentment, and was a man of peace. Yet he had brought up a large family of sons and daughters, and could not have escaped care and responsibility. They now took their part in the ménage, but it was evident that without the father nothing would hold together for an hour.

The youngest son, a tall, presentable young fellow, had been partly educated at Tours and spoke very good French. His ambition now was to spend two years in England to perfect himself in the language, which he was good enough to consider difficult and barbarous. "French," he plaintively observed, "is pronounced very much as it is spelt; so are Spanish and Italian; I have them all at my finger-ends. But English has done its best to confound all foreigners. It is worse than Russian or Chinese."

This he related the next day as we went about the town, for we had accepted his polite offer to guide us; and very intelligent and painstaking he proved himself.

Our host's wife was fat, broad and buxom as the husband was the opposite. When her homely face beamed upon her guests from behind the counter of her little bureau, she looked the picture of an amiable Dutch vrouw. Nothing less than a Frank Hals could have done her justice. Her lines seemed to have been cast in pleasant places, and her days also had been without shadow of evil.

It was also evident that our host was cheerfully disposed. His walls were all painted with landscapes, and if rainbow-colours predominated, he reasoned that they were more enlivening than grey skies and dark shadows. Even the walls of his garden-court had not escaped: a court put to many uses, level with the first floor, bounded on one side by the kitchen, on the other by the dining-room, at right angles with each other. A picturesque court with a slightly Italian atmosphere about it, due perhaps to the sunny landscapes. Orange and small eucalyptus trees stood about in large tubs. The far end was roofed, and the fine red tiles slanted downwards. Over these grew a large abundant vine bearing rich clusters of grapes in due season. Under the eaves were hung cages with captive nightingales and thrushes that looked anything but unhappy prisoners.

"In the spring they sing gloriously," said our host, who, evidently full of tender mercies as of cheerfulness, gazed affectionately at his birds. "I hang them outside our front windows sometimes, and night and day the street echoes with the nightingales' song. You may close your eyes and fancy yourself in the heart of a wood. I have often done so, and dreamed I was in my Italian home, listening to the birds on the one hand, the murmur of the Mediterranean on the other. That is one reason why I love and keep them. They bring back lost echoes, and make me feel young again."

Pigeons and doves strutted about the yard, and were evidently considered very nearly as sacred as those of St. Mark's, for they were as fearless as if the days of the millennium had come at last.

But on the first evening of our arrival we had yet to learn the many virtues of our host. We only saw in broad outlines that we were in good hands.