Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

We were near the river. The clear, sparkling water flowed on its way to the sea. Near the bank were whispering reeds and rushes. We felt sorely tempted to lift the old woman with our stick—she could not have weighed more than a good fat turkey—drop her into the stream, and for once make her acquainted with the luxury of a cold bath. But we reflected that she probably had no change of things, and her death might lie at our door. So we bestowed upon her the charity she asked for and left her. Prayers for our happiness went on until we were out of sight, and up to that point the perverse animal had not moved.

We now turned back on our road, and appeared to have the whole country-side to ourselves. As we passed the thatched cottages every one of them was closed and silent. No blue curling smoke ascended from any of the chimneys.

"Is it always so quiet and deserted?" we asked Francisco, who had knocked at three or four cottages without success. He was anxious to show us the interiors, which he said were curious: great chimney-corners with the chain hanging down to hold the pot-au-feu that was always going: peat fires that threw their incense upon the air: enormous Spanish settles on which half a dozen people could sit easily and keep warm on winter evenings: wonderful old clocks that ticked in the corner. We saw all this in the fifth cottage. Its inmates had flown, but forgotten to lock the door. The fire was out, and the great iron pot swinging from the chain was cold.

"No, señor. I have often been here and never found everybody away like this. One might fancy them all dead and buried, but they are at the fair, I suppose. The harvest is all in, fruits are all gathered; there is nothing left on the trees"—with a melancholy glance at the orchards—"and for the moment they have nothing to do. So they have gone in a body to amuse themselves and spend their money."

We got back in time to the monastery, and again the woman opened to us.

"This time he really has gone off for a commission," she laughed, as the colour mounted to her face at the remembrance of her late transgression. "I really had to make an excuse before," she added. "It might have been one of the directors, and I should not like them to think the old man was getting past his work."

The guardian came up behind us at the moment, a bottle of wine in his hand for their evening meal.

"Ah, señor," shaking his head mournfully, "it is not equal to yours. Until the flavour and recollection of yours have passed away, I shall find this but poor stuff. I must make believe very hard, and fancy myself living in the days of the old monks, drinking Malvoisie."

We promised to send him a bottle of Laffitte the very next time any one came over from the hotel, and he declared the anticipation would add five years to his life. We took a last look at the lovely cloisters, and then with a heavy heart turned our backs upon Poblet. Seldom had any visit so charmed us. Never had we seen such ruins; such marvellous outlines and perspectives; never felt more in a world of the past; never so completely realised the bygone life of the monks: all their splendour and power, wealth and luxury, to which the kingly presence gave additional lustre. They were days of pomp and ceremony and despotism; but the surrounding atmosphere of refinement and beauty must have had a softening and religious effect that perhaps kept them from excesses of tyranny and self-indulgence: vices that might have made their name a byword to succeeding ages.

Our primitive conveyance was in waiting. Once more we found ourselves tossed upon a troubled sea where no waters were. We passed through the plains in which the magic donkey had appeared to Loretta, now empty and gathering tone and depth as the day declined.