Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"Who would have supposed anything so weighty within this little town?" we remarked. "Before arriving we looked upon it as a deserted village, the ends of the earth. From the train Gerona appears in the last stage of misery and destitution."

"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?" quoth the priest. "The unexpected happens. I have long learned not to judge beforehand; above all not to be prejudiced by appearances. Rags may conceal the noblest heart, and a silken doublet cover the bosom of a Judas. Confess," laughing, "that when I took my seat next to you just now you voted me intrusive; said to yourself: 'Why does this old man usurp my elbow room, with ten vacant chairs lower down? He is troublesome. I will chill him with a proud disdain.' And now all is changed and you ask me to sit next you at dinner. Is it not so?"

So near the truth, indeed, that one felt as though under the searching X-rays. "Suffering is misanthropical," we replied. "Not physical but heart pain brings out the sympathies. So it is dangerous to ask a favour of a man tortured by gout—or headache."

"All which really means that I knew you better than you know yourself," returned Père Delormais, in his rich, round tones. "That is only a general experience. And now I go my way. If all be well, we meet again at dinner. Ah! I never speak without that reservation. How many times have I seen the evening appointment cancelled by death at noon."

He left the room; a tall, stately figure with hair white as snow; a man full of life and energy, evidently born to command and fill the high places of earth: a power for good or evil as he should be well or ill-directed. A very different nature from Anselmo, whom we had left at mid-day. The one ruling the destinies of men; the other content to follow in the Divine footsteps of humility and love; satisfied with a limited horizon; doing good by precept and example but asking no wider sphere than his little world. Yet in his way capable of influencing human hearts; of stirring up enthusiasm in a great crusade if only the torch of ambition inflamed his zeal. Very different the method and influence of the two men, though each had the same end in view. But in the many phases of human nature some must be led, others driven. One will hear the still, small voice, another needs the burning bush; James was the Son of Thunder, Barnabas of Consolation. As in the days of old, so now.

We too went our way down the broad marble staircase of the ancient palace, but with no secret or delicate mission to perform like Delormais. We had followed rather closely, but up and down the street not a vestige of him remained. Whether he had gone right or left we knew not. The place was deserted. Looking upwards nothing was visible but outlines of the rare old houses. Here and there a gabled roof and dormer window; many a wrought-iron balcony; many a Gothic casement rich in tracery and decoration; many a lower window protected by a strong iron grille, despair of serenaders, consolation of parents, paradise of artists.

It was now that we saw our industrious and amiable señora preparing for the fair. Again the mantilla was being gracefully arranged. The lady—very properly—had evidently no idea of neglecting the good looks nature had bestowed upon her.

"Ah, señor," as we stopped with a polite greeting, "for a whole week this fair is the upsetting and devastation of the town. It comes with all its shows and shoutings; distracts our attention; we may as well close the shutters for all the business that is done; finally it walks off with all our spare money. And who is a bit the better for it?"