Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

The train drew up at Monistrol. Here we left the main line for the small railway which winds up into the mountains. Not being a crowded time of year, the train consisted of two carriages only, with an engine pushing up behind. The outer carriage was open, and here we took seats, the better to survey nature.

We were high above the plains; the train had to descend into the valley, then re-ascend into the mountains. Far down was the little town of Monistrol, with its white houses. The river rushed and frothed over its weir, spanned by a picturesque stone bridge of many arches. As the train twisted and turned like a serpent, it seemed that we must every moment topple over into the seething foam, but nothing happened. Down, down we went, until we rolled over the bridge, felt the cool wind of the water upon our faces, and drew up at the little station amongst the white houses of the settlement.

Here people from the hot towns spend the months of summer, exchanging in this hill-enclosed valley one species of confinement for another. It was the perfection of quiet life, no sound disturbing the air but the falling water. Not a soul was visible; the lifeless village, like Rip Van Winkle, seemed enjoying a long sleep. We might have been a phantom train in a phantom world. Though the train stopped at the little station, no one got in or out—no one but the postman, who silently exchanged attenuated letter-bags. Evidently the correspondence of this enchanted place was not extensive. Not here were wars planned or treaties signed.

Away we went again and now began to ascend. Every moment widened our view and added to its splendour. Until recently all this had to be done by coach, a journey of many hours of courageous struggling. Now the whole thing is over in three-quarters of an hour, and it is good to feel that all the hard work is done mechanically. We had once gone through something similar in the Hex River Valley of South Africa, but in the Montserrat journey there was a more romantic element; the charm and glamour surrounding antiquity, the keen human interest attached to a religious institution dating from past ages. We easily traced the old zigzag carriage road up which horses had once toiled and struggled. Almost as zigzag was our present road, winding about like forked flashes of lightning.

The scene was almost appalling. Before us the ponderous Mons Serratus, with all its cracks and fissures, ready to fall and reduce the earth to powder. Its sharp, fantastic peaks against the clear sky looked like the ruins of some mighty castle. The mountain rises four thousand feet high and is twenty-four miles in circumference—a grey, barren mass of tertiary conglomerate, an overwhelming amount of rock upon rock seemingly thrown and piled against each other. In all directions are enormous cañons and gorges with precipitous ravines; one rent dividing the range having occurred, it is said, at the hour of the Crucifixion. No eye has ever penetrated the depths below.

Far up the mountain reposes the monastery, with its dependencies and cultivated gardens. Every new zigzag took us a little nearer than the last. Very high up we stopped at another small station. No doubt some sequestered nook held an unseen village, for again the old postman silently exchanged letter-bags.

He was a fine specimen of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey hairs and rugged features witnessed to a long and possibly active life. The head was cast in a splendid mould, to which the face corresponded. Such a man ought to have made his mark in the world. That he should end his days in playing postman to the monks of Montserrat seemed a sorry conclusion. The times must have got out of joint with him. As a leader in parliament or head of some great financial house, his appearance would have assured success. There must be a story behind this exterior, a mystery to unravel. But physiognomy seldom errs, and the expression of the face spoke in favour of honest purpose.

He was a notable man, a man to be observed passing him on life's highway. For a time we watched him closely. There was a certain unconscious dignity about him. His remarks to the conductor were above the chatter of ordinary people. Our carriage was a third class, though we had lavishly taken first; but in those small, closed compartments nothing could be seen. This carriage was large, open, airy; we breathed, and were in touch with our surroundings; our fellow-travellers were also more interesting than the turtle-doves who occupied the luxurious compartment in a blissful solitude à deux.

They were few and characteristic. First the conductor, who varied the monotony of his going by paying visits to the engine-driver and leaving the train to look after itself. Next, our postman, the study of whom would have been lost in any other compartment. Then a stout lady, who wore a hat that was quite a flower-garden, and substantial seven-leagued boots; a large basket laden with small nick-nacks was very much in evidence, to which she clung affectionately, and one felt it was all her living.