Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

Ages rolled on, and it grew famous. When destroyed by the French it held as many as 900 monks: a great religious community, wealthy and powerful. But the mighty are fallen. The few remaining monks, more exclusive in their retirement than the great body of their predecessors, have a school attached to the monastery in which much time is given to the study of music. It is going far out of the world for instruction, but Nature herself should come to their aid. Amidst these lonely solitudes the Harmony of the Spheres might well be heard.

Passing through the great quadrangle, we entered a narrow passage between the church and hill-side, reminding one a little of some of the narrow streets of Jerusalem. Here, too, we found some arches and buttresses framing in the sky, arch beyond arch. At the end of all we came out once more upon the open world, and what a scene was disclosed!

In front of us was a small chapel attached to a little hermitage. Beside it ran a long avenue of sad and solemn cypresses. It might have been the cemetery of the dead-and-gone monks, but no small mounds or wooden crosses marked where the dead reposed. This mournful avenue extended to the brow of the hill, where we overlooked vast wild precipices. Cañons and gorges opened beneath us and above us in appalling magnitude. The stupendous valley stretched right and left in the distance. Far on the other side reposed a chain of snow-clad hills. Villages lay about the plain and hill-sides. In the far-off hollow slept the little town of Monistrol, its blue smoke mingling with the clearer atmosphere. Through all the valley the river ran its winding, silvery course on its way to the sea.

The plateau on which we stood held the monastery buildings. Near us stretched the gardens of the monks in cultivated terraces, and above them, winding round the mountain was the white road leading out into the world lying to the south of Montserrat. Again, as we looked, another eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow majestic flight across the valley, no doubt on the track of its mate, perhaps to find out why he tarried so long. A string of boys in caps and black cloaks left the convent and wound round the white road, conducted by a few of the monks whose duty it was to keep watch and ward over the students. These passed out of sight, and once more we seemed alone with nature.

But on turning back down the cypress avenue, sitting against the little chapel we saw the Franciscan monk who had lately filled the Norman archway. Though his breviary was open, he was not reading. His eyes—large, dark, dreamy eyes that ought to belong to a genius—were looking out on the mountain and the far-off sky, lost in profound contemplation.

Of what nature were his thoughts? Introspective or retrospective? Was he thinking of days that were past, or of the life to come? Were regret and remorse his portion, or resignation to his present surroundings? Was he dwelling upon some terrible Might-have-been? He looked inexpressibly lonely, as though he and the world had parted company for ever, but there was something singularly interesting about him. It seemed difficult to intrude upon his solitude, as impossible to pass without speaking.

Some influence compelled us to stop. His face was pale and refined. He was so thin as to be almost cadaverous; not an ounce of flesh had he to spare on his bones; there was a certain look of hunger in his large magnificent eyes; not a hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, but, as it seemed, for peace of mind and repose of soul. Grazing at the skies, he appeared to be asking questions of the Infinite Beyond. Where was the kingdom of Heaven and what was it like? When there came for him the great apocalypse of the soul how would it find its way to the realms of paradise?

We stopped in front of him, and he started as though he had only that moment became aware of our presence. He did not seem to resent the intrusion, but looked up with a searching inquiring glance, which presently changed to a smile beautiful and almost childlike in its confidence: sad, beseeching, as though it were in our power to interpret to him the hidden mysteries of the unseen; the perplexing problems of life; the doubts and difficulties with which his questioning heart contended.

"You have indeed found a quiet corner for contemplation," we remarked after he had greeted us with a subdued: "May Heaven have you in its holy keeping."