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My pilgrimage to the Yuste Convent ([153]).—I left soon after midnight, for marching is delightful in southern nights when the glittering stars shed their soft light from the great vault of heaven. In the south the cool night is succeeded by summer days that are the misery of the pedestrian.—The hours melted by but slowly in the furnace heat of the day. I was beset with all possible ills: infernal heat, thirst, and no water. Not a tree or a shrub was to be seen for miles; no shade; hours without passing a house; not a soul abroad; the melancholy mood that comes in the train of solitude. My path was obstructed by a river—at any rate, water—but nary a bridge! So I had to wade, and continue my journey. At last I spied a shepherd. What joy to feel that I was no longer alone!
“Is this the right road to Yuste?” I enquired of him.—“Yes, but where doest thou come from, and what countryman art thou?” The good fellow addressed me with the fraternal tutoyer, as though we were brothers.
When he heard that I was a German he was quite surprised. He willingly agreed to accompany me to the next village, and was quite curious to hear something about my country. The news of the war had penetrated to this remote part of the world. It was charming to listen to the questions of this child of nature. He knew nothing of the three Rs; had never seen a railway, had never left the neighbourhood of his village. We soon met another shepherd on the mountain-side who was just as pleased and interested as the other. And I must say, that wherever I was in Spain, all classes of the population were friendly towards Germans.
It was not long before we encountered other wayfarers who joined us, for Sunday enticed them into the village. My entrance was therefore almost a triumphal procession. We entered the inn, ordered some wine, and sat down to a well-earned rest. When I wanted to pay the landlord, he refused, telling me that Pepa had settled the bill. However, this wouldn’t do. And at last he agreed to my paying on condition that the next time I returned I should be his guest. They all shook hands with me most-heartily and I continued joyfully on my way.
At last I stood in front of the monastery gates. They were opened, and the white haired abbot rode out on a little donkey, holding a green parasol over his head. I saluted the venerable Father and enquired of him whether I could stay at the monastery for the night. “No”, he replied, “impossible.”—Discomfitted I exclaimed: “But where am I to go to-day? I have travelled fifty kilometres and have come from Navalmoral.”—“What, on foot? Impossible!” “Yes, but I have. I am a German and want to see the spot which the emperor Charles V. exchanged for all the crowns in the world, and where he closed his eyes.”—“You are a German? Of course you can’t continue your journey.”
I was most kindly and touchingly taken care of.
I was shown the monastery which had once been destroyed by the French. Decay and mould have continued the work of destruction. But nature’s eternal youth triumphs victoriously amongst the ruins and beautifies the decay of age. And yet this is a place to think about the everlastingness of all things, of the end of all terrestrial happiness.—Once that great monarch who had fled from the turmoil of the world had paced these halls.
At supper, I, the infidel sat at the monks’ board and was treated like a brother.