ar it in my voice. In three years I shall be a centenarian, if
Heaven spares me as long. I do not desire it. A man of ninety-seven has
almost ceased to live. He is a burden to himself, a trouble to others. I
was once chief architect of this city, and many of the more modern
buildings that your eyes have rested upon are due to me. In my younger
days I had a boundless love for the work of the ancients. Gothic and
Norman delighted me. Half my leisure moments were spent in our wonderful
cathedral, absorbing its influence. Ah, sirs, the cathedrals of
Catalonia are the glories of Spain. I dreamt of reproducing such
buildings; but we are in the hands of town committees who are vandals in
these matters. Fifty years ago--half a century this very month--the
destruction of this church and these cloisters was taken into
consideration. They wanted to pull down one of the glories of Barcelona
and build up a modern church and school. I was to be the architect of
this barbarous proceeding. It happened that this was one of my most
loved haunts. Here I would frequently pace the solitary cloisters,
thinking over my plans and designs, trying to draw wholesome inspiration
from these matchless outlines. I was horrified at the sacrilege, though
it was to be to my profit. I fought valiantly and long; would not yield
an inch; pleaded earnestly; and at last persuaded. The idea was
abandoned. That you are able to stand and gaze to-day upon this marvel
is due to me. Ever since then I have looked upon it as my own peculiar
possession. Day after day I pay them a visit. My failing sight now only
discerns vague and shadowy outlines. It is enough. Shadowy as they are,
their beauty is ever present. What I fail to see, memory, those eyes of
the brain, supplies. Rarely in my daily visits do I find any one here.
Few people seem to understand or appreciate the beauty of these
cloisters. They are like a hermit in the desert, living apart from the
world. But here it is a desert of houses that surrounds them. Like
myself, they are an emblem of death in life."

We started at this echo of our own words. Could his sense of hearing be
unduly awakened? Or was the emblem so fitting as to be self-evident?

"You have long ceased to labour?" we observed, for want of a better
reply to his too obvious comparison.

"For five-and-twenty years my life has been one of leisure and repose,"
he answered. "It has gone against the grain. I was not made for
idleness. But when I