ENTRANCE TO POBLET.ENTRANCE TO POBLET.
It was a very dark night, though the stars flashed overhead. We found ourselves on the empty market-place, where trees whispered together. In the morning, when fruit and flowers and a hundred stalls and a crowd of noisy people called for all one's attention, the whispering trees were neglected. Now it was their hour, and they told each other their mighty secrets, and one felt that they were wiser and greater than mankindin its little brief authority. We stood and listened, but they talked in an unknown tongue. Almost as mysterious and full of meaning seemed the outlines of the gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky.
From this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who, purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service had begun. But those days are over. For nearly two hundred years the bells have been silent. The sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts the precincts. Sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred pavement.
Gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. It was a watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our BurgosSereno.
He waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting to find the inhabitants of Pandemonium lurking in secret corners. As he walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time with his footsteps. "It is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the night is fair.El sereno." We gradually approached him, knowing well we were in his mind. The rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern had peace.
"Señor, instinct told me you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems your hour for walking. In truth it is far better than midday, for the world is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. I hope that wily porter does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. To-day fifty people have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, señor? She is not the angel she looks——"
"Are you not rather hard upon the angels,Sereno?"
"I don't think I quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "No, she does not look an angel—and she is not one either. It is said that when her husband misbehaves, she beats him withher washing-pin; and it is also said that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. It may be a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other way of venting her spleen. I don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of roses, though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of his bargain."
"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the porter's domestic relations unprofitable.
"Just the same as ever, señor. There was no change anywhere. The everlasting bells chime out the hours and the quarters, and the voices of a half a dozen watchmen take up the tale. The hotel grows rather worse and more unpopular, if that be possible, and for want of a good inn the town is neglected. No one ever goes there a second time. In that respect one is better off in Lerida."
We were standing near the new cathedral in the market-place, when suddenly we saw a quiet figure hurrying towards us. Even afar off we knew it well. It was our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary.
At once we felt something was wrong; the figure, in spite of quick footsteps, was tragic in its bearing. We went up to him. He grasped our hand and his face told its own tale.
"Oh, señor! the end has come, the end of a long life. Who would have thought it would be so sudden? My poor Nerissa! My life's partner, and my life's blessing! Two hours ago the heart suddenly failed. The doctor gives her until the dawn. But she is quite ready and quite resigned. 'Think what it will be, Alphonse,' she said to me just now. 'To-morrow morning I shall see once more.' Señor, I am broken-hearted. And now that she is being taken from me, I feel that I have not prized her half enough."
"You have been her joy and happiness on earth, and have an eternity of happiness to look forward to. For you and for her life is only beginning. The end of a long and happy life is a matter for rejoicing, not for sorrow."
We had no need to ask a reason for his presence there. He passed on to fulfil his mission.
OLD CATHEDRAL: LERIDA.OLD CATHEDRAL: LERIDA.
Presently a small door was opened and there issued forth in the stillness of the night an acolyte bearing a lighted lantern,followed by a priest carrying the Host. Alphonse had gone before, and we felt that the greatest kindness was to let him return alone, unhindered. The small silent procession was full of mysterious pathos and solemnity. It told of a soul about to take its solitary and awful journey to the unknown and the unseen. Seldom, we felt, would extreme unction have been administered to a soul so pure as that of our little fairy-queen. El Sereno went down on one knee as it passed, and bared and bowed his head. With arm outstretched resting on his staff of office, he looked quite solemn and picturesque.
"We must all come to it, señor. But I often ask myself what consolation even extreme unction can bring to a badly spent life."
We watched the little procession cross the great square, their footsteps scarcely echoing. The sacred hush and atmosphere that surrounds the dying seemed to go with them as they walked. Fitful gleams and shadows were thrown out by the lantern—they might have been shades of departed spirits. In the dark night, under the silent stars, and in that solemn moment, we seemed brought into touch with the unseen world. We felt deeply for Alphonse, who was passing through the great sorrow of his life. His own silver cord would now loosen, and no doubt he too would quickly follow into the unseen. His wife would take with her all his hold upon life.
After this solemn incident we could only make our way back to the fonda. El Sereno accompanied us to its threshold. We walked down the avenue between the trees, that were still whispering their mighty secrets to each other. Now they seemed laden with immortal mysteries: their burden was of souls winging their flight to realms where no torment touches them. They were in communion with the stars overhead shining down with a serene benediction.
Our portal to-night was open and the night porter was at his post, watching for his tardy visitors! wondering why they tarried. What to him was that tragedy that was passing at the other end of the town?
We inquired for Rose. She had put up her washing-pin, and forgiven the erring waiter; the sun had not gone down upon her wrath. Had her spouse also forgiven the gay Lothario, or had they arranged for coffee and pistols?
The señor was joking. Such manner of dealing was for gentlefolk. For his part, if he owed any one a mortal grudge he would avenge himself by the short Corsican way: a stab in the dark. A short reckoning and a long rest. But he had never quarrelled in his life; never owed any man a grudge. Life was too short; he was too lazy. He thought it a good plan to let things take their course. If any one cared to embrace his wife, they were welcome to do so. He had no jealousy in his composition. She was now sleeping the sleep of the just: and for all he knew and for all he cared, her dreams were of gay Lotharios whom she was chastening with her washing-pin.
We said farewell to El Sereno, who lamented our departure on the morrow, and feared he might see us no more.
This was probable. Lerida, for all its quaint streets, old-world nooks and splendid outlines, was hardly a place to come to a second time. He moved away rather sadly, for he had his duty to perform, and the moments would not stand still.
We watched him receding in the dark night; a stalwart figure; an honest man, with much that was good in him, though his lines were not cast in grooves where influences for good are strong. At the end of the avenue he called the hour and the night; then passed up out of sight into the market-place once more. There in due time would return that quiet, solemn procession of two; the acolyte bearing the lantern, the priest with his bent back and the weight of years upon him bearing the Host: their mission accomplished: the last rites administered: the pure soul perhaps already far on its long journey.
The night passed on to dawn and daybreak and sunrise: a new day, a new world. Was Nerissa still lingering here, or, as she had said, had her sightless eyes opened to the world beyond? It was impossible to leave Lerida without ascertaining how it fared with this couple that we had found so interesting and exceptional. Though it delayed us some hours, it must be done, the visit paid.
We breakfasted, attended by the erring waiter, who looked pale and brooding and revengeful, as though he meditated drowning the Dragon in her own soapsuds. Then, in the clear early morning, we went forth.
The way was familiar by this time. We knew its everyaspect: all the outlines were old friends. We passed up the avenue and through the crowded market-place, where people laughed and talked and bought and sold, as if life were one long joke and would last for ever, and there was no such thing as death and decay. Down the long narrow street where we again saw the men pressing the grapes, and noted the stain of the rich red juice, and smelt the luscious perfume of the muscatel—for they have red grapes here with the muscatel scent and flavour. Onwards into a quiet side street and the quaint old house that now had upon it the dark grey shadow.
We mounted the fine broad staircase with its carved oak balusters and panelled walls. There was not a sound to be heard. At such moments sympathy is quick to respond, and the awful messenger makes the weight of his errand known.
The door was slightly ajar. We pushed it gently open and entered, feeling ourselves in the presence of death. Peace had fallen upon the house.
There in the quiet room was the vacant chair near the latticed window, where so recently we had seen that wonderful embodiment of beauty in age. It would never be seen again. Near the bed Alphonse was seated, holding the hand of his dead wife, his other hand up to his face. He looked the picture of sad despair. The aged form, so recently still endowed with life and vigour, was now bent and bowed under the weight of sorrow.
As we entered he glanced up, and stronger than all the evident grief we were surprised to see an unmistakable look of resignation. Quietly placing the cold hand that never would move or clasp his own again, he rose and came towards us.
"Oh, señor, this is kind. You come to me in my loneliness. It is all over. The sightless eyes are closed, the beautiful voice is still. I have often prayed that I might be the last to be taken. Heaven is merciful, and has answered me. As the dawn broke in the east her spirit went. Raising her hand as though pointing to some unseen vision: 'Alphonse,' she said, 'I am called. You will soon join me, beloved.' Then a glory seemed to pass over her face, and she was gone. Señor, come near and look upon that beautiful face once more."
He approached the bed and with reverent hand drew down the sheet.
We were almost startled by the beauty disclosed. The face seemed to have gone back to the days of its youth; it might have been that of a young woman of surpassing loveliness. The rapt expression the old man had spoken of was still there. It was impossible but that some divine vision had been seen at the last by those eyes closed to mortal things. It spoke of intense happiness, of a joy that was to be eternal.
"Alphonse, how can you look upon that face, which has the divine image upon it and the divine glory, and be sad?"
"Señor, I have lost my all. I am very lonely. Yesterday I was rich; I knew not how rich; to-day I am poor and stricken. Yet I am resigned; and I am happy in the thought that in a few days—I verily believe in a few days—my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our spirits will be united in Paradise. I am not sad; only intensely lonely. Señor, you gave her almost her very last pleasure. After you had left, she said that for years our little room had not seemed so bright. You brought her a breath from her old world and she declared that she felt her youth renewed. Was it not the spirit telling her in advance how soon her youth should indeed return to her? Oh, Nerissa, my life's joy, my best beloved, in what realms is your pure spirit now wandering? Surely you need me to perfect your happiness?"
We stayed awhile with him, and before leaving found the forlorn attitude, the despairing droop had departed. As we said good-bye we quietly placed money in his hand.
"To buy flowers," we explained. "Place them gently in her coffin. The fairest flowers you can find. They will still be less fair than she."
"Ah, señor," he returned, "it is a long farewell. I shall look upon your face no more. But when I meet her again we will talk of you. And do not think that you leave me to utter solitude. I have many friends about me, and though humble they are good. For my few remaining days I need have no thought, and I have no fear."
We departed. The little episode was over. But it would be ever associated in our mind with Lerida, enshrouding the town in a peculiarly sacred atmosphere.
Broad plains of Aragon—Wonderful tones—Approaching Zaragoza—Celestial vision—Distance lends enchantment—Commonplace people—The ancient modernised—Disillusion followed by delight—Almost a small Paris—Cafés and their merits—Not socially attractive—Friendly equality—Mixture of classes—Inheritance of the past—Interesting streets—Arcades and gables—Lively scenes—People in costume—Picture of Old Spain—Ancient palaces—One especially romantic—The world well lost—Fair Lucia—Where love might reign for ever—Paradise not for this world—Doomed—The last dawn—Inconsolable—Seeking death—Found on the battlefield—A day vision—Few rivals—In the new cathedral—Startling episode—Asking alms—Young and fair—Uncomfortable moment—Terrible story—Fatal chains—"And after?"—How minister to a mind diseased?—Sunshine clouded—Burden of life—Any way of escape?—Suggestions of past centuries—The mighty fallen.
Broad plains of Aragon—Wonderful tones—Approaching Zaragoza—Celestial vision—Distance lends enchantment—Commonplace people—The ancient modernised—Disillusion followed by delight—Almost a small Paris—Cafés and their merits—Not socially attractive—Friendly equality—Mixture of classes—Inheritance of the past—Interesting streets—Arcades and gables—Lively scenes—People in costume—Picture of Old Spain—Ancient palaces—One especially romantic—The world well lost—Fair Lucia—Where love might reign for ever—Paradise not for this world—Doomed—The last dawn—Inconsolable—Seeking death—Found on the battlefield—A day vision—Few rivals—In the new cathedral—Startling episode—Asking alms—Young and fair—Uncomfortable moment—Terrible story—Fatal chains—"And after?"—How minister to a mind diseased?—Sunshine clouded—Burden of life—Any way of escape?—Suggestions of past centuries—The mighty fallen.
THEsun was still high in the heavens when our train steamed out of the station towards Zaragoza and the ancient kingdom of Aragon. Much of the journey lay through broad plains that had no specially redeeming feature about them. Even fertility seemed denied, for they were often destitute of trees and vegetation. Yet were they sometimes covered with a lovely heather possessing a wonderful tone and beauty of its own.
Most to be remembered in the journey was the sunset. Towards evening as we approached Zaragoza, the sun dipped across the vast plains and went down in a blood-red ball. Immediately the sky was flushed with the most gorgeous colours, which melted into an after-glow that remained far into the night.
In the midst of this splendid effect of sky we saw across the plains the wonderful towers and turrets and domes of Zaragoza rising like a celestial vision. As we neared, wethought it a dream-city: not perched on a gigantic rock like Segovia, but on a gentle height of some 500 feet above the sea-level.
The approach to the town is very striking. There is an abundant promise of good things, not, we are bound to confess, eventually carried out. Apparently, it is of all cities the most picturesque, with its splendid river running rapidly through the plain, spanned by its world-famed bridge, above which rise the beautiful, refined, eastern-looking outlines; but once inside the town the charm in part disappears. It is to be worshipped at a distance.
Our first impression told us this, as we rumbled through the streets in the old omnibus and marked their modern aspect, the busy, common-place bearing of the people.
We had expected a great deal of Zaragoza; hoped to find a city of great antiquity, with nothing but gabled houses and ancient outlines worthy the fair capital of the fair kingdom of Aragon. These we found the exception. Its antiquity is undoubted, but too much of the town has been modernised and rebuilt. Still, the exceptions are so striking that when one's first disillusion is over, it is followed by something very like delight and amazement.
The hotel was a large rambling building which might have existed for centuries; and as comfortable as most of the Spanish provincial inns. A perfect maze of passages; and when the hotel guide piloted us to a far-off room to see a collection of antiquities of very modest merit we felt it might have taken hours to get back alone to our starting point.
Zaragoza is large and flourishing; its prosperity is evident; its new streets are handsome and common-place. Some of them are wide boulevards lined with trees, lighted with electric lamps, possessing "every new and modern improvement." As you go through them you almost think of a small Paris. At night its cafés are brilliantly lighted, and rank as the finest in Spain. They are always crowded, and fond and foolish parents bring their children and keep them in the glare and glitter until towards midnight, when they fall off their perches. Music of some sort is always going on; sometimes the harsh, barbarous discords and howlings the Spanish delight in, atothers civilised harmonies and trained voices that are really beautiful but less popular.
Those who frequent these cafés are not socially of an attractive class. Many are rough country people who are evidently in Zaragoza as birds of passage. The roughest specimens of apparently unwashed waifs and strays will take possession of a table, and at the very next table, almost touching elbows with them, will be a fashionable couple, dressed smartly enough for a wedding. The one in no way disconcerts the other, and all treat each other on the basis of a friendly species of equality. The lowest of the people who have a few sous to spare in their pocket devote them to this, their earthly paradise. They love the glare and glamour and warmth—it is the one green oasis in the desert of their every-day lives; all the working hours are gilded by the thought of the evening's amusement. Many of them have dull, dark homes, in which they feel cribbed and cabined. Of the quiet pleasures of domestic life they know little, but they are all perfectly happy. One of the strongest characteristics of human nature is its adaptability to circumstances; the back fits itself to the burden. People seldom die of a broken heart.
In Zaragoza, more than anywhere else, we saw this strange mixture of classes; wondered that some of them were admitted. But they behaved like ladies and gentlemen, drinking coffee and helping themselves to detestable spirit with an air and a grace only they know how to put on. Yet it is not put on; it is born with them; an inheritance from the past.
It was not in all this, however, that the charm of Zaragoza consisted. These everyday common-place sights and experiences have few attractions for those who seek to link themselves with the past in its ancient outlines and glorious buildings. The cafés were all very well as studies of human nature, but one very soon had enough of them.
There was one long street especially old and interesting. On each side were deep, massive arcades of a very early period, above which the houses rose in quaint, gabled outlines, many of the windows still possessing latticed panes, which added so much to their charm. To make the street more interesting, the market was held here. On both sidesthe road, in front of the arcades was a long succession of stalls, where everything relating to domestic life was sold. Fruit and flower and vegetable stalls were the most picturesque, full of fragrance and colouring. Luscious grapes and pomegranates were heaped side by side with a wealth of roses and orange blossoms and the still sweeter verbena. Many of the stall-holders wore costumes which harmonised admirably with the arcades and gabled roofs. The street was crowded with buyers and sellers and loungers, though few seemed alive to the picturesque element, in which we were absorbed. Many of the men, stalwart, strong and vigorous, were dressed in the costume of the country; knee-breeches and broad-brimmed hat; whilst broad blue and red silken sashes were tied round the waist: a hardy, active race, made for endurance. This scene had by far the most human interest of any we found in Zaragoza. As a picture of Old Spain, it would have made the fortune of an artist as we saw it that day in all the effect of sunlight and shadow, all the life and movement that seemed to rouse the arcades of the past into touch with the present.
Near to this a wonderful leaning-tower stood until recently; a magnificent Moorish-looking clock-tower built about the year 1500. This was one of the glories of Zaragoza; but the inhabitants after subscribing a sum of money to prop it up, grew alarmed and subscribed another sum to pull it down. In reality it was perfectly safe and might have stood for centuries.
But when all is said and done, it is in its side streets, narrow, tortuous and gloomy, that the interest of Zaragoza chiefly lies.
Many of the houses are ancient and enormous palaces, once inhabited by the old aristocracy of Aragon. They are so solidly built that they not only defy time, but almost the destructive hand of man. Some of them have wonderfully interesting facades: roofs with overhanging eaves and Gothic windows guarded by wrought ironwork; features that can never tire.
Magnificent and imposing gateways lead into yet more imposing courtyards. One of these was especially beautiful: and its history was romantic.
FAIR LUCIA'S HOUSE: ZARAGOZA.FAIR LUCIA'S HOUSE: ZARAGOZA.
It once belonged to the son of a reigning duke who renounced all for love, and thought the world well lost. Heoffended his family by his marriage, and they treated him as one dead.
The lady of his choice, fair Lucia, was beautiful and charming, but beneath him. Tradition says that she was an actress, and that he fell hopelessly in love with her as she played in a drama where all ended tragically. It might have been a warning to them, but when was love ever warned? He espoused her and they took up their abode in this wonderful old palace, fitting home of romance.
As we gazed upon the matchless courtyard: the overhanging eaves, the rounded arches of the balcony with their graceful and refined pillars, the exquisitely-carved ceilings and staircase of rich black oak: the latter wide enough to drive up a coach and four: we felt that here love might reign for ever. And probably it would have lasted long; for the lady, as history says, had all graces of the spirit as well as all the charm of exquisite form and feature: whilst her knight was true as the needle to the pole, constant as death.
They were happy in each other; life was a paradise; and when did such a perfect condition of things ever last? Paradise is not for this world.
Five summers and winters passed and found them still devoted to each other. Every day was a dream. Then a cruel visitation came to their town: an epidemic, sparing not high or low. It attacked the fair Lucia: and though her husband nursed her night and day, and all the leeches of the town combined their skill and judgment to save her, a stronger power than theirs was against them.
The last day dawned; instinct told her that another sun for her could never rise. Her husband bent over her in an agony of grief. She clasped her fair, frail arms around his neck.
"My love, my love, we have been very happy: all in all to each other," she murmured. "These five years, an eternity of bliss, have yet flown swiftly as a day. You have been good—so good; dear—so dear. Perhaps it is well to die thus and now, with all our youth, and all our dreams, and all our illusions undispelled. Eternity will restore us to each other. I leave you with not one mark on the delicate bloom of our great love."
She died and he was not to be consoled. His people offered to be reunited to him but he would none of them.
It was the time of the War of Succession. Into this he madly plunged, seeking death and finding it. As a rule death is said to avoid those who court him; but here it was not so. The knight, faithful to the end, was found upon the battlefield, his eyes wide open, looking upon the heavens; where perhaps he saw the vision of his lovely wife, whilst her miniature lay next his heart.
The house still stands much as it stood in those days, but two centuries older. It is the most beautiful in Zaragoza, perhaps has few equals in all Spain. A special atmosphere surrounds it: and as we look a vision rises.
Standing in the courtyard and gazing upon that wide staircase, we see that youthful pair, so favoured by nature, passing to and fro; we see them looking into each other's eyes, hear their love vows. Their arms entwine, their love-locks mingle. A mist blurs the scene, and when it passes all has changed. A sad cortége is descending. A coffin bearing the remains of what was once so fair and full of life. A knight armed cap-à-pied follows, with clanking sword and spur; but his face is pale and his eyes are red with weeping, though they weep not now. They will never weep again. The fountain of his tears is dried.
Again the mist blurs the scene, and when it clears nothing is visible but the solitary knight ascending to his lonely room, love flown, hope dead, his life gone from him.
Presently the palace is closed; no one ascends or descends the staircase; voices are never heard, footsteps never echo. Surely ghosts haunt the sad corridors, look out from the vacant arcades upon the silent courtyard. For the knight has long lain dead upon the battlefield and no one comes to claim the palace and once more throw wide its portals to life, and laughter and sunshine.
We paid it more than one visit during our sojourn in Zaragoza, and each time there passed before us in vivid colours the love-poem of two hundred years ago.
In the bright sunshine, the morning after our arrival we had gone forth to acquaint ourselves with the city. No view was more striking than that beyond the river looking upon the town.
FAIR LUCIA'S HOUSE: ZARAGOZA.FAIR LUCIA'S HOUSE: ZARAGOZA.
We stood on the farther bank. The stream flowed rapidly at our feet. Before us the wonderful bridge spanned the water with its seven arches: a massive, time-edifying structure. Above this in magic outlines rose the towers, turrets and domes of the new cathedral of El Pilar, as splendid from this point of view as it is really worthless both outwardly and inwardly on a closer inspection. It is certainly one of the most remarkable scenes in all Spain: and from this point Zaragoza possesses few rivals.
The new cathedral of El Pilar: so called because it possesses the pillar on which the Virgin is said to have descended from heaven. It is a very large building, and the domes from a distance are very effective, but the interior is in the worst and most debased style.
As we stood within the vast space that morning, wondering so much wealth had been wasted on this poor fabric, a female, apparently a lady, dressed in sable garments, her face veiled by the graceful mantilla, glided up to us and solicited alms.
At the first moment we thought we had mistaken her meaning, but on looking at her in doubt, she repeated her demand more imploringly.
"Señor, for the love of heaven, give me charity." The building was large, the worshippers were few, it was easy to converse.
"But what do you mean?" we said. "You look too respectable to be asking alms. Surely you cannot be in want?"
"In want? I am starving."
And throwing back her mantilla she disclosed a face still young, still fair to excess, but pale, pinched and careworn.
We felt terribly uncomfortable. She walked and spoke as a lady. There was a refinement in her voice and movement that could only have come from gentle breeding. How had she fallen so low? Eyes must have asked the question tongue could not.
BRIDGE AND CATHEDRAL OF EL PILAR: ZARAGOZA.BRIDGE AND CATHEDRAL OF EL PILAR: ZARAGOZA.
"Listen, señor," she said, as though in reply. "Listen and pity me. I was tenderly and delicately brought up, possessed a comfortable home, indulgent parents. We lived in Madrid, where my father held an office under Government. I was an only child and indulged. Pale, quiet and subdued as you see me now, I was passionate, headstrong and wilful. I fell under the influence of one outwardly an angel, inwardly a demon. He was a singer at the opera, and his voice charmed me even more than his splendid presence. He was beneath me, but we met clandestinely again and again, until at last he persuaded me to fly with him. I was infatuated to madness. All my past life, all past influence, teaching, thought of home, love of parents—all was thrown to the winds for thiswild passion. We were secretly married before we fled, for mad as I was I had not lost all sense of honour. Almost from the very first day retribution set in. My father had long suffered from disease of the heart though I knew it not, and the shock of my flight killed him. The home was broken up, my mother was left almost destitute, and in a frenzy of despair, a moment of insanity, took poison. I was an orphan, and then discovered that my husband had thought I should be rich. On learning the truth, he began to ill-treat me. His fancy had been caught for a moment by my fair face. Of this he soon tired and, base villain that he was, transferred his worthless affections elsewhere. Things went from bad to worse. There were times when he even beat me—and I could not retaliate. I had come to my senses; I recognised the hand of retribution, and accepted my punishment. But what wonder that in my misery I learned to seek oblivion in the wine cup? Perhaps my worthless husband first gave me the idea of this temptation, for he was seldom sober. It was in one of those terrible moments that he fell from a height and so injured himself that after five days of intense agony he died. I was free but penniless; knew not where to go, which way to turn. I had not a friend in the world—all had forsaken me. There was but one thing I could do. I had a voice and could sing. I sang in cafés, at small concerts, wherever I could get an engagement and earn a trifle. Now I am in Zaragoza. Most nights I sing in the great café, but my small earnings all go in the same way—to satisfy my craving for wine. Wine, wine, wine; it is my one sin, but oh! I feel that it is fatal. I know that it is surely drawing my feet to the grave. And after that?"
She shuddered; then pointed to a tawdry image of the Virgin, before which we stood.
"There, before that altar, I have knelt day after day and prayed to be delivered; but I have prayed in vain; no answer comes, and the chains are binding about me. Señor, I saw you enter; recognised that you were a stranger. Something told me I might address you and you would at least listen; would not spurn me or turn away in hateful contempt. But what can you do? I have asked for alms. I have told you Iam starving—and so I am; but it is the soul that is starving more than the body. You will bestow your charity upon me—I know you will—and it will not go in food but in wine. Ah, if you could cure me, or give me an antidote that would send me into a sleep from which I should never waken, that indeed would be the greatest and truest charity."
Then we realised that the pale face and pinched look were not due to want of food. The cause was deeper and more hopeless. It was one of the saddest stories we had ever listened to; and it came upon us so abruptly that we felt helpless and bewildered: sick at heart at the very thought of our want of power to minister to this mind diseased.
"Give us your name and address," we said, after trying to think out the situation. "Let us see if there is any way of escape for you. Your sad story has clouded the sunshine."
She drew a card from her pocket in a quiet, ladylike way and placed it in our hands with a pathetic, appealing look that haunts us still.
We watched her turn away and noted the quiet, graceful movement with which she glided down the aisle and disappeared through a distant door; and our keenest sympathy went out to the poor, fair, frail creature whose burden of life was greater than she could bear. Could by any possibility a way of escape be found for her?
We passed out of the church, which now seemed laden with an atmosphere of human sorrow and suffering, glad to escape to the free air and pure skies of heaven. From the Cathedral Square we turned into the narrow streets with their great grey palaces and enormous courtyards all full of suggestions of the past centuries. But the mighty have fallen: Aragon has not escaped decline any more than the rest of Spain.
Bygone days—Sumptuous roosting—Old exchange—Traders of taste—Glory of Aragon—Cathedral of La Seo—Modernised exterior—Interior charms and mesmerises—Next to Barcelona—Magnificent effect—Parish church—Moorish ceiling—Tomb of Bernardo de Aragon—The old priest—Waxes enthusiastic—Supernatural effect—Statuette of Benedict XIII.—Mysterious chiaroscuro—One exception—Alonza the Warrior—Moorish tiles—Bishop's palace—Frugal meal—Trace of old Zaragoza—Fifteenth century house—Juanita—Streets of the city—Cæsarea Augusta—Worship of the Virgin—Alonzo the Moor—Determined resistance—Days of struggle—Falling—Return to prosperity—Fair maid of Zaragoza—The Aljaferia—Ancient palace of the Moorish kings—Injured by Suchet—Salon of Santa Isabel—Spanish café—Four generations—Lovely voice—Lamartine'sLe Lac—Recognised—Reading between the lines—Out in the night air—An inspiration—Night vision of El Pilar—In the far future.
Bygone days—Sumptuous roosting—Old exchange—Traders of taste—Glory of Aragon—Cathedral of La Seo—Modernised exterior—Interior charms and mesmerises—Next to Barcelona—Magnificent effect—Parish church—Moorish ceiling—Tomb of Bernardo de Aragon—The old priest—Waxes enthusiastic—Supernatural effect—Statuette of Benedict XIII.—Mysterious chiaroscuro—One exception—Alonza the Warrior—Moorish tiles—Bishop's palace—Frugal meal—Trace of old Zaragoza—Fifteenth century house—Juanita—Streets of the city—Cæsarea Augusta—Worship of the Virgin—Alonzo the Moor—Determined resistance—Days of struggle—Falling—Return to prosperity—Fair maid of Zaragoza—The Aljaferia—Ancient palace of the Moorish kings—Injured by Suchet—Salon of Santa Isabel—Spanish café—Four generations—Lovely voice—Lamartine'sLe Lac—Recognised—Reading between the lines—Out in the night air—An inspiration—Night vision of El Pilar—In the far future.
THEprosperity of Zaragoza to-day is entirely commercial, but on a small scale. It is not a great financial or manufacturing town. The rooms that once echoed with the voices of dames and cavaliers, flashed with the blaze of jewels and the gleam of scabbards, have now in many cases been turned into stables. The courtyards, once crowded with mailed horsemen setting out for the wars, are now given over to the fowls of the air, that roost in the eaves and have little idea how sumptuously and artistically they are lodged.
Going on to the old Cathedral Square, we faced the ancient Exchange with its splendid cornice and decorations of medallion heads of the bygone kings and warriors of Aragon. The Gothic interior is very interesting, with low, vaulted passages leading to the one great room with its high roof and fine pointed windows, where once the merchants of the town carried on their operations. It would seem that in those past days the sale of stocks and shares, the great questions of finance, did notimply a contempt for the charms of outline and refinement. They loved to surround themselves with the splendours of architecture; and in more than one Spanish town the last and best remnant of the Gothic age is to be found in the Exchange.
The whole square was striking. In the centre was a splendid fountain, at which a group of women for ever stood with their artistic pitchers, filling them in turn. Fun and laughter seemed the order of the day. The square echoed with merriment, to which the many-mouthed plashing fountain added its music.
On the further side of the square is the great glory, not of Zaragoza alone, but of the whole kingdom of Aragon—the old cathedral of La Seo.
The exterior has been much modernised, and perhaps was never specially striking. It is curious only at the N.E. angle, where the wall is inlaid with coloured tiles of the fourteenth century; of all shapes, sizes, patterns and colours. The whole has a rich Moorish effect almost dazzling when the sun shines upon them. Above this rises an octagonal tower decorated with Corinthian pillars.
From all this glare and sound, hurry and bustle of life, you pass into the interior and at once are charmed, mesmerised. Calmness and repose fall upon the spirit; in a moment you have suddenly been removed from the world. At once it takes its place in the mind as ranking next to Barcelona. If some of its details are not to be too closely examined, the general effect is magnificent in the extreme.
In form it is peculiar and unlike any other cathedral, for it is almost a perfect square, but this is not observed at the first moment; the Coro occupies the centre, and a multitude of splendid columns support and separate the double aisles. The nave and aisles are all roofed to the same level, giving a very lofty appearance to the whole interior. The vaulting springs from the capitals of the main columns with an effect of beauty and grace seldom equalled. To look upwards is like gazing at a palm-forest with spreading fronds.
Like many of the Spanish churches, the light is cunningly arranged, and the shadow-effect is very telling. A solemn obscurity for ever reigns, excepting when sunbeams fall upon the windows. Towards evening the gloom deepens, andall looks weird and mysterious. The outlines of the lofty roof and spreading capitals are almost lost. We seem to be in a vast building of measureless dimensions: a dream-structure. The grey, subdued colour of the stone is perfect. Immense buttresses support the side walls, and between these are the chapels.
AN OLD NOOK IN ZARAGOZA.AN OLD NOOK IN ZARAGOZA.
The first chapel on the left on entering is used as a parishchurch. Its Moorish ceiling is magnificent, though difficult to make out in the dim religious light that too often reigns. The chapel also contains a very remarkable alabaster tomb of Bernardo de Aragon, brother of King Alfonso. When we entered, it was almost at the end of a service, and for congregation the old priest had no one but the verger. He seemed relieved when it was over, waddled down the steps and disrobed. Then in a very kindly way he turned to us, bowed as gracefully as his rotund personage permitted, and bade us note the beauty of ceiling and tomb.
"Light a few more candles," he said to the verger, "and let us try to get at a few of the exquisitely carved details. It is considered one of the finest Moorish ceilings in Spain," he continued; "and in my opinion it is so. You will mark the depth of the sections, beauty of the workmanship, rich and gorgeous effect of the whole composition. There never was a people like those wonderful Moors—never will be again as long as the world lasts. How these candles add a charm to the scanty daylight, giving out almost a supernatural effect! Has it ever struck you in the same way, this strange mingling of natural and artificial light? It is especially refining. Then look at this tomb, and admire its beauty—though it is of a very different character from the ceiling. Here we have nothing Moorish. That overwhelming wealth and gorgeousness of imagination is absent from the cold marble. But how pure and perfect! Note that exquisite statuette of Benedict XIII.: the figures of the knights that surround him with their military orders; the drooping figures of the mourners in the niches. But after all, what is all this compared with the splendours of the cathedral itself," cried the old priest, without pausing to take breath. "Put out the lights, Mateo," turning to the verger; and then without further ceremony led the way into the larger building.
He had a large, red, amiable face, this old priest; some day we felt sure that he would die of apoplexy; but he was evidently a lover of the beautiful, and as evidently one who loved his fellow-men.
"Look!" he said, throwing up his hands as we stood entranced at the scene. "What can be more perfect? Whicheverway you gaze you are met by a forest of pillars—a true forest, full of life and breath, for are not those growing like spreading palms? And where will you find pillars so lofty and massive? Where will you discover such a feeling of devotion, so mysterious a chiaroscuro? Apart from their beauty, we must not disdain these influences. They are aids to devotion, and poor, frail, erring human nature needs all the help it can receive both from without and within, from below and Above. I always tell our organist to play soft voluntaries and pull outhis sweetest stops, so that he may make music which will creep into the spirit and rouse all its capacities for worship. That should be the true aim of all harmony. Look at the richness of the coro—the splendour of the carving. It all forms an effect which makes this the most wonderful and perfect cathedral in the whole of Spain."
NORTH WALL OF CATHEDRAL: ZARAGOZA.NORTH WALL OF CATHEDRAL: ZARAGOZA.
"With one exception," we ventured modestly to observe.
"Which is that?" cried the old priest, evidently sharpening his weapon of warfare—the tongue that did him such good suit and service.
"Your cathedral is a gem of the very first water," we said. "It throws one into a dream from which one might almost wish not to awaken; but it is not equal to Barcelona."
The old priest put his hand to his forehead and looked depressed.
"You are right," he said; "I cannot contradict you. But then Barcelona is beyond comparison." Here he brightened again. "Let me tell you the difference. Barcelona was never built by men; it was the work of angels. It is a dream-building that came down from the skies, and some day it will disappear into the skies again. And then here we shall reign supreme. With all its beauty and splendour and charm, there is nothing here to suggest angel master-builders; it is a dream-fabric if you will, but essentially the work of man: firm and strong and substantial, lasting through the ages. In the days of the Goths there was another building on this very spot. The Moors came and it was turned into a mosque; and when Alonza the Warrior re-took the city the church was reconstructed. This was early in the twelfth century. Here the kings of Aragon were crowned with pomp and ceremony, and here our most important councils have been held. Now come and look at our Moorish tiles."
And again, without pause in his talk, and without ceremony, he led the way. We could only willingly follow through the lovely forest of pillars, crossing one aisle after another, sharing his enthusiasm. We had the whole church to ourselves. The people of Zaragoza seemed too busy to trouble themselves about dreams of architecture.
"Look again," said the old priest, as we stood outside infront of the north wall. "These tiles are very beautiful and remarkable. They are undoubtedly Moorish; the work of Moorish craftsmen. Do you observe the fineness of the colours, the rich deep blue that contrasts so well with the emerald green? You would think the effect of so much colour would be garish, but on the contrary it is quiet and subdued, with great dignity about it. This is quite the oldest part of the exterior. One can only regret that the whole was not tiled, for then we should have possessed a unique building with which to challenge the world. You see there are still evidences of an earlier church than this," and he pointed to certain remains which were unmistakably Romanesque: in the lower part of the apse, the buttresses and in one of the windows.
"And there," said the old priest, pointing to an immense building, "is the Bishop's palace, which was sacked and ruined by the French in that terrible war. Since that day much that was interesting in Zaragoza has disappeared; but heaven be praised, we have still our cathedral, and as long as we have that, the rest matters little. And now I must wish you good-morning. It is my hour for breakfast—a very frugal meal with me, consisting chiefly of eggs and sweet herbs. Ah, señor," with a round gurgling laugh, "I see what you are thinking—that eggs and sweet herbs never developed this rotundity of person. You are wrong. I fast twice in the week; I never touch anything stronger than coffee; I have only two simple meals a day; and yet you see how prodigal nature is in her dealings with me. You doubt me? Come with me. I live at a stone's throw. You shall see my abode and interrogate my old housekeeper, and you will hear how she corroborates my tale."
He led the way, this singular old priest, whom we found not only appreciating the beautiful, but brimming over with humour: one of those delightfully simple, self-unconscious men, who are all sympathy and amiability. We could but follow: down a small narrow street into a quaint sort ofcul-de-sac, where we came upon an exquisite trace of Old Zaragoza.
A small fifteenth-century house, with a quaint Gothic doorway, and a window guarded by magnificent iron-work. Touching a hidden spring, this door opened and admitted us into a panelled passage that apparently had not been touchedfor centuries. Then he turned into a wonderful old room, black with panelled oak, some of which was vigorously and splendidly carved.
"This is my living room," he said, "and here I am happy. I live in the past; the fine old fifteenth-century days when men knew how to produce the beautiful and were great in all their ideas. Here I live, and here I hope to die."
He went to the door.
"Juanita!" he called. A distant voice answered, and in a moment a quaint old woman dressed in black appeared upon the scene.
"Juanita, is my breakfast ready?" asked the old priest.
"Si, el canon."
"What have you prepared?"
"Two fried eggs, canonigo, flavoured with sweet herbs; bread, butter and coffee at discretion—as usual."
"You see," laughed the priest. "There is no collusion here! Would that I could ask you to share my frugal meal; but it is emphatically only enough for one—and that an abstemious old canon. Now if you will come and see me this evening or to-morrow, I shall be delighted to receive you. I would even ask you to come and dine with me, but my dinner is as frugal as my déjeuner. Well, for the moment we part; but you will come again."
As we said good-bye, Juanita appeared with her fried eggs, and steaming coffee served in a chaste silver pot that must have been at least a hundred and fifty years old; and the old priest accompanying us to the door, speeded us on our way with true courtesy and an old-fashioned blessing.