A SAD HISTORY.
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--Cafes 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.
The sun 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, we thought 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 cafes 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, at others civilised harmonies and trained
voices that are really beautiful but less popular.
Those who frequent these cafes 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 cafes 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 sides
the 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.
[Illustration: 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. He offended 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 cortege is descending. A coffin bearing
the remains of what was once so fair and full of life. A knight armed
cap-a-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.
[Illustration: 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.
"Senor, 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.
[Illustration: BRIDGE AND CATHEDRAL OF EL PILAR: ZARAGOZA.]
"Listen, senor," 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 this wild
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 cafes, 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 cafe, 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. Senor, 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 I am 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.