IN ZARAGOZA.
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--Caesarea 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 cafe--Four generations--Lovely voice--Lamartine's
_Le Lac_--Recognised--Reading between the lines--Out in the night
air--An inspiration--Night vision of El Pilar--In the far future.
The prosperity 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 not
imply 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, and all 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.
[Illustration: AN OLD NOOK IN ZARAGOZA.]
The first chapel on the left on entering is used as a parish church.
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.
[Illustration: NORTH WALL OF CATHEDRAL: ZARAGOZA.]
"Look!" he said, throwing up his hands as we stood entranced at the
scene. "What can be more perfect? Whichever way 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 out his 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."
"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 in front 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, senor," 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 of _cul-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 touched for 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 dejeuner. 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.
[Illustration: TOWER OF LA SEO: ZARAGOZA.]
We passed from this delightful atmosphere into the modern streets of the
city, thinking how little remained of its former traces. For it goes far
back in history, even to the days of the Romans, when it was called
Caesarea Augusta; a name that in course of ages was transformed to
Zaragoza. Early in the first century it was prosperous; a free city
possessing its own charters, seat of the Assizes, owning a mint. But of
the old Roman city all traces have disappeared. It was one of the first
cities to renounce Paganism. Aurelios Prudentius the first Christian
poet was born here in the year 348. Christianity was then the keynote
of its life, and martyrs died for the faith. Now it is given up to the
worship of the Virgin almost more than any town in Spain. In the eighth
century it fell under the dominion of the Moors, who kept it until the
twelfth century. Then came Alonso the Warrior, who captured it after a
desperate siege of five years, when the people had most of them
perished from hunger: one of the most determined resistances in the
history of the world.
It passed through many vicissitudes as the centuries rolled on. Then in
1808 came the French, who without taking the town managed to leave it
almost in ruins. Then came the attack under Napoleon's four generals,
and Zaragoza resisted them single-handed for sixty-two days of terrible
struggle, combined with plague and famine. All Spain looked on and did
nothing to relieve it. It fell in 1809. Since that time it has had a
peaceful return to prosperity.
Many of the ancient outlines and splendours of the city had disappeared
in the "heap of ruins" left by the French. A new element arose, and as
we walked towards our rambling old inn, with its thousand-and-one
passages, we thought them painfully evident. At the inn we took up our
guide, who escorted us through many streets and turnings to the Plaza
del Portillo, where stood the ancient west gate of the city.
It was on this very spot that occurred the romantic episode of Augustina
the Fair Maid of Zaragoza; a Spanish Joan of Arc on a small scale.
In the terrible siege to which the city was to succumb, Augustina was
fighting on the walls side by side with her devoted lover. She watched
him fall, death-stricken, then took the match from his loosening hand
and worked the gun herself. Determined to avenge her lover, it is said
that she fought long and desperately and with more fatal execution than
any two artillerymen. But we all know the story by heart; and how,
though courting death, she escaped all dangers.
Not to see this romantic spot were we here, but the Aljaferia, just
beyond the gate, in some measure by far the most interesting secular
building in Zaragoza. This was the ancient palace of the Moorish kings,
and still possesses some exquisite Moorish traces and outlines, though
chiefly by way of restoration. It was built by a Sheikh of Zaragoza as a
royal fortress, with almost impregnable walls. Ferdinand the Catholic
gave it over to the Inquisition party to add to the power of this
wretched tribunal, partly because in these strong walls the hated judges
found a safe refuge after the murder of the popular and ill-fated
Arbues.
In the French war it was much injured by Suchet, who turned it into a
barrack, then degraded this ancient palace of the Moorish kings and the
kings of Aragon to the rank of a prison. Alphonso XII. restored the
palace, and had it redecorated as far as possible to imitate its ancient
splendour. The staircase is very fine, and the ceilings of some of the
rooms are magnificent. One of the rooms is called the Salon of Santa
Isabel, because here that future queen of Hungary, so famous for her
goodness, was born in 1271. It is richly decorated in blue and gold.
There is a small octagonal mosque of great beauty, which has been left
just as it was in the days of the Moors; and some of the horseshoe
doorways, in outline at least, have not changed. The visit was full of
interest, and in spite of all alteration, carried us back to the days
when that wonderful people reigned in Zaragoza. In the upper part was a
magnificent armoury, kept in good order by the soldiers--for this fine
old building has again been turned into a barrack, and devoted to
military use.
The day passed on to night, and there came an hour when we found
ourselves sitting for a time in the cafe that is said to be the largest
in Spain, studying human nature, listening to the music--for once an
interesting and civilised performance. The room was gorgeously fitted up
with gilding and mirrors that seemed to reflect a million lights. The
atmosphere was fast growing to that state of blue haze which the
Spaniards delight in, many of whom are said to carry on their smoke in
their sleep by some process of conjuring only to be acquired after long
practice.
We happened to be looking away from the orchestra, in deep study of a
curious group to our right--a group which seemed to comprise four
generations. One was one of the oddest little old women we had ever
seen, with a wonderfully wrinkled face, and small restless eyes sharp as
an eagle's, and withered hands that looked like a bird's claws. This was
the little great-grandmother. She had by no means passed into her
dotage, the nonentity of old age, and was possibly not more than seventy
or seventy-five, though she looked a hundred. Then came her son and
daughter-in-law--unmistakably her son from the likeness to her on a
larger and somewhat pleasanter scale. Then a still younger generation:
a young man and woman, evidently husband and wife; she as evidently the
man's daughter. These were better dressed and looked as though they had
climbed a few rungs up the social ladder; they were prosperous in their
small way; and the young man was distinctly of a better grade than his
father-in-law. On his knee sat a lovely boy some five years old, fast
asleep, his head pillowed against the father's shoulder. Here was the
fourth generation.
But what most attracted us was the singular beauty of the young man's
wife, with her delicate flushed cheeks, her white teeth, clear hazel
eyes, and abundant hair perfectly arranged. He seemed to follow her
looks and hang upon her words and worship the ground she trod upon, and
we did not wonder.
We were absorbed in this domestic picture, when suddenly we were
arrested by the spell of a lovely voice, and well-remembered words fell
upon our ear. It was that touching song of Lamartine's, _Le Lac_, so
pathetic in words and music. We turned and felt thrilled and startled as
we recognised the face and form that had accosted us in El Pilar and
poured out her sad story.
But the face was changed. In place of the hungry pallor there was now a
crimson flush; the eyes sparkled with light. Was it all due to inward
fever, to the wine-cup, or to artificial aid? Not the latter, we
thought. There was a beauty upon the face nothing artificial ever yet
possessed. She was quietly dressed in black. It might have been the very
robe she had worn in the morning, differently arranged.
We must have moved or slightly started, for at that moment she evidently
recognised us. For an instant her face changed colour, her voice
trembled; then she recovered herself, and apparently did not again
notice us.
The very first words of the introduction had caught our ear with all the
charm and familiarity of an old friend. All its dramatic power was well
rendered by the singer.
"Ainsi toujours pousses vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit eternelle emportes sans retour,
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'ocean des ages
Jeter l'ancre un seul jour?"
So it went on, to the end of the declamation. Then, after a slight
pause, whilst the accompanist went through the short refrain, the soft
sweet melody, the graceful, mournful words rose upon the air:
"Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence,
On n'entendait au loin sur l'onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flots harmonieux!
"O Lac! Rochers muets, grottes, foret obscure,
Vous que le temps epargne, ou qu'il peut rajeunir,
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!
"Que le vent qui gemit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums legers de ton air embaume,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire,
Tout dise: ils ont aime!"
Not a word was lost. Every syllable rang out softly, distinctly, clear
as a bell. We had never heard the song more beautifully sung, or greater
justice done to its pathos. Every shade of sadness in its cadences was
perfectly given. It was only too evident that trouble had helped the
exquisite voice to its sorrowful ring. To us, who were to some extent
behind the scenes of the singer's life, it was difficult to listen
without emotion. We could read between the lines and knew the source of
her inspiration; the deep suffering and misery that lay behind it all.
When the song was over, with its applause that grated, and the singer
had retired, we felt the room had become stifling and unbearable, and
went out into the night air. The streets seemed to have grown small and
contracted. Something must be done for that sad life that would
otherwise soon be lost in every sense of the word; yet apparently we
were powerless to move in the matter. Suddenly, as though by an
inspiration, we thought of the old canon, so full of sympathy and human
kindness. If there could be any possible way of escape, he was the one
to suggest it; and we determined to lay the whole case before him.
Thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the
river. The night was clear and calm; the stars hung in the sky: the
moon, brilliant and silvery, was rising behind El Pilar, showing up in
magic outlines all the grace of its domes and towers. The old bridge
spanned the stream, whose dark waters flowed rapidly through its seven
arches.
It was a perfect night, a witching scene. Everywhere intense quiet
reigned, absolute stillness and repose. The world might have been a
sleeping paradise, knowing nothing of human suffering. But we had
learned that day by sad experience that the time for sorrow and sighing
to flee away lay still in the far-off future.