Saragossa: A Story of Spanish Valor

by Benito Pérez Galdós

My comrades ran to the front, and I was preparing to follow them, when I happened to see a man whose looks attracted my attention. It was Candiola. He was coming out of a house near by with his clothing scorched, and grasping between his hands a fowl, which cackled at being held captive. I stopped him in the middle of the street, questioning him about his daughter and Augustine. He answered me in a very disturbed way,—

"My daughter—I do not know—there she is—somewhere. All, all! I have lost all. The receipts, the receipts were burned. Fortunately I got out of the house, and as I fled I came upon this chicken which, like me, was flying from the dreadful flames. Yesterday, a hen was worth five duros. But my receipts! Holy Virgin del Pilar, and thou, dear little Santo Domingo of my soul, why have ye let my receipts be burned? They, at least, might have been saved. Do you wish to help me? The tin box which held them is still there pinned down under a great beam. Where can you find half a dozen men for me? Good God, this junta, these authorities, this Captain-General, what are they thinking of?" And he went on, calling out to the passers-by, "Eh, peasant, friend, dear man, let us see if we cannot lift the beam which has fallen into the corner. Oh, friends, put down that dying man you are carrying to the hospital, and come and help me. Oh, pitiless Saragossans, how God is chastising you!" Seeing that none came to help him, he went into the house, but came out again, crying out in desperation, "Already it is too late to save anything! Everything is on fire. Oh, my Virgin del Pilar, why dost thou not perform a miracle for me? Why not give me such a gift as that bestowed upon the children in the fiery furnace of Babylon, so that I could go into the teeth of the fire and save my receipts!"

CHAPTER XXV

Presently he seated himself upon a pile of stones, beating his brow from time to time, and without loosening his hold of the chicken, he laid his hand upon his heart, sighing deeply. I questioned him again about his daughter, desiring to hear news of Augustine; and he said to me,—

"I was in that house in the Calle de Añon, where we moved in yesterday. Everybody told me that it was not safe there, and that we had much better be in the middle of the town; but it does not suit me to go where everybody else comes, and the place that I prefer is the one that the rest abandon. This world is filled with thieves and rascals. It is better that I get away from them. We managed with a lower room of that house. My daughter is very much afraid of the cannon, and wished to go elsewhere. When the mines began to burst under the neighboring houses, she and Guedita rushed away, terrified. I stayed alone, thinking of the danger my things are in; and pretty soon some soldiers came with flaming torches ready to set fire to the house. Those wretched cowards would not give me time to collect my things. Far from pitying my condition, they ridiculed me. I hid the box with my receipts for fear that those who think it is stuffed with money would carry it off; but it was impossible to stay inside long. I was surrounded with the bright flames, and choked with the smoke. In spite of everything, I insisted upon trying to save my box; but it was an impossible thing. I had to run. I could not take anything. Great God! I saved nothing but this poor creature, forgotten by its owners in the hen-house. It cost me a good deal of trouble to catch it. I burned one hand almost all over. Oh, cursed be he who invented fire! Why should one lose one's fortune to amuse these heroes! I had two houses in Saragossa besides the one I lived in. One of them, the one in the Calle de la Sombra, is preserved to me still, although it is without tenants. The other, which was called Casa de los Duendes, back of the San Francisco is occupied by the troops, and everything there has been torn to pieces for me. Ruin, nothing but ruin! Is it a right thing to burn houses merely to retard the conquest by the French?"

"War makes it necessary to do these things," I answered him. "And this heroic city desires to carry her defence to the last extreme."

"And what induces Saragossa to wish to carry her defence to the last extreme? What good does it do to the dead? You may talk to them of glory, of heroism,—of all those notions. Before I ever come back to live in an heroic city, I would go to a desert. I concede that there should be a certain resistance, but not to such a barbarous extreme as this. It is true the burned buildings are worth little, perhaps less than the great mass of charcoal which will result. Don't let them come to me with their foolish talk. Those fat sharpers are already planning to make a good business out of the carbon."

This made me laugh. My readers must not think that I exaggerate, since he said all this to me very nearly as I repeat it; and those who have the misfortune to know him would most readily have faith in my veracity. If Candiola had lived in Numantia, it would have been said that the Numantines were merchants of charcoal mixed with heroes.