Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

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, at others 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 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.