Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

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 Cæsarea 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 café 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.