Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"With humble deference to your opinion, madame, I disagree with you," laughed the priest. "All things beautiful are to be appreciated; above everything else a beautiful woman, the noblest work of God. We worship the stars in the heavens, though we can never attain to them. Do you imagine that I could be in this room and remain insensible to such charms as few women possess?"

Our fair hostess blushed with pleasure. No woman is insensible to a compliment of which she can easily judge the sincerity. Every woman also likes to be praised before the husband to whom she is devoted. The age of de Nevada permitted him to be candid in expressing his admiration, whilst the in some sort family connection that would take place at the marriage referred to, had paved the way to an immediate and friendly intimacy.

In spite of the priest's emphatic determination to leave punctually, the hour had long struck when we reluctantly took our departure. Both de la Torre and his fair wife were charming, refined and intellectual, and the moments had passed all too quickly.

Next morning the crowded streets had thinned. Most of the people had disappeared, reserving themselves for the evening. Yet there was a constant, quiet activity going on, which gave the city a lively and prosperous air. It was market-day; the most picturesque market we had yet seen in Spain; thronged with buyers and sellers, piled up with all the fruits and vegetables of the South. Figs, grapes and pomegranates abounded at very small prices. The market-place was full of colouring, in part due to the bright handkerchiefs and scarves worn by men and women.

All was as nothing compared with the splendour and perfume of the covered flower-market. For a few halfpence one carried away sufficient to decorate a palace. For ninepence one woman offered us a bouquet more than a yard round. We had never seen anything like it and wondered if it was meant to grace some foreign Lord Mayor's banquet. This sum was asked with some hesitation, seeing that we were strangers: she was prepared to take half the amount. The roses were far lovelier than those that grow in the gardens of Italy and find their way across the Channel. We gave a few halfpence for a large handful of tuberoses and pinks, and the woman was so charmed at the liberal payment that she presented us with a great bunch of sweet verbena. We possess some of the leaves now, and the scent—rare above all other scents—hangs round them still. Each morning we renewed our purchase. The flowers were always there. For them it was market-day all the year round.

The market-place was a charming three-cornered square; on one side a Renaissance church that for its style was really picturesque and formed an admirable background to the women and stalls. The interior, all gilt and glitter, set one's teeth on edge, but that did not alter the outward effect.

Opposite was a far lovelier building—the Lonja de Seda, or ancient Silk hall—of exquisitely beautiful and refined fifteenth-century Gothic.

The immense rooms were ornamented with fluted columns without capitals, that spread out like the leaves of a palm-tree and lost themselves in the roof. Behind it was an old garden, with wonderful architectural surroundings. A long stone staircase ended in a Gothic doorway of graceful outlines and deep rich mouldings. Windows filled with half-ruined tracery looked on to the garden with its trees and flowers. The upper part was an open Gothic arcade with rich ornamentations and medallions, above which rose a massive square tower with a round Norman turret.

This dream-building was vanishing under the hands of the restorer. The court was filled with workmen, and the exquisite tone of age, the rounded, crumbling outlines were beginning to disappear. We were just in time to see it at its best.