After this it seemed to me that I could say I had seen Saragossa, and I turned toward the hotel, summing up my impressions. I was still very desirous of having a conversation with some good Saragossan, and after dinner I entered a café, where I quickly found an architect and a shopkeeper, who between sips of chocolate explained to me the political situation of Spain and the most effectual means of “bringing her safely through her troubles.” They thought very differently. The shopkeeper, a little man with a flat nose and a great furrow between his eyes, wanted a federal republic right off hand, that very night, before he went to bed, and he provided, as a sine-quâ-non condition for the prosperity of the new government, the execution of Serrano, Sagasta, and Zorilla, to convince them, once for all, that “they cannot trifle with the Spanish people.” “And to that king of yours,” he concluded, looking me in the eyes—“to your king, whom you have sent us—pardon me, my dear Italian, for the frankness with which I say it—to your king I would give a first-class ticket to return to his native Italy, where the air is better for kings. We are Spanish, my dear Italian,” said he, laying his hand on my knee,—“we are Spanish, and we do not want foreigners, either cooked or raw.”
“I think I have caught your meaning; and you?” I asked, turning to the architect, “how do you believe Spain can be saved?”
“There is but one way,” he answered solemnly; “there is but one way—a federal republic; in this I am of the same mind as my friend, but with Don Amadeus for president.” (The friend shrugged his shoulders.) “I repeat it—with Don Amadeus as president! He is the only man who could direct the republic. This is not my opinion alone; it is the opinion of a great many. Let Don Amadeus make it plain to his father that a monarchy will never please us here; let him call Castelar, Figueras, and Pi y Margal to the government; let him proclaim a republic and have himself elected president, and cry to Spain, ‘Sirs, I am now in command, and if any one raises his horns, let him beware of the rod!’ And then we shall have true liberty.”
The shopkeeper, who did not believe that true liberty consisted in being beaten over the horns, protested, the other replied, and the discussion lasted some time. Then they began to speak of the queen, and the architect declared that, although he was a republican, he had profound respect and warm admiration for Donna Victoria. “She has a great deal in here,” said he, touching his forehead with his finger. “Is it true that she knows Greek?”
“Oh yes,” I replied.
“Did you hear that, eh?” he asked the other.
“Yes,” replied the shopkeeper in a low voice, “but you don’t govern Spain with Greek.” He admitted, however, that, since one must have a queen, it was desirable to have one who was learned and intelligent, and worthy of sitting on the throne of Isabella the Catholic—who, as every one knows, knew as much Latin as a well-read professor—rather than to have one of those hare-brained queens who have no head for anything but festivities and favorites. In a word, he did not wish to see the house of Savoy in Spain. But if anything could plead a little in its favor, it would be the Greek of the queen.
What a gallant republican!
There is, however, in this race a generosity of heart and a vigor of mind which justify their honorable fame. The Arragonese are respected in Spain. The people of Madrid, who pick flaws in the Spaniards of all the provinces—who call the Catalans rough, the Andalusians vain, the Valencians fierce, the Galicians miserable, the Basques ignorant—even they speak with a little more reserve of the haughty sons of Arragon, who in the nineteenth century have written in their own blood the most glorious page in the history of Spain. The name of Saragossa sounds to the people like a cry of liberty, and to the army it is a battle-cry. But, since there is no rose without a thorn, this noble province is also a seed-bed of restless demagogues, of guerilla chieftains, of magistrates, of a people with the hot head and steady hand, who give all the government departments a great deal to do. The government is obliged to caress Arragon like a morose, passionate son who lays his plans to blow up the house if his will is crossed in the least thing.
The entrance of King Amadeus into Saragossa and the short stop he made there in 1871 offered an occasion for some deeds which are worthy of being retold, not only because they refer to the prince, but because they are an eloquent expression of the character of the people; and before everything else should come the speech of the mayor, which made such a stir in and out of Spain, and will probably remain among the traditions of Saragossa as a classic example of republican audacity. Toward evening the king arrived at the railroad-station, where, accompanied by an immense crowd, the delegates of the many municipalities, the societies, and the civil and military corps of the various cities of Arragon had gathered to meet him. After the customary cheers and applause had subsided the alcayde of Saragossa presented himself before the king, and read the following address in an emphatic manner: