Our friend, as we have said, was leaning over the balcony, gratefully inhaling the dismal smells which arose from the street below. As he had taken rooms for us, we went in, determined to remain, though we could see presages of what our fate was to be. Our friend had laid himself down, and covered himself with a rug, to go through the farce of taking a little rest, but after he had, by a strong effort of imagination, supposed he had refreshed himself by his siesta, we looked upon his countenance as he arose, with the rug still upon him, and saw that it resembled a magnified pepper castor more than a human visage. All the mosquitoes, fleas, and flies in Gerona must have concentrated their forces upon his face, and held thereon perfect orgies for a couple of hours. The hotel altogether was a very miserable establishment, not more inviting than the preceding one.
After we had retired to rest, the floor creaked in a very uneasy manner throughout the live-long night. The walls of our sleeping apartments were painted black, and every article of furniture was preserved from the disastrous effects of damp by the time-honoured dust of ages. Moisture was continually dropping from the ceiling on to the floor below, with a sound as regular as that of a slow pendulum. In an apartment where sleep is generally uncertain, the counting of these drops, and their arrangement into minutes, quarters, and hours, might prove a very pleasing pastime. We dined, on the evening of our arrival, most luxuriously on stewed beef made of Plaza de Toros horse, and suffered severely from cholera and cramp, in consequence, for three days after.
In May, 1809, the French, with 35,000 men under Verier and Augereau, besieged Gerona, and it was not till after seven months and five days' fierce and incessant struggle that the indomitable inhabitants, unable to hold out longer against famine and pestilence, were compelled to yield. Forty French batteries were in position, but the gallant Geronese, with guns of inferior caliber and metal, but mad with hatred to the foreigner—their religious enthusiasm at the same time being fanned to the most desperate pitch by the priesthood—fought with the despairing energy of fanatics. Women served and loaded the cannon, and lay dead everywhere by the side of their husbands and brothers.
The first sentiment experienced by the Geronese as they saw from their walls the advancing host of the French was not that of terror, but a burning desire for revenge, an unconquerable feeling of hatred towards the spoilers of their hearths and homes, which made them welcome the coming combat as they would a religious fiesta or popular ceremony. The women laboured unweariedly at the fortifications with pick and spade, joining with the men in the most arduous duties; tearing their delicate hands as they piled the great rough stones and tugged at the clumsy cannon, and cheerfully bending their frail forms beneath the weight of heavy burdens, they encouraged with look, gesture, and smile the men of Gerona, the soldiers of a day. All those who could carry a weapon seized it, and praying the priest to bless it, kissed it as a precious gift of heaven. Young and old, strong and frail, rushed with enthusiastic shouts to man the walls, determined to do or die. Not a creature was there but thirsted for the combat, the heart of all beating with one glorious pulse. Rich and poor knew no distinction: all were equal in their love of God and country.
Nor did the actual terrors of the fight diminish the spirit of valour with which they had commenced it. The dead, as they fell, were blessed by the watchful priest, and envied by the survivors as martyrs. As the siege progressed, another and more fearful foe appeared in their very midst, against which the mightiest could not prevail. The dead fought against the living; for the accumulated corpses of the slain, few of whom they were able to bury, brought a pestilence upon the town. Still the heroic defenders fought on unflinching, and fell down rotting at their guns. Then arose a cry for bread, for pale-eyed famine hovered over the city. All the domestic animals—the faithful friends and slaves of man—had been pitilessly slaughtered and their flesh eagerly devoured. Even the rats of the river had served as nutriment to the garrison, and the dead themselves at length supplied Gerona with a ghastly but imperative food. Still amidst blood and slaughter, amongst the wildest horrors of plague, famine, and war, Gerona held out against the foe, until, after seven months and five days of iron determination and indomitable courage, it fell exhausted, crushed, and prostrate into the hands of the enemy. Fifteen thousand men had perished on the side of the French, and nine thousand on that of the Spaniards. Thus ended the last siege of Gerona; and as long as true patriotism and unflinching courage excite our warmest sympathy, the names of Saragossa and Gerona should be watch-words to all true lovers of their country.
We went to the theatre at Gerona, which we found to be a large, painted apartment, reeking with the odour of tobacco. The drama of the evening was rather complicated in structure, and must have been harrowing in incident, judging by the effect it had on the spectators. The plot was so absurdly incredible as scarcely to deserve mention. The hero was discovered by his father to have married his step-mother. The unfortunate gentleman, whose wife had married his son, perambulated the stage in apparent distraction, every now and then stopping at the wing to have his tears renewed by a wet sponge. The dialogue must have been magnificent, to judge by the number of ahs! and ohs! to which the audience gave vent. As far as the actors were concerned, it was perfectly unnecessary, as the prompter did it all for them, in a very audible manner. Indeed, at times, so distinct, clear, and forcible was his reading of the play, that the leading tragedian was not only perfectly inaudible, but became utterly speechless, contenting himself with "sawing the air," and doing a little dumb-show, ever and anon taking a few measured paces. The prompter himself, at any passage requiring extra force, jumped up in his little shed in front of the footlights and waved his arms aloft like railway signals, and then as suddenly disappeared.
When every one in the tragedy was disposed of by death, the curtain fell, and we walked back to our hotel with an energetic little Spaniard, who kindly accosted us, telling us he was very impressionable, and at the sight of an Englishman could never restrain himself from tendering to him his respect for the British generally, and for Sir Gladstone in particular. He certainly was one of the most voluble individuals we ever had the misfortune to come across. He told us all he knew upon every subject, and a great deal besides about which he knew nothing; ending by informing us that he had a great admiration for everything noble and grand, an assurance which he finished by swindling us in the easiest manner possible out of the sum of five shillings—English money.
Before the traveller takes leave of charming old Gerona—and, in spite of its many discomforts, to leave it one is loth—let him wander once more through its quaint old rickety streets by twilight, and note the dark serrated broken sky-lines of its houses. Wandering on, he will come suddenly upon the beautiful ancient cathedral church, with its imposing lines. It is a truly magnificent edifice, and one cannot look up to its lofty arches, so sombre in their aspect, without being impressed by the gloomy majesty of this old Gothic temple. Through its splendid brazen gates the eye catches the gleam of twinkling tapers casting their rays upon groups of gaudy priests, while all around them, amid the white curling cloudlets of ascending incense, falls the halo of soft light, in which they appear as in a vision. Dark shrouded figures, scattered over the marble floor, apparently motionless in prayer, were kneeling before the altars or amongst the ancient tombs. An organ of great power was pealing forth one of those magnificent pieces of music which the Romish Church has dedicated to the service of religion; and, at a distant altar, a splendidly robed priest was reciting some of the services of the Church. Who, whatever his creed, could remain unmoved in such a fane?
We are now at the end of our ramble, but before we return to the delights of home, we may as well add a few words of plain fact concerning the once all-powerful and still illustrious Spain.