Glories of Spain Part 30

We watched him receding in the dark night; a stalwart figure; an honest man, with much that was good in him, though his lines were not cast in grooves where influences for good are strong. At the end of the avenue he called the hour and the night; then pa.s.sed up out of sight into the market-place once more. There in due time would return that quiet, solemn procession of two; the acolyte bearing the lantern, the priest with his bent back and the weight of years upon him bearing the Host: their mission accomplished: the last rites administered: the pure soul perhaps already far on its long journey.

The night pa.s.sed on to dawn and daybreak and sunrise: a new day, a new world. Was Nerissa still lingering here, or, as she had said, had her sightless eyes opened to the world beyond? It was impossible to leave Lerida without ascertaining how it fared with this couple that we had found so interesting and exceptional. Though it delayed us some hours, it must be done, the visit paid.

We breakfasted, attended by the erring waiter, who looked pale and brooding and revengeful, as though he meditated drowning the Dragon in her own soapsuds. Then, in the clear early morning, we went forth.

The way was familiar by this time. We knew its every aspect: all the outlines were old friends. We pa.s.sed up the avenue and through the crowded market-place, where people laughed and talked and bought and sold, as if life were one long joke and would last for ever, and there was no such thing as death and decay. Down the long narrow street where we again saw the men pressing the grapes, and noted the stain of the rich red juice, and smelt the luscious perfume of the muscatel--for they have red grapes here with the muscatel scent and flavour. Onwards into a quiet side street and the quaint old house that now had upon it the dark grey shadow.

We mounted the fine broad staircase with its carved oak bal.u.s.ters and panelled walls. There was not a sound to be heard. At such moments sympathy is quick to respond, and the awful messenger makes the weight of his errand known.

The door was slightly ajar. We pushed it gently open and entered, feeling ourselves in the presence of death. Peace had fallen upon the house.

There in the quiet room was the vacant chair near the latticed window, where so recently we had seen that wonderful embodiment of beauty in age. It would never be seen again. Near the bed Alphonse was seated, holding the hand of his dead wife, his other hand up to his face. He looked the picture of sad despair. The aged form, so recently still endowed with life and vigour, was now bent and bowed under the weight of sorrow.

As we entered he glanced up, and stronger than all the evident grief we were surprised to see an unmistakable look of resignation. Quietly placing the cold hand that never would move or clasp his own again, he rose and came towards us.

"Oh, senor, this is kind. You come to me in my loneliness. It is all over. The sightless eyes are closed, the beautiful voice is still. I have often prayed that I might be the last to be taken. Heaven is merciful, and has answered me. As the dawn broke in the east her spirit went. Raising her hand as though pointing to some unseen vision: 'Alphonse,' she said, 'I am called. You will soon join me, beloved.'

Then a glory seemed to pa.s.s over her face, and she was gone. Senor, come near and look upon that beautiful face once more."

He approached the bed and with reverent hand drew down the sheet.

We were almost startled by the beauty disclosed. The face seemed to have gone back to the days of its youth; it might have been that of a young woman of surpa.s.sing loveliness. The rapt expression the old man had spoken of was still there. It was impossible but that some divine vision had been seen at the last by those eyes closed to mortal things. It spoke of intense happiness, of a joy that was to be eternal.

"Alphonse, how can you look upon that face, which has the divine image upon it and the divine glory, and be sad?"

"Senor, I have lost my all. I am very lonely. Yesterday I was rich; I knew not how rich; to-day I am poor and stricken. Yet I am resigned; and I am happy in the thought that in a few days--I verily believe in a few days--my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our spirits will be united in Paradise. I am not sad; only intensely lonely. Senor, you gave her almost her very last pleasure. After you had left, she said that for years our little room had not seemed so bright. You brought her a breath from her old world and she declared that she felt her youth renewed. Was it not the spirit telling her in advance how soon her youth should indeed return to her? Oh, Nerissa, my life's joy, my best beloved, in what realms is your pure spirit now wandering? Surely you need me to perfect your happiness?"

We stayed awhile with him, and before leaving found the forlorn att.i.tude, the despairing droop had departed. As we said good-bye we quietly placed money in his hand.

"To buy flowers," we explained. "Place them gently in her coffin. The fairest flowers you can find. They will still be less fair than she."

"Ah, senor," he returned, "it is a long farewell. I shall look upon your face no more. But when I meet her again we will talk of you. And do not think that you leave me to utter solitude. I have many friends about me, and though humble they are good. For my few remaining days I need have no thought, and I have no fear."

We departed. The little episode was over. But it would be ever a.s.sociated in our mind with Lerida, enshrouding the town in a peculiarly sacred atmosphere.

CHAPTER XXII.

A SAD HISTORY.

Broad plains of Aragon--Wonderful tones--Approaching Zaragoza--Celestial vision--Distance lends enchantment--Commonplace people--The ancient modernised--Disillusion followed by delight--Almost a small Paris--Cafes and their merits--Not socially attractive--Friendly equality--Mixture of cla.s.ses--Inheritance of the past--Interesting streets--Arcades and gables--Lively scenes--People in costume--Picture of Old Spain--Ancient palaces--One especially romantic--The world well lost--Fair Lucia--Where love might reign for ever--Paradise not for this world--Doomed--The last dawn--Inconsolable--Seeking death--Found on the battlefield--A day vision--Few rivals--In the new cathedral--Startling episode--Asking alms--Young and fair--Uncomfortable moment--Terrible story--Fatal chains--"And after?"--How minister to a mind diseased?--Suns.h.i.+ne clouded--Burden of life--Any way of escape?--Suggestions of past centuries--The mighty fallen.

The sun was still high in the heavens when our train steamed out of the station towards Zaragoza and the ancient kingdom of Aragon. Much of the journey lay through broad plains that had no specially redeeming feature about them. Even fertility seemed denied, for they were often dest.i.tute of trees and vegetation. Yet were they sometimes covered with a lovely heather possessing a wonderful tone and beauty of its own.

Most to be remembered in the journey was the sunset. Towards evening as we approached Zaragoza, the sun dipped across the vast plains and went down in a blood-red ball. Immediately the sky was flushed with the most gorgeous colours, which melted into an after-glow that remained far into the night.

In the midst of this splendid effect of sky we saw across the plains the wonderful towers and turrets and domes of Zaragoza rising like a celestial vision. As we neared, we thought it a dream-city: not perched on a gigantic rock like Segovia, but on a gentle height of some 500 feet above the sea-level.

The approach to the town is very striking. There is an abundant promise of good things, not, we are bound to confess, eventually carried out.

Apparently, it is of all cities the most picturesque, with its splendid river running rapidly through the plain, spanned by its world-famed bridge, above which rise the beautiful, refined, eastern-looking outlines; but once inside the town the charm in part disappears. It is to be wors.h.i.+pped at a distance.

Our first impression told us this, as we rumbled through the streets in the old omnibus and marked their modern aspect, the busy, common-place bearing of the people.

We had expected a great deal of Zaragoza; hoped to find a city of great antiquity, with nothing but gabled houses and ancient outlines worthy the fair capital of the fair kingdom of Aragon. These we found the exception. Its antiquity is undoubted, but too much of the town has been modernised and rebuilt. Still, the exceptions are so striking that when one's first disillusion is over, it is followed by something very like delight and amazement.

The hotel was a large rambling building which might have existed for centuries; and as comfortable as most of the Spanish provincial inns. A perfect maze of pa.s.sages; and when the hotel guide piloted us to a far-off room to see a collection of antiquities of very modest merit we felt it might have taken hours to get back alone to our starting point.

Zaragoza is large and flouris.h.i.+ng; 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 cafes 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 cafes are not socially of an attractive cla.s.s.

Many are rough country people who are evidently in Zaragoza as birds of pa.s.sage. 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. 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 circ.u.mstances; 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 cla.s.ses; 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 cafes 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, ma.s.sive 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FAIR LUCIA'S HOUSE: ZARAGOZA.]

It once belonged to the son of a reigning duke who renounced all for love, and thought the world well lost. He offended his family by his marriage, and they treated him as one dead.

The lady of his choice, fair Lucia, was beautiful and charming, but beneath him. Tradition says that she was an actress, and that he fell hopelessly in love with her as she played in a drama where all ended tragically. It might have been a warning to them, but when was love ever warned? He espoused her and they took up their abode in this wonderful old palace, fitting home of romance.

As we gazed upon the matchless courtyard: the overhanging eaves, the rounded arches of the balcony with their graceful and refined pillars, the exquisitely-carved ceilings and staircase of rich black oak: the latter wide enough to drive up a coach and four: we felt that here love might reign for ever. And probably it would have lasted long; for the lady, as history says, had all graces of the spirit as well as all the charm of exquisite form and feature: whilst her knight was true as the needle to the pole, constant as death.

They were happy in each other; life was a paradise; and when did such a perfect condition of things ever last? Paradise is not for this world.

Five summers and winters pa.s.sed and found them still devoted to each other. Every day was a dream. Then a cruel visitation came to their town: an epidemic, sparing not high or low. It attacked the fair Lucia: and though her husband nursed her night and day, and all the leeches of the town combined their skill and judgment to save her, a stronger power than theirs was against them.

The last day dawned; instinct told her that another sun for her could never rise. Her husband bent over her in an agony of grief. She clasped her fair, frail arms around his neck.

"My love, my love, we have been very happy: all in all to each other,"

she murmured. "These five years, an eternity of bliss, have yet flown swiftly as a day. You have been good--so good; dear--so dear. Perhaps it is well to die thus and now, with all our youth, and all our dreams, and all our illusions undispelled. Eternity will restore us to each other. I leave you with not one mark on the delicate bloom of our great love."

She died and he was not to be consoled. His people offered to be reunited to him but he would none of them.