CHAPTER I
It was, I believe, the evening of the eighteenth when we saw Saragossain the distance. As we entered by the Puerta de Sancho we heard theclock in the Torre Nueva strike ten. We were in an extremely pitifulcondition as to food and clothing. The long journey we had made fromLerma through Salas de los Infantes, Cervera, Agreda, Tarazona, andBorja, climbing mountains, fording rivers, making short cuts until wearrived at the high road of Gallur and Alagon, had left us quite usedup, worn out, and ill with fatigue. In spite of all, the joy of beingfree sweetened our pain.
We were four who had succeeded in escaping between Lerma and Cogollosby freeing our innocent hands from the rope that bound together so manypatriots. On the day of the escape, we could count among the four ofus a total capital of eleven reales; but after three days of marching,when we entered the metropolis of Aragon and balanced our mutual cash,our common wealth was found to be a sum total of thirty-one cuartos. Webought some bread at a little place next the Orphanage, and divided itamong us.
Don Roque, who was one of the members of our expedition, had goodconnections in Saragossa, but this was not an hour to present ourselvesto any one. We postponed until the next day this matter of lookingup friends; and as we could not go to an inn, we wandered about thecity, looking for a shelter where we could pass the night. The marketscarcely seemed to offer exactly the comfort and quiet which ourtired bodies needed. We visited the leaning tower, and although oneof my companions suggested that we should take refuge in the plaza, Ithought that we should be quite the same as if altogether in the opencountry. The place served us, none the less, for temporary refuge andrest, and also as a refectory, where we despatched happily our supperof dry bread, glancing now and then at the great upright mass of thetower, whose inclination made it seem like a giant leaning to seewho was running about his feet. By the light of the moon that bricksentinel projected against the sky its huddled and shapeless form,unable to hold itself erect. The clouds were drifting across its top,and the spectator looking from below trembled with dread, imaginingthat the clouds were quiet and that the tower was moving down upon him.This grotesque structure, under whose feet the overburdened soil hassettled, seems to be forever falling, yet never falls.
We passed through the avenue of the Coso again from this house ofgiants as far as the Seminary. We went through two streets, the CalleQuemada and the Calle del Rincon, both in ruins, as far as the littleplaza of San Miguel. From here, passing from alley to alley, andblindly crossing narrow and irregular streets, we found ourselvesbeside the ruins of the monastery of Santa Engracia, which was blownup by the French at the raising of the first siege. The four of usexclaimed at once in a way to show that we all thought the same thing.Here we had found a shelter, and in some cosy corner under this roof wewould pass the night!
The front wall was still standing with its arch of marble, decoratedwith innumerable figures of saints which seemed undisturbed andtranquil as if they knew nothing of the catastrophe. In the interiorwe saw broken arches and enormous columns struggling erect from thedebris, presenting themselves, darkling and deformed, against theclear light flooding the enclosure, looking like fantastic creaturesgenerated by a delirious imagination. We could see decorations,cornices, spaces, labyrinths, caverns, and a thousand other fancifularchitectural designs produced by the ruins in their falling. Therewere even small rooms opened in the spaces of the walls with anart like that of Nature in forming grottos. The fragments of thealtar-piece that had rotted because of the humidity showed through theremains of the vaulting where still hung the chains which had suspendedthe lamps. Early grasses grew between the cracks of the wood and stone.Among all this destruction there were certain things wholly intact, assome of the pipes of the organ and the grating of the confessional. Theroof was one with the floor, and the tower mingled its fragments withthose of the tombs below. When we looked upon such a conglomerationof tombs, such a myriad of fragments that had fallen without losingentirely their original form, and such masses of bricks and plastercrumbled like things made of sugar, we could almost believe that theruins of the building had not yet settled into their final position.The shapeless structure appeared to be palpitating yet from the shockof the explosion.
Don Roque told us that beneath this church there was another one wherethey worshipped the relics of the holy martyrs of Saragossa; but theentrance to this subterranean sanctuary was closed up. Profound silencereigned, but, penetrating further, we heard human voices proceedingfrom those mysterious deeps. The first impression produced upon us byhearing these voices was as if the spirits of the famous chroniclerswho wrote of the Christian martyrs, and of the patriots sleeping indust below, were crying out upon us for disturbing their slumbers.
On the instant, in the glare of a flame which illuminated part of thescene, we distinguished a group of persons sheltering themselves,huddling together in a space between two of the fallen columns. Theywere Saragossa beggars, who had made a palatial shelter for themselvesin that place, seeking protection from the rain with beams of wood andwith their rags. We also made ourselves as comfortable as might bein another place, and covering ourselves with a blanket and a half,prepared to go to sleep.
Don Roque said to me, "I know Don Jos? de Montoria, one of the richestcitizens of Saragossa. We were both born in Mequinenza. We went toschool together, and we played our games together on the hills ofCorregidor. It is thirty years since I have seen him, but I believethat he will receive us well. Like every good Aragonese, he is allheart. We will find him, fellows; we will see Don Jos? de Montoria. Iam of his blood on the maternal side. We will present ourselves to him.We will say--"
But Don Roque was asleep, and I also slept.
Zaragoza. English Page 2
