The Story of Seville

Don Miguel de Mañara was born in the year 1626, and is supposed to have married the señorita of the House of Mendoza. There are several stories of the young rake's career in Seville, and of his resolve to dedicate his riches to the service of the Church and to the poor of the city of his birth. One day a gift of some choice hams was sent to Mañara. In compliance with the regulations, the hams were detained by the customs' officers until the dues upon them were paid. The Don was extremely angered at the detention of the hams. He went out, in a furious passion, to upbraid the officials for the delay. As he paced fuming through the streets, 'the Lord poured a great weight upon his mind,' and Mañara was suddenly convicted of the sinfulness and folly of his life. Such is one account of Don Miguel's 'conversion.' Another annalist informs us that Mañara, while stumbling homewards after a night of carousal, saw a funeral procession approaching him. The priests and the usual torch-bearers accompanied the bier. Stepping up to the bearers, the young man said: 'Whose body is that which you are carrying?' The reply was startling: 'The body of Don Miguel de Mañara.' The prodigal reeled away, filled with horror; for he had looked upon the corpse, and seen his own features. Upon the next morning Mañara was found insensible in a church. It was the turning-point in his life. He became an ascetic and devotee. Because he liked chocolate, he refrained even from tasting that innocent beverage. He was seen no more among the dissolute of Seville, and his money went to the building and decoration of the Hospital and Church of the Holy Charity. In his treatise Discurso de la Verdad (Discourse upon Truth) Don Miguel Mañara tells us of the hollowness of existence apart from holiness. He reflects often upon the solemnity of death, and the necessity for practising virtue and charity. His repute as an almsgiver of discretion was so great that one Don Gomez de Castro gave him an estate worth 500,000 ducats for charitable disbursement.

In the Sala del Cabildo of La Caridad, you may see a portrait of the pious founder, painted by Juan de la Valdés. Mañara has a sad, thin face. He is seated at a table covered with black velvet and gold, and he appears to be reading aloud. A charity lad is seated on a stool, with a book on his knees. Mañara's Toledan sword is exhibited in a case. He died in 1679, and bequeathed his fortune to the hospital, except some legacies to servants. To his confessor the Don presented his ivory Christ. His sister received a picture, which was upon his bedstead, representing the Saviour on the Cross. The work was said to be from the brush of Murillo.

The founder was interred in the vault of the hospital church. There is a legend that, two months after burial, the corpse was found without any trace of decay. It is also related that by the touch of some documents which had belonged to Mañara, a knight of the Order of Santiago was cured of a headache.

In Mr. C. A. Stoddard's account of La Caridad, in Spanish Cities, the name of the founder is given wrongly as Mañana. Mr. Stoddard writes that Don Miguel desired to be buried at the church door, with the epitaph upon his tomb: 'Here lies the worst man in the world.' Mañara was, however, buried in a vault of the church, and in the inscription upon the stone he was lauded as 'the best of men.'

For viewing Murillo's pictures in the Hospital Church of La Caridad, it is best to seek admission in the afternoon. The Charity Hospital is built in the Greco-Romano style from designs by Bernard Simon de Pineda, or Pereda. Visitors should examine the five large azulejos of the exterior, said to have been designed by Murillo, the friend of the founder. The centre is Charity, a woman with a child in each arm and a boy at her side. Other designs represent Santiago slaying Moors, and San Jorge spearing the dragon.

Sir Stirling-Maxwell speaks of the Church of La Caridad as 'one of the most elegant in Seville.' The aisle widens beneath a lofty and ornate dome. One of the chief objects of interest is the famous retablo; but the church is mostly visited by admirers of Murillo. The eleven works of the master, which once adorned the building, were painted in four years. Soult carried away five of the paintings. Four of them were sold by the French marshal, and one was presented to the Louvre. Mr. Stoddard praises Moses and the Rock as one of the finest pictures of Murillo. There are three groups in the scene. Water gushes from a dark rock in the centre of the picture, and Moses, with hands folded, offers thanks for the miracle. Behind is Aaron, in an attitude of worship. The Israelites press forward to quench their thirst. Le Sed (The Thirst) has been reproduced by engraving, and is well known.

The other pictures by Murillo are the Infant Saviour, the Annunciation, and the San Juan de Dios. In the last painting the saint, assisted by an angel, is bearing a sick man to the hospital. Christ feeding the Five Thousand (Pan y Peces) and the Young John the Baptist are large pictures, showing Murillo's broad method.

The curious paintings by Juan Valdés Leal are described in the chapter on 'The Artists of Seville.' They are at the west end of the church.

The court through which one enters the hospital is very handsome, and a good example of the Sevillian patio. A Sister of Charity conducts the visitor to the wards and to the council room of the institution. The sick and the convalescent recline upon their beds, and there is a hush in the long chambers. The patients are all men. They appear to be well cared for, and the wards are clean and sunny.

In the Plazo de Alfaro, number seven, is the house where tradition states that Murillo lived. From the Plaza de Giralda follow the Calle de Barceguineria, and take the second street on the right hand side, passing the Church of Santa Teresa. Turn to the right at the end of the Calle de Santa Teresa. Murillo's house is in a corner of the Plaza de Alfaro. It is now occupied by the Señores López Cepero, two cultured and courteous brothers, the nephews of a greatly respected dean of the Cathedral, who in his day collected a number of fine pictures, and did much to encourage artists in the city.

Don Juan Maria López Cepero speaks English well. I paid three visits to the historic casa that he inhabits, and he told me that his house was open to all lovers of art who desire to see his collection of pictures. In the chapter on Sevillian artists will be found descriptions of some of the oil paintings in the Casa Murillo.

Don J. López Cepero showed me his beautiful garden, with its Moorish bath, frescoed walls, rose trees and carnations. The patio is planted with palms, and on the walls are pictures. The mural paintings in the garden have been attributed to Luis de Vargas; but they are unfortunately almost obliterated. At the end of a long salon, covered with pictures, is the room wherein Murillo is said to have died on April 3, 1682.

I am indebted to Don López Cepero for the opportunity of seeing his valuable pictures, for the information which he gave me concerning books upon Seville by Spanish authors, and for the permission granted to my collaborator to reproduce some of the paintings in photography. His services to me were most valuable, and I now repeat my thanks for his assistance.

The University, founded by Alfonso the Learned, is in the Calle de la Universidad. In the rooms are portraits of St. Francis of Borja and of Ignatius Loyola by Alonso Cano, and a picture of a saint by Zurbaran. The University Church has a notable retablo by Roelas; an Annunciation by Pacheco, and statues of St. Francis of Borja and of Loyola by Montañez. There is a monument to Enriquez de Ribera, and one to his wife Catalina in the nave. The Don was the first owner of the Casa Pilatos, and a benefactor of the city. It was he who founded the excellent Hospital Civil, in 1500, in the Calle de Santiago. The building was reconstructed near the Puerta de la Macarena in 1559.

The Hospital Civil is best reached by the tramway from the Plaza de la Constitución. It is surrounded by gardens, and has a charming patio. In the church of the hospital there are pictures of saints by Zurbaran, and the Apotheosis of St. Ermenigild and Descent of the Holy Ghost by Roelas.

The most handsome of the Renaissance buildings in Seville is that of the Casa de Ayuntamiento, or City Hall, in the Plaza de la Constitución. It was designed by Riaño in 1526. The ornate carved doors, and the plateresque ornamentations of the masonry are highly decorative, and the marble floors and vaulted ceiling within should be seen. In the Municipal Library of the Ayuntamiento is the banner of the city, of the fifteenth century, bearing a figure of San Fernando.

We have not yet visited the Biblioteca Columbina, given to the city by Fernando, son of Christopher Columbus. It is in the Cathedral precincts, and can be entered from the Patio de los Naranjos (the Court of the Oranges). The beautiful illuminated Bible of Alfonso the Learned, by Pedro de Pampeluna, used to be shown here, but it has, I believe, been removed by the Chapter. The Columbus manuscripts are here, in glass cases. There is a copy of the Tractatus de Imagine Mundi, with notes by Columbus, and the famous treatise attempting to prove Scriptural prophecies concerning the discovery of the New World. A sword here exhibited is said to be that of Perez de Vargas, used by him in the capture of Seville. I have referred to the manuscripts of Christopher Columbus in the historical portion of this book.

Close to the Fabrica de Tabacos is the Palace of San Telmo, the former residence of the Dukes de Montpensier. The building dates from 1734, and it was first used as a naval school. It passed into the hands of the Infanta Maria Luisa, widow of the Duke of Montpensier. The palacio has been shorn of its splendour by the removal of most of its works of art. It is of little interest; but the garden is a beautiful shady retreat, with semi-tropical plants and trees.

There are but few statues in the streets of the city. Velazquez has been honoured by a bronze figure, which stands in the Plaza del Duque de la Victoria. It was cast by Susillo in 1892. The monument to Murillo, in the Plaza del Museo, is also of bronze. It is the work of Sabino Medinia, and the cast was made in Paris in 1864.

Number eleven in the Plaza del Duque de la Victoria is now a large drapery store. It was formerly the splendid palace of the Marquis de Palomares. It is a fine example of a Seville residence.

As we wander from church to palace and alcázar of this ancient and beautiful capital, we are often reminded of the words of Cervantes in The Two Maiden Ladies: 'Seville is a city of Spain, of which you cannot fail to have heard frequent mention, considered, as it is, to be one of the wonders of the world.'

CHAPTER XIII

Seville of To-day

'To have seen real doñas with comb and mantle, real caballeros with cloak and cigar, real Spanish barbers lathering out of brass basins, and to have heard guitars upon the balconies.' – Thackeray, Cornhill to Cairo.

'MANY monuments, fine religious processions, splendid bull fights, and not much business,' was the pithy description of modern Seville given to me by an intelligent Basque señora, living in the Province of Santander. The picture is a good one. As to the monuments, we have seen that the city abounds with them. But it is not only the historic buildings, associated with the Romans, Goths, Berbers and Almohades, that lend the fascination of antiquity to Seville. The Andalusian features, the manners, the speech, the domestic habits, the music, songs and dances of the people remind us hourly, while in the city, of the Seville of a thousand years ago.

A spell of Orientalism, strange and seductive, comes upon the stranger, as he sits on the marble benches under the palms in the Plaza de San Fernando, watching the olive-skinned chicos at their evening pastime of mimic bull-fighting, or dancing, with quaint, slow movement of the feet and much swaying of the body, to a semi-barbaric accompaniment of clapping hands and a low chanting. The gaunt mules, with their Arabesque wool trappings and panniers, that pass slowly by, the water-sellers in their white garments and hemp-soled shoes, and the women with their black lace mantillas, which must surely be a survival of the Mohammedan veil, all serve to impress one with their suggestion of Moorish influence.

Electric lights and electric tramcars scarcely mar the charming illusions of the Oriental and the mediæval in the Seville of to-day. The tokens of modernity are subservient; they do not jar continually as in Madrid, perhaps the most commonplace of Spanish cities. In Seville you cannot forget the Moriscoes, and the part they played in the making of the city, the memories of Christopher Columbus, the art of Velazquez and Murillo, the romances of Cervantes, and the traditions of the Mother Church of Christendom. Every step causes reflection upon the past. You are carried back to the Middle Ages from the ringing of matin bells till the midnight cry of the watchman.

The costume of the Sevillian caballero– and remember that every man in Spain is a cavalier – has suffered, no doubt, in picturesqueness since the time of Don Quixote. But there is a real grace and a romantic charm in the winter capa, flung upon the shoulders, with one of its plenteous folds muffling the mouth, and another thrown back to show the gorgeous lining of amber, green, or crimson. One looks for the point of a scabbard, containing a good Toledan blade, below the cloak. It is not there, though the practice of carrying weapons still survives everywhere in the Peninsula.

Once only have I seen the sword carried by a civilian in Spain. Travelling from Córdova to Toledo by rail, I had as companion a young man who had provided himself with a cutlass and a revolver, in case of assault by robbers. The sword was thrust through the straps of his bag. Revolvers are frequently worn on a belt under the coat, and most of the working class carry the navaja, a knife with a long blade, a sharp edge, and a keen point.

There is, however, no need for the traveller to provide himself with a six-shooter or a dagger; indeed, the revolver hung at the head of the bed, as I have seen it in a Seville hotel, is not only superfluous, but the mere possession of arms is apt to cause surmises as to the valuables carried by the armed stranger, and may lead to the pilfering of his portmanteau.

The custom of going about armed is just one of those mediæval usages that still prevail in spite of the suppression of brigandage and the protection of the railway trains and stations by the vigilant, well-trained and courteous Civil Guards. Spaniards are conservative; they cling to practices that are no longer necessary, and the carrying of knives and pistols is one of those quixotic characteristics of the race, which will probably survive for several generations. As a matter of fact, the stranger in Seville is as safe, to say the least, as he is in London. The species Hooligan is unknown in Spain, though, of course, there are thieves in the country as in every other quarter of Christendom throughout the globe. The navaja is never worn and used ostentatiously. It is the weapon of the criminal population and the disreputable, and it is too often drawn in street broils and for vendetta purposes.

It is not necessary that I should caution the visitor against wandering alone, after dark, in the low streets of the city, nor warn him that it is risky to engage professional guides, who are not well known for honesty, and recommended by one of the proprietors of the better-class hotels. I do not wish to alarm the timid traveller. One should point out, however, that highway robberies do occasionally occur in the country districts.

Two years ago, in the neighbourhood of Granada, a party of travellers found themselves and the guides surrounded by ruffians on a mountain-side, and were submitted to a complete rifling of their pockets before they were allowed to proceed on their way. A friend of mine, an English artist, was one of the party. You are frequently told in Spain that brigandage has been entirely suppressed. It is quite true that the Civil Guards have almost exterminated the organised bands of brigands that used to infest the lonelier roads of the country. But, here and there, as in Galicia, robbers sometimes work in small parties on the high roads, after dark. In Seville, however, one may feel as secure as in any other continental city. The average Andalusian is honest. Railway porters, cabmen, and hotel servants expect a propina or 'tip'; but they are seldom exacting, and rarely addicted to pilfering. The propina is a national institution; but a small gratuity is, as a rule, gratefully received, and I have met porters and others who have refused a fee for their assistance. Railway servants and hotel waiters are so poorly paid in Spain that they rely largely for their living upon the generosity of travellers. There is, however, a protest afloat against the propina, and a society has been formed in Madrid to combat the custom of giving 'tips.'

The smart or fashionable life of Seville may be studied, after five in the evening in the warm months, in the narrow central thoroughfare called Sierpes, or in the drives of the beautiful gardens bordering the Guadalquivir. The Calle de Sierpes signifies in English the street of the serpents. It is a street for foot passengers only, with many cafés, wine bars, nick-nack stores, and superior hatters', tailors' and tobacconists' shops. In this quarter ladies will find a fine array of fans, mantillas and showy Andalusian shawls. Some of these articles bear the label 'made in Austria.' The shawls worn by the majas, or Sevillian smart dames, and maidens of the middle and working class, are sometimes very beautiful. Yellow is a favourite hue, as it accords with the black which is universally worn by the women of southern Spain.

The majo costume, as 'sported' by the dandies of Sierpes, is correctly made up of a wide-brimmed brown or white felt hat, a shirt with a frilled front, and diamond or paste studs, a low waistcoat, or broad silk band around the middle, a short coat, resembling an Eton jacket, and trousers cut exceedingly tight across the hips. A majo affects the dress and conversation of his ideal, the bull-fighter. He favours the tightest, thin-soled, pointed brown shoes, crops his hair, shaves his cheeks and chin clean, walks with a self-consciousness, and ogles and bandies repartee whenever he passes a maja. The loungers of Sierpes exhibit more or less amused interest in the English or American lady visitors. Their hats are a wonder to them; their serviceable travelling dresses appear severely plain, their coats masculine in fashion, and their shoes short, broad, and absurdly low in the heel.

How different is the guise and demeanour of the Spanish señora! If she is of the upper rank of society, she may wear a Parisian hat and a dress in the English style; but her slow, erect and graceful walk proclaim her an Andalusian. She will not start and seem insulted when a man stares her full in the face, smiles, and exclaims: 'How lovely you are! Blessed be the mother who bore you!' A parting of the lips, perhaps a slight flush, show that she is pleased when the gallant turns to gaze at her.

So much has been sung and written about the loveliness of the Sevillian doñas that I may perhaps be taken to task if I do not join in the rapturous chorus. The beauty of the Andalusian women does not startle one immediately upon setting foot in Seville. It seems to me to be a charm that needs comprehension. Undoubtedly you may see a proportion of handsome faces among the ladies in the evening parade in the park, on the racecourse, at the bull fights, and in the theatres. If you expect to find that every other woman in Seville is a belle – well, I think you will be disappointed.

'If Shakespeare is right in saying that there is no author in the world "teaches such beauty as a woman's eyes," then Andalusia easily leads the world in personal beauty.' So writes Mr. Henry T. Finck, in his Romantic Love and Personal Beauty. Byron comments in the same strain, and so does Blanco White, not to mention other authors. Perhaps Mr. G. P. Lathrop's description of the girls of the Seville tobacco factory may, by reason of its dispassionateness, be accepted as a fair estimate. In Spanish Vistas, Mr. Lathrop writes: 'Some of them had a spendthrift common sort of beauty, which, owing to their southern vivacity and fine physique, had the air of being more than it really was… The beauty of these Carmens has certainly been exaggerated. It may be remarked here that, as an offset to occasional disappointment arising from such exaggerations, all Spanish women walk with astonishing gracefulness, and natural and elastic step, and that it is their chief advantage over women of other nations.'

The opinion of Washington Irving on the charms of the Seville fair may perhaps explain my qualification that the graces do not make a sudden and arresting appeal, but require reflection and comprehension, like many interesting works of art. Washington Irving says: 'There are beautiful women in Seville as … there are in all other great cities; but do not, my worthy and inquiring friend, expect a perfect beauty to be staring you in the face at every turn, or you will be awfully disappointed… I am convinced the great fascination of Spanish women arises from their natural talent, their fire and soul, which beam through their dark and flashing eyes, and kindle up their whole countenance in the course of an interesting conversation. As I have had but few opportunities of judging them in this way, I can only criticise them with the eye of a sauntering observer. It is like judging of a fountain when it is not in play, or a fire when it lies dormant and neither flames nor sparkles.'

A true appreciation of the Sevillian dame is only possible to such as possess the wit to understand the quality known as sal or 'salt.' Andalusian sal has a flavour of its own. It is made up of persiflage and the quality called 'smartness.' Sal is more esteemed than beauty in a woman; it is more fascinating than physical comeliness. 'The Andalusian women,' writes the author of Costumbres Andaluzas, 'has on her lips all the salt of the foam of two seas.' … The woman of Andalusia 'is frank, passionate, loving or hating without taking the trouble to dissemble her sentiments.' She is 'life, light, fire'; she 'is beauty illumined by the torch of Paradise,' etc. Such is the strain of Spanish gallantry.

In the old days the ardent lover was wont to beat himself beneath a maiden's window, until the blood trickled down his back. Nowadays, the amorous cavalier waits below the casement, and when he catches a glimpse of the object of his devotion, exclaims: 'Your beauty ravishes me! Your eyes burn into my soul!'

The peculiarly guarded life of the young Spanish woman, which is in part a relic of Orientalism, and in part traceable to her religion, forces her to develop ingenuity in attracting an admirer, and in her means of communicating with him.

Mr. Lathrop, in his Spanish Vistas, says that the beggars around Seville Cathedral are sometimes the bearers of love letters to the ladies who attend the services and go to confession. A piece of silver is dropped into the mendicant's dirty palm, and a little note is transferred to the señorita's hand. And with eyes fixed modestly upon the ground, the maiden steps out of the portal of the sacred building, clutching the tender missive which she burns to read. In all countries stealthy courtship has its charm and romance for lovers; and in Spain the zest of wooing is quickened by the devices employed for clandestine assignations, and the secret conveying of gifts and letters from one lover to another. Our forthright British mode of love-making might appear almost barbarous to an Andalusian girl.

The women of Southern Spain are short, and they incline to stoutness. Mr. Finck says that sexual selection 'is evolving the petite brunette as the ideal of womanhood,' and that 'the perfected woman of the millennium will resemble the Andalusian brunette, not only in complexion, hair, eyes, gait, and tapering plumpness of figure, but also in stature.'