Wanderings in Spain

We were conducted through an inextricable labyrinth of small lanes, in which my companion and myself marched in Indian file, like the geese in the fable, because there was not sufficient room for us to walk arm-in-arm, until we reached the Alcazar, which is situated like an Acropolis on the most elevated piece of ground in the city. We succeeded in entering after some slight discussion; for the first impulse of people of whom you ask anything is to refuse, whatever your request may be. "Come again this evening, or to-morrow – the keeper is taking his siesta – the keys are lost – you must have a pass from the governor." Such are the answers you obtain at first: but, by exhibiting the all-powerful tiny piece of silver, or, in extreme cases, the glittering duro, you always end by effecting an entrance.

The Alcazar, which was built upon the ruins of the old Moorish palace, is now a perfect ruin itself. It might be mistaken for one of those marvellous architectural dreams which Piranese used to embody in his magnificent etchings; it is the work of Covarubias, an artist little known, but far superior to the heavy, dull Herrera, who enjoys a far higher reputation than he deserves.

The façade, which is ornamented with florid arabesques in the purest style of the Renaissance, is a masterpiece of elegance and nobleness. The burning sun of Spain, which reddens the marble and dyes the stone with a tint of saffron, has clothed it in a robe of rich, strong colour, very different from the black leprosy with which past centuries have encrusted our old edifices. According to the expression of a great poet; Time, who is so intelligent, has passed his thumb over the angles of the marble and its too rigid outlines, and given the finishing touch, the last degree of polish, to this sculpture, already so soft and so supple. I particularly remember a staircase of the most fairy-like elegance, with marble columns, balustrades and steps, already half-crumbled away, conducting to a door which looks out upon an abyss, for this portion of the edifice has fallen down. This admirable staircase on which a king might be content to live, and which leads to nothing, possesses a certain indefinite air of singularity and grandeur.

The Alcazar is erected upon an esplanade, surrounded by battlements in the Moorish style, from which you enjoy an immense view, a truly magical panorama. Here the cathedral pierces the sky with its extraordinarily lofty spire; further on, in the sunshine, sparkles the church of San Juan de los Reyes; the bridge of Alcantara, with its tower-like gateway, throws its bold arches across the Tagus; the Artificio de Juanello obstructs the stream with its arcades of red brick, which might be taken for the ruins of some Roman edifice, while the massive towers of the Castillo of Cervantes (a Cervantes who has nothing in common with the author of Don Quixote) perched upon the rugged, misshapen rocks that run along the sides of the river, add one denticulation more to the horizon already so profusely indented by the vertebrated mountain-crests.

An admirable sunset completed the picture: the sky, by the most imperceptible gradations, passed from the brightest red to an orange colour, and then to a pale lemon tint in order to become of a strange blue, like a greenish turquoise, which last tint subsided in the west into the lilac-colour of night, whose shadow already cast a coolness over the place where I stood.

As I leant over one of the embrasures, taking a bird's-eye view of this town where I knew no one and where my own name was completely unknown, I had fallen into a deep train of thought. In the presence of all these forms and all these objects that I beheld at that moment, and which, in all probability, I was destined never to behold again, I began to entertain doubts of my own identity; I felt so absent, as it were, from myself, transported so far from my own sphere, that everything appeared an hallucination of my mind, a strange dream, from which I should be suddenly awakened by the sharp squeaking music of some vaudeville, as I was looking out of a box at the theatre. By one of those leaps which our imagination often takes when we are buried in reverie, I tried to picture to myself what my friends might be doing at that moment; I asked myself whether they noticed my absence, and whether at the time I was leaning over the battlements of the Alcazar of Toledo, my name was hovering on the lips of some well-loved and faithful friend at Paris. Apparently the answer that my thoughts gave me was not an affirmative one, for in spite of the scene I felt an indescribable feeling of sadness come over me, though the dream of my whole life was being accomplished; I knew that one of my fondest ideas was being fulfilled; in my youthful, happy years of romanticism, I had spoken enough of my good Toledo blade to feel some curiosity to see the place where these same blades were manufactured.

Nothing, however, could rouse me from my philosophical meditations, until my companion came and proposed that we should bathe in the Tagus. Bathing is rather a rare peculiarity in a country where, during the summer, the natives water the beds of the rivers with water from the wells. Trusting to the assurances of the guide that the Tagus was a real river, possessing a sufficient amount of humidity to answer our purpose, we descended as quickly as we could from the Alcazar, in order to profit by what little daylight still remained, and directed our steps towards the stream. After crossing the Plaza de la Constitucion, which is surrounded by houses whose windows, furnished with large spartum blinds rolled up, or half raised by the projecting balconies, have a sort of Venetian mediæval look that is highly picturesque, we passed under a handsome Arabic gateway with its semicircular brick arch, and following a very steep and abrupt zigzag path, winding along the rocks and walls which serve Toledo as a girdle, we reached the bridge of Alcantara, near which we found a place suited for bathing.

During our walk, night, which succeeds the day so rapidly in southern climates, had set in completely; but this did not hinder us from wading blindfold into this estimable stream, rendered famous by the languishing ballad of Queen Hortense, and by the golden sands which are contained in its crystal waves, according to the poets, the guides, and the travellers' handbooks.

When we had taken our bath, we hurried back in order to get into the town before the gates were shut. We enjoyed a glass of Orchata de Chufas and iced milk, the flavour and perfume of which were delicious, and then ordered our guide to take us to our fonda.

The walls of our room, like those of all the rooms in Spain, were rough-cast, and covered with those stupid yellow pictures, those mysterious daubs, like alehouse signs, which you so frequently meet in the Peninsula, a country that contains more bad pictures than any other in the world: this observation, of course, does not detract from the merit of the good ones.

We hastened to sleep as much and as quickly as possible, in order to be up early the next morning and visit the Cathedral before the service began.

The Cathedral of Toledo is considered, and justly so, as one of the finest and richest in Spain. Its origin is lost in the night of time, but, if the native authors are to be believed, it is to be traced back to the apostle Santiago, first archbishop of Toledo, who, according to them, pointed out its site to his disciple and successor, Elpidius, who was a hermit on Mount Carmel. Elpidius erected, on the spot pointed out, a church, which he dedicated to the Virgin during the time she was still living at Jerusalem. "What a notable piece of happiness! what an illustrious honour for the Toledans! It is the most excellent trophy of their glory!" exclaims, in a moment of lyrical inspiration, the author from whom we have taken these details.

The Holy Virgin was not ungrateful, and, according to the same legend, descended in person to visit the church of Toledo, bringing with her own hands, to the blessed San Ildefonso, a beautiful chasuble formed of heavenly cloth. "See how this Queen pays what she owes!" exclaims our author again. The chasuble still exists, and, let into the wall, is seen the stone on which the Virgin placed the sole of her celestial foot, the mark of which remains. The miracle is attested by the following inscription: —

QUANDO LA REINA DEL CIELOPUSÓ LOS PIES EN EL SUELOEN ESTA PIEDRA LOS PUSÓ.

In addition to this, the legend informs us that the Holy Virgin was so well pleased with her statue, and thought it so well executed, so well proportioned and so like, that she kissed it, thus bestowing on it the power of working miracles. If the Queen of Heaven were to descend into our churches now-a-days, I do not think that she would be tempted to embrace the statues of herself that she might see there.

More than two hundred of the gravest and most honourable authors relate this story, which they consider, at the very least, quite as well authenticated as the death of Henry IV.; as for myself I find no difficulty in believing the miracle, and I am perfectly willing to admit it into the number of established facts. The church remained in its original state until San Eugene, sixth bishop of Toledo, enlarged and embellished it as far as his means would allow, under the title of the Church of our Lady of the Assumption, which it has preserved up to the present day; but in the year 302, which was the period when the emperors Diocletian and Maximinus persecuted the Christians so cruelly, the prefect Dacien ordered the temple to be pulled down and razed to the ground, so that the faithful knew no longer where to seek the consolations of religion. Three years subsequently, when Constans, father of the great Constantine, had mounted the throne, the persecution ceased, the prelates returned to their see, and Archbishop Melancius commenced rebuilding the church, always on the same spot. A short time afterwards, somewhere about the year 312, the emperor Constantine having been converted to the true faith, ordered, among other heroic things to which he was impelled by his Christian zeal, that the basilical church of Our Lady of the Assumption of Toledo, which had been destroyed by Dacien's orders, should be rebuilt and decorated in the most sumptuous manner possible at his expense.

At this period, Marinus, a learned and deeply read man, was archbishop of Toledo. He enjoyed the privilege of being on intimate terms of friendship with the emperor, a circumstance which enabled him to carry out all his plans; consequently he spared no expense to build a splendid edifice in the most sumptuous and grandest style. It was this edifice which lasted all the time of the Goths, which was visited by the Virgin, which was a mosque during the conquest of Spain, which again became a church when Toledo was conquered back by the king Don Alonzo VI., and the plan of which was taken to Oviedo by order of the king Don Alonzo the Chaste, in order that the church of San Salvador in that city might be built after the same model, in the year 803. "Those who have any wish to know what was the form, the grandeur, and the majesty of the cathedral of Toledo at the time the Queen of Heaven visited it, have only to go to Oviedo, and they will be satisfied," adds our author. For our own part, we regret that we could not afford ourselves this gratification.

At length, under the happy reign of Saint Ferdinand, Don Rodrigo being archbishop of Toledo, the church assumed that admirable and magnificent form which it has at the present day, and which, it is said, is that of the Temple of Diana at Ephesus. O simple chronicler! allow me to doubt this! The Temple of Ephesus was never equal to the Cathedral of Toledo! The archbishop Rodrigo, in presence of the king and all the court, having first said a pontifical mass, laid the first stone, one Saturday in the year 1227; the works were then carried on with great activity until the building was completed, and carried to the highest pinnacle of perfection which human art can attain.

We hope the reader will excuse this slight historical digression, for it is a thing we do not often indulge in, and we will quickly resume our humble mission of descriptive tourist and literary daguerreotype.

The exterior of the Cathedral of Toledo is far less rich than that of the Cathedral of Burgos; there is no florid profusion of ornaments, no arabesques, no rows of statues running round the portals, but simply solid buttresses, sharp bold angles, a thick facing of large stones, and a sturdy-looking spire that displays none of the delicate decorations of Gothic art, every portion of the whole building being covered with a reddish tint like a piece of toast, a kind of sunburnt skin like that of a pilgrim from the Holy Land; but to make up for this simplicity on the outside, the interior is sculptured and carved like a stalactite cavern.

The door by which we entered is formed of bronze, and bears the following inscription: Antonio Zurreno del arte de Oro y Plata, faciebat esta media puerta. The impression produced upon the mind of the visitor is one of the most vivid and grandest description. The church is divided into five naves; the middle one being of the most unusual height, while the others beside it seem to bow their heads and kneel down to denote their respect and adoration. Eighty-eight pillars, each as large as a tower, and composed of sixteen spindle-shaped columns bound together, sustain the weight of this enormous edifice; a transept intersects the grand nave between the choir and the high altar, and forms the arms of the cross. The style of the entire building is most homogeneous and perfect, a kind of merit possessed by but few Gothic cathedrals, which have generally been erected piecemeal. The original plan has been strictly carried out from beginning to end, with the exception of a few arrangements in the chapels, which, however, do not in any way mar the harmony of the whole. Painted windows, glittering with the splendour of emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, and contained in stone nervures worked like so much silversmith's work, let in a mild and mysterious light which inspires you with deep religious feelings; when the sun is too fierce, spartum blinds let down over the windows diffuse throughout the building that cool half-state of obscurity which renders Spanish churches so favourable for meditation and prayer.

The high altar or retablo alone might be mistaken for a church. It is an enormous collection of small columns, niches, statues, foliage, and arabesques, of which the most minute description would convey but a very faint idea. All this mass of carving and ornaments, which extends completely up to the roof, is painted and gilt in the richest imaginable manner. The tawny, warm tones of the old gilding, cause the thin streaks and patches of light, which are caught in their passage by the nervures and projections of the ornaments, to stand out with splendid brightness, producing the most admirable, picturesque, and rich effect. The paintings, with their backgrounds of gold, which adorn the panels of the altar, equal in richness of colouring the most brilliant specimens of the Venetian school. This union of colour, with the severe and almost hieratic forms of mediæval art, is met with very rarely; some of these paintings might be taken for pictures in Giorgione's best style.

The choir or silleria is placed opposite the high altar, according to the Spanish custom. It is composed of three ranks of stalls formed of wood, carved, worked, and cut in a marvellous manner, with historical, allegorical, and sacred bas-reliefs. Never was anything more pure, more perfect, or better drawn, produced by Gothic art, already approaching the style of the Renaissance. This specimen of workmanship, which frightens you by the endless variety of its details, is attributed to the patient chisels of Philippe de Bourgogne and Berruguete. The archbishop's stall, which is higher than the rest, is fashioned like a throne, and marks the centre of the choir. The whole of this prodigious piece of wood-work is crowned by brown polished jasper columns, and on the entablature are alabaster figures, also by Philippe de Bourgogne and Berruguete, but in an easier and more supple style, which produce a most admirable and elegant effect. Enormous reading-desks, sustaining gigantic missals, large spartum carpets, and two colossal organs opposite each other, one to the right and the other to the left, complete the decorations.

Behind the retablo is the chapel in which Don Alvar de Luna and his wife are buried, in two magnificent alabaster tombs, placed side by side. The walls of this chapel are emblazoned with the arms of the Constable, and with the shells of the Order of Santiago, of which he was grand-master. Not far from this, in the arch of that portion of the nave which is here termed the trascoro, there is a stone with a funereal inscription. It is in memory of a noble Toledan, whose pride was shocked at the idea of his tomb being trodden underfoot by people of no consideration and mean extraction. "I will not have a set of low-bred peasants walk over me," he exclaimed on his deathbed; and, as he left a great deal to the church, his strange whim was satisfied by his body being lodged in the masonry of the vault, where, most assuredly, no one will ever walk over it.

We will not endeavour to describe in detail the various chapels, we should fill a whole volume; we will content ourselves by mentioning the tomb of a cardinal, executed with the utmost delicacy in the Arabic style; we can compare it to nothing more appropriately than to lace-work on a grand scale. We now come at once to the Mozarabic, or Musarabic Chapel (both terms are used), which is one of the most curious in the cathedral. Before describing it, we will explain the meaning of the phrase Mozarabic Chapel.

At the time of the Moorish invasion, the Toledans were forced to surrender, after a two years' siege. They endeavoured to capitulate on the most favourable terms, and among the other conditions agreed upon, was the following: Six churches were to be reserved for the use of those Christians who might desire to live with the barbarians. These churches were those of St. Mark, Saint Luke, Saint Sebastian, Saint Torcato, Saint Eulalia, and Saint Justa. By this means the true faith was preserved in the city during the four hundred years' dominion of the Moors, and for this reason the faithful Toledans were termed Mozarabians, that is, "mixed with the Arabs." In the reign of Alonzo VI., when Toledo once more fell into the hands of the Christians, Richard, the Pope's legate, wished the Mozarabian ritual to be abandoned for the Gregorian; he was backed in this by the king and the queen Doña Constanza, who preferred the rites of Rome. All the clergy revolted, and exclaimed loudly against the change; the faithful were highly incensed, and their irritation was nearly causing an open insurrection and revolt of the people. The king, frightened by the turn that matters were taking, and fearful that the Toledans would proceed to acts of violence, tried to calm them in the best manner he could, and proposed the following singular mezzo termine, which was completely suited to the spirit of the times, and accepted with enthusiasm by both parties: – The partisans of the Gregorian and of the Mozarabic ritual were each to choose a champion, and the two were then to meet in mortal combat, in order to decide which idiom and which service was most pleasing to Heaven; and certainly, if the opinion of Heaven is to be taken, it cannot be taken more fitly than in the choice of a liturgy.

The champion of the Mozarabians was named Don Ruiz de la Matanza; a day was appointed, and the Vega chosen as the field of battle. For some time the victory was uncertain, but in the end Don Ruiz gained the advantage, and left the lists as victor, amidst the cries of joy of the Toledans, who wept with pleasure, and, throwing their hats in the air, immediately repaired to their churches, in order to render up thanks to Heaven. The king and queen were greatly annoyed at this triumph. Reflecting, somewhat late in the day, that it was an impious, daring, and cruel act to decide a question of theology by a sanguinary combat, they said that the only means of determining the matter was by a miracle, and they therefore proposed another ordeal, to which the Toledans, confident of the excellence of their ritual, consented. After a general fast, and prayers in all the churches, a copy of the Gregorian ritual, as well as one of the Mozarabian, was to be placed upon a lighted pile, and that one which remained in the fire without being burnt, was to be considered as the more acceptable to Heaven.

Everything was executed with the greatest exactitude. A pile of very dry flaming wood was heaped up on the Plaza Zocodover, which, as long as it has been a plaza, never beheld such a concourse of spectators; the two liturgies were cast into the fire, each party looking up to Heaven with arms uplifted in prayer. The Romish ritual was rejected, and its leaves all scattered about by the violence of the flames, but it came out intact, although somewhat scorched. The Toledan ritual, on the other hand, remained majestically in the midst of the flames, on the very spot on which it had been thrown, without moving, or receiving the least injury. Some few enthusiastic Mozarabians went so far as to assert that the Romish ritual was entirely consumed. The king, the queen; the legate Richard, were but slightly gratified, but they had gone too far to retract. The Mozarabic ritual was therefore preserved and followed with ardour, for a long period, by the Mozarabians, their sons, and grandsons; but at last, the meaning of the ritual was lost, and there was no one left capable of performing or understanding the service which had occasioned so much contention. Don Francisco Ximenes, archbishop of Toledo, being desirous that so memorable a custom should not be discontinued, founded a Mozarabic chapel in the cathedral, caused the ritual, which was in Gothic characters, to be printed in ordinary letters, and ordained priests whose special duty it was to celebrate the Mozarabic service.

The Mozarabic Chapel, which still exists at the present day, is ornamented with the most interesting Gothic frescoes, representing various combats between the Toledans and the Moors. They are in a perfect state of preservation, the colours being as vivid as if they had only been applied yesterday. An archæologist could not fail to gather from them a vast quantity of curious information concerning the arms, costumes, weapons, and architecture of the period; for the principal fresco represents a view of Old Toledo, and was, no doubt, very exact. In the lateral frescoes are painted, with great attention to all the details, the vessels which brought the Arabs to Spain; a seaman might glean some very useful hints from them concerning the history of mediæval naval matters, at present so obscure. The arms of Toledo – five stars sable on a field, silver – are repeated in several parts of this low-arched chapel, which is enclosed, according to the Spanish fashion, by a gate of magnificent workmanship.

The chapel of the Virgin, which is entirely covered with porphyry, jasper, and yellow breccia, most admirably polished, surpasses in richness all the splendour of the "Thousand and One Nights." There are a great many relics here; among others, a reliquary, presented by Saint Louis, and containing a piece of the true cross.

We will now wait a little to recover our breath; meanwhile, we will, if you please, take a turn in the cloisters. They surround a number of elegant and severe arcades of beautiful masses of verdure, which, thanks to the shade thrown on them by the cathedral, remain green in spite of the intense heat at this time of the year. All the cloister walls are covered with immense frescoes, in the style of Vanloo, painted by an artist named Bayeu. The composition of these paintings is easy and their colouring pleasing, but they do not agree with the style of the building, and no doubt replace older works that had suffered from the effects of age, or been considered perhaps too Gothic by the persons "of taste" at that period. Cloisters are very appropriately situated near a church; they form a happy transition from the tranquillity of the sanctuary to the turmoil of the city. You can walk about, dream and meditate, in them, without being under the necessity of joining in the prayers and ceremonies of the service: catholics enter the temple; Christians remain more frequently in the cloisters. This peculiar state of mind has been well understood by the catholic church, who is so skilful a psychologist. In religious countries, the cathedral is always the most ornamented, richest, most florid, and most profusely gilt, of all the buildings in a town. In a cathedral, the shade is coolest and the silence most profound; the music is better than it is in the theatre, and nothing can be compared to the splendour of the pageants. It is the central point, the most attractive spot, like the Opera-house in Paris. We northern catholics, with our Voltairean temples, have no idea of the luxury, elegance, and comfort of Spanish churches: they are furnished, they are animated, and have not that icy, deserted look which ours have: the faithful can live in them in sweet familiarity with Heaven.