Wanderings in Spain

The worthy people were just going to sup. A wrinkled, bronzed, and, so to speak, mummified old woman, whose skin formed, at all her joints, large folds like a Hessian boot, was preparing a gigantic gaspacho in a red earthen pan. Five or six magnificent greyhounds, with thin backs, broad chests, and splendid ears, and who were worthy of being in the kennel of a king, followed the old woman's movements with unflagging attention, and the most melancholy look of admiration that can possibly be conceived. But this delicious repast was not intended for them; in Andalusia it is the men, and not the dogs, who eat soup made of bread-crusts steeped in water. Some cats, whom the absence of ears and tails – for in Spain these ornamental superfluities are always cut off – cause to resemble Japanese monsters – were also watching these savoury preparations, only at a greater distance. A plateful of the said gaspacho, two slices of our own ham, and a few bunches of grapes, of the colour of amber, composed our supper, which we were obliged to defend from the greyhounds, who were encroachingly familiar, and, under pretence of licking us, literally tore the meat out of our mouths. We rose from our seats, and eat standing up, with our plates in our hands, but the diabolical brutes got on their hind legs, and, throwing their fore-paws over our shoulders, were thus on a level with the coveted food. Even if they did not actually carry it off, they at least gave it two or three licks with their tongues, and thus contrived to obtain the first taste of its flavour. It appeared to us that these greyhounds must have been descended in a right line from the famous dog, whose history Cervantes, however, has not written in his Dialogues. This illustrious animal held the office of dish-washer in a Spanish fonda, and when the girl was blamed because the plates were not clean, she swore by everything she held holy, that they had been washed in six waters por siete Aguas. Siete Aguas was the name of the dog, who was so called because he licked the plates so scrupulously clean, that any one would have supposed that they had been washed in six different waters; on the day in question he must have performed his work in a slovenly manner. The greyhounds of the farm certainly belonged to the same breed.

Our hosts gave us a young boy as guide, who was well acquainted with the road, and who took us safely to Ecija, which we reached about ten o'clock in the morning.

The entrance to Ecija is rather picturesque. You pass over a bridge, at the end of which is a gateway like a triumphal arch. This bridge is thrown over a river, which is no other than the Genil of Granada, and which is obstructed by ancient arches and milldams. When you have passed the bridge, you find yourself in an open square, planted with trees, and ornamented with two rather strange monuments. The first is a gilt statue of the Holy Virgin, placed upon a column, the pedestal of which evidently forms a kind of chapel, decorated with pots of artificial flowers, votive offerings, crowns formed of the pith of rushes, and all the other gewgaws of Meridional devotion. The second is a gigantic Saint Christopher, also of gilt metal, with his hand resting upon a palm-tree, a sort of walking-stick in keeping with his immense size; on his shoulder he bears, with the most prodigious contraction of all his muscles, and with as great an effort as if he were raising a house, an exceedingly small infant Jesus, of the most delicate and charming style. This colossus, said to be the work of the Florentine sculptor, Torregiano, who flattened, with a blow of his fist, Michael Angelo's nose, is stuck upon a Solomonic column (as wreathed columns are here called) of light, rose-coloured granite, the spiral wreaths of which end half-way up in a mass of volutes and extravagant flower-work. I am very partial to statues placed in this position; they produce a greater effect, and are seen advantageously at a longer distance. The ordinary pedestals have a kind of flat, massive look, which takes away from the lightness of the figures which they support.

Although Ecija lies out of the ordinary route of tourists, and is generally but little known, it is a very interesting town, and very original and peculiar in its appearance. The spires which form the sharper angles in its outline are neither Byzantine, nor Gothic, nor in the Renaissance style; they are Chinese, or rather Japanese, and you might easily mistake them for the turrets of some miao dedicated to Kong-fu-Tzee, Buddha, or Fo; for the walls are entirely covered with porcelain tiles of the most vivid tints, while the roofs are formed of varnished white and green tiles, arranged like the squares of a chessboard, and presenting one of the most curious sights in the world. The rest of the buildings are not less chimerical. The love of distorted lines is carried to the utmost possible lengths. You see nothing but gilding, incrustation, breccia, and various-coloured marbles, rumpled about as if they were cloth and not stone, garlands of flowers, lovers'-knots, and bloated angels, all coloured and painted in the most profuse manner and sublime bad taste.

The Calle de los Caballeros, where the nobility reside and the finest mansions are situated, is truly a miraculous specimen of this style: you have some difficulty in believing that you are in a real street, between houses that are inhabited by ordinary human beings. Nothing is straight, neither the balconies, the railings, nor the friezes; everything is twisted and tortured all sorts of ways, and ornamented with a profusion of flowers and volutes. You could not find a single square inch which is not guilloched, festooned, gilt, carved, or painted; the whole place is a most harsh and extravagant specimen of the style termed in France rococo, and presents a crowding together of ornament that French good taste, even during its most depraved epochs, has always successfully avoided. This Pompadour-Dutch-Chinese style of architecture amuses and surprises you in Andalusia. The common houses are whitewashed, and their dazzling walls stand out wonderfully from the deep azure of the sky, while their flat roofs, little windows, and miradores, reminded us of Africa, which was already sufficiently suggested to our minds by thirty-seven degrees of Réaumur, which is the customary temperature of the place during a cool summer. Ecija is called the Stove of Andalusia, and never was a surname more richly merited. The town is situated in a basin, and surrounded by sandy hills which shield it from the wind, and reflect the sun's rays like so many concentric mirrors. Every one in the place is absolutely fried, but this did not prevent us from walking about all over it while our breakfast was being prepared. The Plaza Mayor has a very original look, with its pillared houses, its long rows of windows, its arcades, and its projecting balconies.

Our parador was tolerably comfortable; they gave us a meal that was almost human, and we partook of it with a degree of sensuality very allowable after so many privations. A long siesta, in a large room, carefully shut up, very dark, and well watered, completely restored us; and when, about three o'clock, we again got into the galera, it was with a quiet air of perfect resignation that we did so.

The road from Ecija to La Carlotta, where we were to pass the night, traverses a very uninteresting country, which appeared to be arid and dusty, or at least the season gave it that look; it has not left any very remarkable impression on my mind. A few olive plantations and clumps of oak-trees appeared from time to time, and the aloes displayed their bluish foliage which is always so characteristic. The dog belonging to the superintendent of mines (for, besides the children, we had some quadrupeds in our menagerie) started a few partridges, two or three of which were brought down by my companion. This was the most remarkable event during this stage.

La Carlotta, where we stopped for the night, is an unimportant hamlet. The inn is an ancient convent, which had first been turned into barracks, as is almost always the case in times of revolution, military men feeling at their ease, and installing themselves in buildings arranged for monastic life more easily than any other class of persons. Long-arched cloisters formed a covered gallery all round the four sides of the courtyard. In the middle of one of the sides yawned the black mouth of an enormous and very deep well, which promised the luxury of some very cold and very clear water. On leaning over the edge, I saw that the interior was completely lined with plants of the most beautiful green, that had sprung up between the stones; and, indeed, to find any kind of verdure or coolness, it was necessary to go and look into the wells, for the heat was so great, that any one might have supposed it was caused by a large fire in the immediate neighbourhood. The only thing that can give the least idea of it is the temperature of those hot-houses where tropical plants are reared. Even the air burnt you, and ignited molecules seemed to be borne along in each gust of wind. I endeavoured to go out and take a turn in the village, but the stove-like vapour which greeted me the moment I had crossed the threshold, caused me to turn back. Our supper consisted of fowls cut to pieces and laid pell-mell on a bed of rice, as highly flavoured with saffron as a Turkish pillau, with the addition of a salad (ensalada) of green leaves in a deluge of vinegar and water, dotted here and there with drops of oil, taken, doubtless, from the lamp. After we had finished this sumptuous repast, we were conducted to our rooms, which were, however, already so full, that we sallied out to pass the rest of the night in the middle of the courtyard, with our mattress wrapped round, and a chair turned upside down instead of a pillow. There, at least, we were only exposed to the mosquitos; by putting on our gloves, and covering our faces with our handkerchiefs, we escaped with merely five or six stings, which were simply painful, but not disgusting.

The people of the inn had a slightly hang-dog look, but this was a circumstance about which we had long since ceased to concern ourselves, accustomed as we were to meet with faces more or less repulsive. A fragment of their conversation which we overheard proved that their sentiments corresponded to their faces. Thinking that we did not understand Spanish, they asked the escopetero whether they could not do a little stroke of business by lying in wait for us a few leagues further on. Jose Maria's old associate replied, with most perfect nobleness and majesty, "I shall suffer nothing of the kind, as these two young gentlemen form part of the company in which I myself am travelling. Besides, they expect to be robbed, and have only as much as is strictly necessary for the journey, the rest of their money being in bills of exchange on Seville. Again, they are both strong tall men; as for the engineer, he is my friend, and we have four carbines in the galera." This persuasive mode of argument produced its effect on our host and his acolytes, who, on this occasion, contented themselves with the ordinary method of plundering that the innkeepers of all countries are permitted to practise.

In spite of all the frightful stories about brigands which are related by travellers and the natives themselves, this was our only adventure, and the most dramatic incident during our long peregrinations through the provinces which are accounted the most dangerous in all Spain, and at a time that was certainly favourable for this kind of meeting: the Spanish brigand was for us a purely chimerical being, an abstraction, a poetic fiction. We never once perceived the least sign of a trabuco, and we became, as far as robbers were concerned, as incredulous as the English gentleman mentioned by Mérimée, and who, having fallen into the hands of a band of brigands who plundered him, would insist that they were only theatrical supernumeraries dressed up and posted there to play him a trick.

We left La Carlotta about three o'clock in the afternoon, and halted, in the evening, at a miserable gipsy's hut, the roof of which was formed of simple branches cut off the trees, and thrown, like a kind of coarse thatch, over cross pieces. After drinking a few glasses of water, I quietly stretched myself out before the door, upon the bosom of our common mother, and began watching the azure immensity of heaven, where the large stars seemed to float like swarms of golden bees, while their twinkling formed a kind of luminous haze, similar to that which a dragon fly's invisible wings produce round his body by the immense rapidity with which they move; but it was not long before I fell into a profound sleep, just as if I had been reposing on the softest bed in the world. I had, however, for a pillow nothing but a stone wrapt up in the cape of my cloak, while some very respectable flints were stamping an impression of themselves in the hollow of my back. Never did a more beautiful and milder night envelope the globe in her mantle of blue velvet. At about midnight, the galera set out once more, and, when morning appeared, we were not more than half a league from Cordova.

It might, perhaps, be supposed from my description of all these halts and marches, that Cordova is separated by a great distance from Malaga, and that we had gone over an enormous deal of ground in the course of our journey, which did not occupy less than four days and a half. The distance we went, however, is only twenty Spanish leagues, that is to say, about thirty French ones, but the vehicle was heavily loaded, the road abominable, and no fresh mules waiting for us at regular distances. Besides, the heat was so intolerable that it would have suffocated both man and beast, had we ventured out during the time that the sun was at its height. This journey, however, slow and wearisome as it was, has left a pleasing impression on my mind: excessive rapidity in the means of transport, deprives the road of all charm; you are hurried along like a whirlwind, without having time to see anything. If a man comes to his journey's end directly, he may as well stop at home. For my part I think that the pleasure of travelling consists in travelling, and not in arriving at your destination.

A bridge across the Guadalquivir, which at this point is tolerably broad, leads into Cordova as you come from Ecija. Close to it are the ruins of some ancient arches, and of an Arabian aqueduct. The head of the bridge is defended by a large square embattlemented tower, supported by casemates of a more recent date. The city gates not being yet open, a large collection of carts drawn by oxen majestically crowned with tiaras of yellow and red spartum, mules and white asses loaded with chopped straw, countrymen with sugar-loaf hats, and brown woollen capas, which fell down before and behind like a priest's cape, and which are put on by thrusting your head through a hole made in the middle, were all waiting with the calmness and patience peculiar to Spaniards, who never appear to be in a hurry. A similar crowd at one of the Paris Barriers would have created a horrible disturbance, and given vent to all sorts of invectives and abuse, but here we heard no other noise but the tinkling of the brass bell attached to the collar of some mule, and the silvery sound of that hung round the neck of the coronel ass changing his position, or resting his head upon the neck of one of his long-eared brethren.

We took advantage of this temporary stoppage to examine, at our leisure, the external aspect of Cordova. A handsome gateway, like a triumphal arch, of the Ionic order, and of such good taste that it might be supposed to be of Roman origin, forms a majestic entrance to the city of the Caliphs, although I should prefer one of those beautiful Moorish arches, shaped like a heart, similar to those you see at Granada. The Cathedral Mosque rises above the outer walls and the roofs of the town more like a citadel than a temple, with its high walls denticulated with Arabian embrazures, and its heavy Catholic dome cowering on the Oriental platform. It must be confessed that the walls are daubed over with a very abominable yellow. Without being precisely one of those who admire mouldy, black, leprous-looking edifices, I have a particular horror of that infamous pumpkin colour which possesses such attractions for the priests, the chapters, and the vestry-boards of all countries, since they never fail disfiguring with it the marvellous edifices confided to their care. These buildings always should be, and always have been painted even during the purest periods of the art, only the peculiar shade and nature of the coating they receive ought to be selected with more taste. At last the gates were open, and we had the preliminary gratification of being searched rather strictly by the custom-house officers; after which, we were at liberty to proceed, accompanied by our luggage, to the nearest parador.

Cordova has a more African look than any other town in Andalusia. Its streets, or rather its lanes, with their confused, irregular pavement, that resembles the dry bed of some mountain torrent, are all strewn with the short straw which falls from the loads of the different asses, and have nothing about them which reminds you of the manners and customs of Europe. You walk on between interminable chalk-coloured walls, diversified at rare intervals by a few windows defended with rails and bars; while the only persons that you meet are some repulsive-looking beggar, some devotee enveloped in black, or some majo, who passes with the rapidity of lightning on his brown horse with white harness, causing thousands of sparks to fly up from the flints of the road. If the Moors could come back, they would not have much trouble in making themselves at home. The idea that many people have, perhaps, formed, when thinking of Cordova, that it is a town with Gothic houses, and carved, open spires, is completely wrong. The universal use of whitewash imparts a uniform tint to all the buildings, fills up the architectural lines, effaces all their delicate ornamentation, and does not allow you to read their age. Thanks to whitewash, the wall which has been erected a century cannot be distinguished from that which was erected yesterday. Cordova, which was formerly the centre of Arabian civilization, is at present nothing more than a confused mass of small, white houses, above which rise a few mangrove-trees, with their metallic green foliage, or some palm-tree, with its branches spread out like the claws of a crab; while the whole town is divided into a number of separate blocks by narrow passages, where it would be a difficult matter for two mules to pass abreast. All life seems to have deserted this great body, formerly animated by the active circulation of Moorish blood; there is nothing of it left save the white, calcined skeleton. But Cordova still possesses its Mosque, which is without a rival in the whole world, and quite new, even for those travellers who have had an opportunity of admiring the marvels of Arabian architecture at Granada or Seville.

In spite of the Moorish airs it gives itself, Cordova is a true Christian city, placed under the especial protection of the Archangel Raphael. From the balcony of our parador, we could see a strange kind of monument raised in honour of this celestial patron, and we resolved to examine it more closely. The Archangel Raphael, who is standing upon the top of a column, with a sword in his hand, his wings outstretched and glittering with gilding, seems like a sentinel eternally watching over the city confided to his care. The column is formed of grey granite, with a Corinthian capital of gilt bronze, and rests upon a small tower or lantern of rose-coloured granite, the sub-basement of which is formed of rockwork, on which are grouped a horse, a palm-tree, a lion, and a most fantastic sea-monster; the whole decoration is completed by four allegorical statues. In the plinth is buried the coffin of Bishop Pascal, who was celebrated for his piety and devotion to the holy Archangel.

On a cartouche is the following inscription:

YO TE JURO POR JESU-CHRISTO CRUZIFICADO,QUE SOI RAFAEL ANGEL, A QUIEN DIOS TIENE PUESTOPOR GUARDA DE ESTA CIUDAD

But, the reader will ask, how was it known that the Archangel Raphael, and not some one else, was the patron of the ancient city of Abderama? To this I reply, by means of a song or complaint, printed by permission at Cordova, and to be procured at the establishment of Don Raphael Garcia Rodriguez, Calle della Libreria. At the head of this precious document is a wood engraving, representing the Archangel, with his wings expanded, a glory round his head, his travelling-staff and fish in his hand, majestically placed between two splendid pots of hyacinths and peonies. Underneath is an inscription to this effect: "The true history and curious legend of our patron Saint Raphael, Archangel, Solicitor of the Plague, and Guardian of the City of Cordova."

The book relates how the blessed Archangel appeared to Don Andres Roëla, gentleman and priest, and made, in his room, a speech, the first phrase of which is precisely that engraven on the column. This speech, which the legendaries have perceived, lasted more than an hour-and-a-half, the priest and the Archangel being each seated on a chair opposite one another. The apparition took place on the 7th of May, in the year of our Lord 1578, and the monument was erected to perpetuate the remembrance of it.

An esplanade, enclosed by railings, stretches all round the monument, and enables it to be seen on every side. Statues in this position have something elegant and graceful about them which pleases me very much, and which serves admirably to conceal the nudity of a terrace, a square, or a courtyard that is too large. The small statue on the porphyry column in the courtyard of the Palais des Beaux Arts, at Paris, will convey a faint notion of the ornamental effect which might be produced by arranging figures in this fashion; they assume, when so placed, a monumental aspect which they would otherwise not possess. The same thought struck me when I saw the Holy Virgin and Saint Christopher at Ecija.

We were not greatly struck by the exterior of the Cathedral, and were afraid of being wretchedly disappointed. Victor Hugo's lines:

"Cordoue aux maisons viellesA sa mosquée où l'œil se perd dans les merveilles."

appeared before we had visited the building to be too flattering, but we were soon convinced that they were only just.

It was the Caliph Abderama I., who laid the foundations of the Mosque at Cordova, towards the end of the eighth century, and the works were carried on with such activity that the whole edifice was completed at the commencement of the ninth; twenty-one years were found sufficient to terminate this gigantic monument! When we reflect that, a thousand years ago, so admirable a work, and one of such colossal proportions, was executed in so short a time by a people who have since fallen into a state of the most savage barbarism, the mind is lost in astonishment, and refuses to believe the pretended doctrines of human progress which are generally received at the present day; we even feel inclined to adopt an opinion diametrically opposite, when we visit those countries which formerly enjoyed a state of civilization which now exists no longer. I have always regretted, for my own part, that the Moors did not remain in possession of Spain, which certainly has only lost by their expulsion. Under their dominion, if we can believe the popular exaggerations so gravely collected and preserved by historians, Cordova contained two hundred thousand houses, eighty thousand palaces, and nine hundred baths, while its suburbs consisted of twelve thousand villages. At present it does not number forty thousand inhabitants, and appears almost deserted.

Abderama wished to make the Mosque of Cordova a place of pilgrimage, a western Mecca, the first temple of Islamism, after that in which the body of the prophet reposes. I have not yet seen the Casbah of Mecca, but I doubt whether it equals in magnificence and size the Spanish Mosque. One of the original copies of the Koran and a still more precious relic, a bone of one of Mahomet's arms, used to be preserved there.

The lower orders even believe that the Sultan of Constantinople still pays a tribute to the King of Spain, in order that mass may not be said in that part of the building especially dedicated to the prophet. This chapel is ironically called by the devout, the Zancarron, a term of contempt which signifies, "Ass's jawbone, carrion."