Wanderings in Spain

The Mosque of Cordova is pierced with seven doors, which have nothing ornamental about them; indeed its mode of construction prevents their being so, and does not allow of the majestic portals imperiously required by the unvarying plan of Roman-catholic cathedrals; there is nothing in its external appearance to prepare your mind for the admirable spectacle which awaits you. We will pass, if you please, through the patio de los naranjeros, an immense and magnificent courtyard planted with monster orange-trees, that were contemporaries of the Moorish kings, and surrounded by long arched galleries, paved with marble flags. On one side rises a very mediocre spire, which is a clumsy imitation of the Giralda, as we were afterwards enabled to see, at Seville. There is said to be an immense cistern under the pavement of the courtyard. In the time of the Ommyades, you entered at once from the patio de los naranjeros into the Mosque itself, for the frightful wall which now breaks the perspective on this side, was not built until a more recent period.

I can best convey an idea of this strange edifice, by saying that it resembles a large esplanade enclosed by walls and planted with columns in quincuncial order. The esplanade is four hundred and twenty feet broad, and four hundred and forty long. The number of the columns amounts to eight hundred and sixty, which is, it is said, only half the number in the first mosque.

The impression produced on you when you enter this ancient sanctuary of the Moslem faith cannot be defined, and has nothing whatever in common with that generally caused by architecture; you seem rather to be walking about in a roofed forest than in a building. On whatever side you turn, your eye is lost in alleys of columns crossing each other and stretching away out of sight, like marble vegetation that has shot up spontaneously from the soil; the mysterious half-light which reigns in this lofty wood increases the illusion still more. There are nineteen transepts and thirty-six naves, but the span of the transepts is much less than that of the naves. Each nave and transept is formed between rows of superimposed arches, some of which cross and combine with one another as if they were made of ribbon. The columns, each of which is hewn out of one solid block, are hardly more than ten or twelve feet up to the capitals, which are Arabic-Corinthian, full of force and elegance, and reminding you rather of the African palm than the Greek acanthus. They are composed of rare marbles, porphyry, jasper, green and violet breccia, and other precious substances; there are some even of antique origin, and are said to be the remains of an old temple of Janus. Thus the rites of three religions have been celebrated on the spot. Of these three religions, one has for ever disappeared, with the civilization it represented, in the gulf of the past; the second has been driven out of Europe, where it has now but a precarious footing, to take refuge with the barbarism of the East; and the third, after having reached its apogee, has been undermined by the spirit of inquiry, and is growing weaker every day, even in those countries where it once reigned as absolute sovereign. Perhaps the old mosque built by Abderama may still last long enough to see a fourth religion installed under the shade of its arches, and a new God, or rather a new prophet, – for God never changes, – celebrated with other forms and other songs of praise.

In the time of the Caliphs, eight hundred silver lamps, filled with aromatic oils, illuminated these long naves, caused the porphyry and polished jasper of the columns to sparkle, spangled with light the gilt stars of the ceiling, and showed, in the shade, the crystal mosaics and the verses of the Koran wreathed with arabesques and flowers. Among their lamps were the bells of Saint Jago de Compostella, which the Moors had won in battle; turned upside down, and suspended to the roof by silver chains, they illuminated the temple of Allah and his Prophet, and were, no doubt, greatly astonished at being changed from Catholic bells into Mahomedan lamps. At that period, the eye could wander in perfect liberty under the long colonnades, and, from the extremity of the temple, look at the orange-trees in blossom and the gushing fountains of the patio, inundated by a torrent of light, rendered still more dazzling by the half-day inside. Unfortunately, this magnificent view is at present destroyed by the Roman-catholic church, which is a heavy, massive building squeezed into the very heart of the Arabian mosque. A number of retablos, chapels, and sacristies crowd the place and destroy its general symmetry. This parasitical church, this enormous stone mushroom, this architectural wart on the back of the Arabian edifice, was erected after the designs of Hernán Ruiz. As a building it is not destitute of merit, and would be admired anywhere else, but it is ever to be regretted that it occupies the place it does. It was built, in spite of the resistance of the ayuntamiento, by the chapter, in virtue of an order cunningly obtained from the emperor Charles V., who had not seen the mosque. Having visited it, some years later, he said – "Had I known this, I should never have permitted you to touch the old building; you have put what can be seen anywhere in the place of what is seen nowhere." This just reproach caused the members of the chapter to hang down their heads in confusion, but the evil was done. In the choir we admired an immense carving, in massive mahogany, representing subjects of the Old Testament. It is the work of Don Pedro Duque Cornejo, who spent ten years of his life on this prodigious undertaking, as may be seen by the inscription on the poor artist's tomb; he lies stretched upon a slab some few paces distant from his work. Talking of tombs, we noticed a very remarkable one, shaped like a trunk and fastened by three padlocks, let into the wall. How will the corpse, so carefully locked up, manage on the day of judgment, in order to open the stone locks of his coffin, and how will he find the keys in the midst of the general confusion?

Until the middle of the eighteenth century, the original ceiling, built by Abderama, of cedar and larch, was preserved with all its compartments, soffits, lozenges, and oriental magnificence; it has now been replaced by arches and half-cupolas, of a very mediocre effect. The old slabs have disappeared under a brick pavement, which has raised the ground, partly concealed the shafts of the pillars, and rendered still more evident the building, which is too low for its size.

All these acts of profanation, however, do not prevent the mosque of Cordova from still being one of the most marvellous buildings in the world. To make us feel, as it were, still more bitterly the mutilations of the rest, one portion, called the Mirah, has been preserved as if by a miracle, in a state of the most scrupulous integrity.

The wooden roof, carved and gilt, with its median aranja, spangled with stars, the open windowshafts, garnished with railings which render the light so soft and mellow, the gallery of small trefoiled columns, the mosaic tablets of coloured glass, and the verses from the Koran, formed of gilt crystal letters, and wreathed about with the most gracefully complicated ornaments and arabesques, compose a picture which, for richness, beauty, and fairy elegance, is to be equalled nowhere save in the "Thousand-and-One Nights," and could not be improved by any effort of art. Never were lines better chosen or colours better combined; even those found in the most capricious and delicate specimens of Gothic architecture have something poor, weakly and emaciated about them which betrays the infancy of the art. The architecture of the Mirah, on the contrary, is an instance of a state of civilization which has reached its greatest development, of art arrived at its culminating point; all beyond it is nothing but a retrogression. Nothing is wanting, neither proportion, harmony, richness, nor gracefulness. On leaving this chapel, you enter a little sanctuary profusely ornamented, the ceiling of which is formed of a single block of marble, scooped out in the form of a shell, and carved with infinite delicacy. This was probably the sanctum sanctorum, the dread and sacred place where the presence of the Deity was supposed to be more palpable than anywhere else.

Another chapel called Capilla de los Reyes Moros, where the caliphs used to pray apart from the common herd of the Faithful, also offers some curious and charming details; but it has not been so fortunate as the Mirah, its colours having disappeared under an ignoble coating of whitewash.

The sacristies are overflowing with treasures; they are literally crammed full of monstrances glittering with precious stones, silver reliquaries of enormous weight and incredible workmanship, and as large as small cathedrals, candlesticks, gold crucifixes, and copes embroidered with pearls, the whole forming a collection that is more than royal, and altogether Asiatic.

As we were on the point of leaving the building, the beadle, who had served as our guide, led us mysteriously into a remote obscure corner, and pointed out, as an object of the greatest possible curiosity, a crucifix, which is said to have been carved by a Christian prisoner, with his nail, on a porphyry column, to the foot of which he was chained. To prove the authenticity of the story, he showed us the statue of the poor captive some few paces off. Without being more Voltairean than is necessary in the matter of legends, I can not help thinking that people must formerly have had very hard nails, or that porphyry was extremely soft. Nor is this crucifix the only one of its kind; there is a second, on another column, but it is far from being so well formed. The beadle likewise showed us an enormous ivory tusk, suspended from the middle of the cupola by iron chains, and looking like the hunting-horn of some Saracenic giant of some Nimrod of the world that has disappeared: this tusk is said to have belonged to one of the elephants employed in carrying the materials during the building of the mosque. Being well satisfied with our guide's explanations and complaisance, we gave him one or two small coins, a piece of generosity which appeared to be highly displeasing to Jose Maria's old friend, who had accompanied us, and elicited from him the following slightly heretical remark: – "Would it not be better to give that money to some brave bandit, than to a villanous sexton?"

On leaving the cathedral, we stopped for a few moments before a pleasing Gothic portal, which serves as a façade to the Foundling Hospital. Anywhere else it would be admired, but, in its present position, it is crushed by its formidable neighbour.

After we had visited the cathedral, there was nothing more to keep us at Cordova, which is not the liveliest place in the world to stop at. The only amusement a stranger can take, is to bathe in the Guadalquiver, or get shaved in one of the numerous shaving-shops near the mosque; the operation is very dexterously performed, with the aid of an enormous razor, by a little barber perched upon the back of the large oaken arm-chair in which the customer is seated.

The heat was intolerable, being artificially increased by a fire. The harvest had just been got in; and it is the custom in Andalusia to burn the stubble as soon as the sheaves are carted away, in order that the ashes may improve the ground. The country was in flames for two or three leagues all round, and the wind, which singed its wings in its passage through this fiery ocean, wafted to us gusts of hot air, like that which escapes from the mouth of a stove. We were placed in the same position as the scorpions that children surround with a circle of shavings, which they set on fire; the poor creatures are obliged to make a desperate effort to get out, or to commit suicide by turning their sting against themselves. We preferred the first alternative.

The galera in which we had come to Cordova took us back by the same road, as far as Ecija, where we asked for a calessin, to convey us to Seville. We succeeded in finding one, but when the driver saw us, he found us too tall, too big, and too heavy, and made all sorts of objections. Our trunks, he asserted, were so enormously weighty, that it would require four men to move them; and the consequence was, that they would immediately cause his vehicle to break down. The truth of the last objection we disproved, by placing, unassisted and with the greatest ease, the portmanteaus thus calumniated, on the back part of the calessin. The rascal, having no more objections to raise, at last decided on setting out.

For several leagues the view consisted of nothing save flat, or vaguely-undulating ground, planted with olive-trees, whose grey colour was rendered still more insipid by the dust upon them, and large sandy plains, whose uniform appearance was broken, from time to time, by balls of blackish vegetation, like vegetable warts.

At La Sinsiana, the whole population was stretched out before the doors of the houses, and snoring away in the open air. Our vehicle obliged the rows of sleepers to rise and stand up against the wall in order to allow us to pass, grumbling all the while, and bestowing on us all the treasures of the Andalusian vocabulary. We supped in a suspicious-looking posada, more liberally furnished with muskets and blunderbusses than cooking utensils. A number of immense dogs followed all our movements with the most obstinate perseverance, and seemed to be only awaiting the signal to fall on us, and tear us to pieces. The landlady looked extremely surprised at the voracious tranquillity with which we despatched our tomato omelette. She appeared to consider the repast quite superfluous, and to regret our devouring so much food, which would never be of any good to us. In spite of the sinister aspect of the place, however, we were not assassinated, and the people were merciful enough to allow us to continue our journey.

The ground became more and more sandy, and the wheels of the calessin sank up to their naves in the shifting soil. We now understood why our driver had so strongly objected to our specific gravity. To ease the horse a little, we got down, and, about midnight, after having followed a road which wound round a steep rock in a zigzag direction, we reached Cormana, where we were to pass the night. Some limekilns cast their long, reddish reflection over the line of rocks, producing most powerful and admirably picturesque Rembrandt-like effects.

The room into which we were shown was ornamented with some wretched lithographed plates representing various episodes of the revolution of July, such as the taking of the Hôtel de Ville, and so on. This circumstance pleased and almost moved us; it was like seeing a piece of France framed and hung up against the wall. Cormana, which we had scarcely time to look at, as we once more got into our calessin, is a little town as white as cream; the campanilas and towers of an old convent of Carmelite nuns give it a very picturesque appearance, and that is all we can say about it.

Beyond Cormana, luxuriant plants, cactuses, and aloe-trees, which had for some time deserted us, now appeared again more bristling and ferocious than ever. The landscape was less bare and arid, and more varied; the heat, too, had lost something of its intensity. We soon afterwards reached Alcala de los Panaderos, celebrated for the excellence of its bread, as its name signifies, and for its novillos (young bulls) fights, to which the aficionados of Seville resort when the circus there is closed. Alcala de los Panaderos is situated very pleasantly at the bottom of a small valley, irrigated by a river; it is sheltered by a hill, on which the ruins of an old Moorish palace are still standing. We were approaching Seville; in fact, it was not long ere the Giralda displayed on the horizon its open lantern and then its square tower: a few hours afterwards we were passing through the Puerta de Cormana, whose arch enclosed a background of dusty light, in which galeras, asses, mules, and carts drawn by oxen, some coming to the town and others leaving it, crossed each other in a flood of golden vapour. To the left of the road arose the stone arcades of a superb aqueduct, of a truly Roman appearance: on the other side were rows of houses built nearer and nearer to each other: we were at Seville.

CHAPTER XIII

SEVILLE

Seville – The Cristina – The Torre del Oro – Italica – The Cathedral – The Giralda – El Polbo Sevillano – The Caridad and Don Juan de Marana

There is a Spanish proverb, very frequently quoted, on Seville:

"Quien no ha visto a SevillaNo ha visto a maravilla."

We confess, in all humility, that this proverb would strike us as more correct if applied to Toledo or Granada rather than to Seville, where we saw nothing particularly marvellous, unless it was the Cathedral.

Seville is situated on the banks of the Guadalquiver, in a large plain, whence it derives its name of Hispalis, which, in Carthagenian, means a flat piece of ground, if we may believe Arias Montano and Samuel Bockhart. It is a vast, straggling town, of very recent date, gay, smiling, and animated, and must really appear a charming place to Spaniards. It would be impossible to find a more striking contrast to Cordova. The town of Cordova is dead; it is an ossuary, a catacomb in the open air, on which Neglect is slowly sprinkling its white dust; the few inhabitants whom you meet at the corners of its narrow streets look like apparitions which have mistaken the hour. Seville, on the contrary, is full of all the petulance and busy hum of life; the sound of gaiety floats over her at every instant of the day; she hardly allows herself time to take her siesta. She cares little for yesterday, and still less for to-morrow; she exists altogether for the present. Memory and Hope are the consolation of those who are unhappy, and Sevilla is happy. She enjoys herself, while her sister, Cordova, wrapt in silence and solitude, appears to be dreaming mournfully of Abderama; of the great captain and all his departed glories, brilliant meteors in the nights of the Past, while all she now possesses are ashes.

To the great disappointment of travellers and antiquaries, whitewash reigns supreme at Seville; the houses have a new coat of it three or four times a year; this gives them a look of cleanness and neatness, but effectually prevents any investigation of the remains of the Arabic and Gothic sculptures which formerly adorned the place. Nothing can be less varied than this network of streets, where the eye sees but two tints – the indigo of the sky and the chalky white of the walls on which the azure shadows of the neighbouring buildings are thrown; for in warm countries the shadows are blue instead of being grey, so that the objects appear to be lighted up on one side by the moon, and on the other by the sun; the absence, however, of all sombre tints produces a general appearance of life and gaiety. Doorways closed with iron gates allow you to look through and see the patios ornamented with columns, mosaic pavement, fountains, flower-pots, shrubs, and pictures. As regards the external architecture, it offers no particularly remarkable feature; the houses are rarely more than two or three stories high, and you hardly meet with a dozen façades that are interesting in an artistic point of view. The streets are paved, like those of all Spanish towns, with small pebbles, but, on each side, there is a kind of pavement consisting of tolerably large flat stones on which the crowd walks in single file. If a man and woman meet, the man always makes way for the woman with that exquisite politeness which is natural to Spaniards, even of the very lowest classes. The women of Seville quite deserve the reputation for beauty which they enjoy; they are almost all alike, as is always the case in pure races of a well-defined type; their long eyes, opening to the temples, and fringed with long brown lashes, produce an effect of black and white which is unknown in France. When a woman or young girl passes you, she slowly drops her eyelids, and then suddenly opens them again, shoots at you a look so searching that you are perfectly unable to bear it, rolls the pupil of her eye, and then again drops the lashes over them. The Bayadere, Amany, when dancing the Pas des Colombes, was the only person who could convey the slightest notion of the murderous glances which the East has bequeathed to Spain; we have no terms to express this play of the eyes; the word ojear is wanting in our vocabulary. These glances, which are so full of vivid, sudden brilliancy, and which almost embarrass strangers, have, however, no particular signification, and are cast upon the first object that presents itself; a young Andalusian girl will look with the same passionate expression at a cart passing along, a dog running after its tail, or a group of children playing at bullfights. The eyes of the people of the north are dull and meaningless in comparison; the sun has never left its reflection in them. Their canine teeth are very pointed, and, as well as all the rest, rival in brilliancy those of a young Newfoundland dog, and impart to the smile of the young women of Seville an Arabic savage expression, which is extremely original. Their forehead is high, round, and polished; their nose is sharp and slightly inclining to the aquiline. Unfortunately, their chin sometimes terminates by a too sudden curve of the divine oval of the upper part of their face. Their shoulders and arms are somewhat thin; this is the only imperfection which the most fastidious artist could find in the women of Seville. The delicacy of their articulation, and the smallness of their hands and feet, are all that can be desired. Without any sort of poetical exaggeration, there are women in Seville whose feet an infant might hold in its hand. The Andalusian beauties are very proud of this, and wear shoes to correspond. There is no very great difference between these shoes and the slippers worn by the Chinese women.

"Con primor se calza el piéDigno de regio tapiz."

is a compliment as common in their songs as the tint of the rose or the lily is in ours.

The said shoes, which are generally of satin, hardly cover their toes, and appear to have no heels, the latter being covered with a small piece of ribbon, of the same colour as the stocking. A little French girl, seven or eight years old, could not put on the shoe of an Andalusian of twenty. Accordingly, there is no end to their jokes about the feet and shoes of the ladies of the north. "A boat with six rowers, to row about in the Guadalquiver, was made out of the ball shoe of a German lady." "The wooden stirrups of the picadores might do for shoes for an English beauty," – and a thousand other andulazades of the same kind. I defended, as well as I could, the feet of our fair Parisians, but I only met with incredulous listeners. Unfortunately, the women of Seville have only remained Spanish as far as the head and feet, the mantilla and the shoe, are concerned; the coloured gowns à la Française are beginning to obtain the superiority over the national robe. The men are dressed like plates of fashions. There are some, however, who wear small white dimity jackets, trousers to correspond, a red sash, and Andalusian hat; but this is rare, and, besides, the costume is not very picturesque.

The favourite walks are the Alameda del Duque, where the audience stroll during the time between the acts at the theatre, which is close at hand: and also, more especially, the Cristina. It is a most charming thing to see, between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, all the beauties of Seville, in little groups of three or four, parading up and down here, and showing themselves off to the best advantage, accompanied by their lovers, present or future. They have something peculiarly nimble, active, and brisk about them, and prance along, rather than walk. The celerity with which the fan is opened and shut in their hands, the searching power of their glance, the assurance of their bearing, and the undulating suppleness of their figure, give them a physiognomy which is especially their own. There may be women in England, France, and Italy, of a more perfect and regular style of beauty, but there are assuredly none who are prettier or more piquant. They possess in a high degree the quality called by Spaniards la sal, and which is some thing that it is difficult to explain to Frenchmen. It is a mixture of nonchalance, vivacity, bold repartees, and infantine manners; a grace, a pungency, a ragoût, as painters express it, which may be found without beauty, and which is frequently preferred to it. Thus, a person says to a woman in Spain, "How salt, salada, you are!" and there is no other compliment like that one.