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Gautier Théophile
Wanderings in Spain

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.

The sacristies and capitular rooms in the Cathedral of Toledo are of more than royal magnificence. Nothing can be more noble and picturesque than these vast halls decorated in that solid and severe style of luxury that the Church alone understands. They present an endless succession of carved walnut-wood or black oak, tapestry, or Indian damask curtains hanging down before the doors, brocade drapery with large massive folds, figured tapestry, Persian carpets, and fresco paintings. We will not attempt to describe all these things in detail, we will merely mention one room ornamented with admirable frescoes representing sacred subjects, in the German style, of which the Spaniards have produced such successful imitations. These frescoes are said to have been painted by Berruguete's nephew, if not by Berruguete himself, for these prodigious geniuses were great in all three branches of art. We will also mention an immense ceiling by Luca Giordana, filled with a countless multitude of angels and allegorical personages in attitudes that offer the most extraordinary instances of foreshortening. It is also remarkable for a singular optical illusion. A ray of light issues from the middle of the roof, and although painted on a simple flat surface, seems to fall perpendicularly on your head, whichever way you turn.

Here is kept the treasure, that is to say, the beautiful capes of brocade, cloth of gold, and silver damask; the marvellous guipures, the silver-gilt reliquaries, the diamond monstrances, the gigantic silver candlesticks, the embroidered banners, and, in fact, all the decorations and accessories used in the representation of the drama called the mass.

In the cupboards of one of these rooms is kept the wardrobe of the Holy Virgin, for naked statues of marble or alabaster are not sufficient for the passionate piety of these natives of the South. In their devout enthusiasm, they load the object of their veneration with ornaments of the most extraordinary richness; nothing is good, or brilliant, or expensive enough; the form of the figure and the materials of which it is made disappear completely under this mass of valuables; but the Spaniards trouble themselves very little about that. The great thing is that it should be a physical impossibility to hang one pearl more on the ears of the marble idol, to fix a larger diamond in its golden crown, or form another pattern of precious stones on its brocade robe.

Never did a queen of ancient times, not even Cleopatra, who used to drink pearls, never did an empress of the Lower Empire, never did a duchess in the Middle Ages, never did a Venetian courtesan in the time of Titian, possess more brilliant jewels or a richer assortment of clothes than Our Lady of Toledo. We were shown some of her gowns. There is one of them which defies all your efforts to say of what material it is composed, so completely is it covered with flowers and arabesques of fine pearls, among which there are some of a size beyond all price; there are also several rows of black pearls which are very rare indeed. Suns and stars of precious stones also adorn this prodigious gown, which is so brilliant that the eye can scarcely support its splendour. It is worth some millions of francs.

We terminated our visit by going up into the spire, the top of which is reached by a succession of rather steep but not very enticing ladders placed one above the other. About halfway, in a kind of store-room that we were obliged to traverse, we saw a number of gigantic coloured figures, dressed in the style of the last century and used in some procession or other.

The magnificent view that bursts upon you when you have reached the summit of the spire, repays you most amply for all the trouble of clambering up. The whole town is presented to your gaze with all the sharpness and precision of the cork models exhibited by Monsieur Pelet, and so greatly admired at the Exposition at Paris. This comparison will appear, doubtless, very prosaic, and not at all picturesque; but, in sober truth, I could not hit upon a better or more appropriate one. The dwarfish, misshapen rocks of blue granite, which shut in the Tagus on both sides, and constitute a portion of the horizon of Toledo, add still more to the singularity of the landscape, which is bathed and inundated by torrents of crude, pitiless, blinding light, not mitigated by the least reflection, but on the contrary, increased by a cloudless, vapourless sky that has become white from the intense heat, like iron in a furnace.

The heat was, indeed, atrocious, fully equalling that of a lime-kiln; and nothing but the most insatiable curiosity could have prevented us from renouncing all sight-seeing in such a Senegambian temperature; but we were still full of all the savage ardour of Parisian tourists, overflowing with enthusiasm for local colour. Nothing disheartened us: we only stopped to drink, for our throats were more parched than the sands of Africa, and we absorbed water like a couple of dry sponges. I really do not know how we avoided becoming dropsical; for, exclusive of wine and ices, we consumed seven or eight jars of water a day. Agua! Agua! was our unceasing cry; and a chain of muchachos, passing the jars to one another, from our room to the kitchen, was hardly capable of quenching the fire that raged within us. Had it not been for this never-ending inundation, we should have been reduced to dust, like a sculptor's clay models when he forgets to moisten them.

After having visited the cathedral, we resolved, in spite of our thirst, to proceed to the church of San Juan de los Reyes; but it was only after a very long parley that we succeeded in obtaining the keys, for the church itself has been shut for the last seven or eight years, and the convent, of which it forms part, is abandoned and falling into ruins.

San Juan de los Reyes is situated on the banks of the Tagus, close to the bridge of San Martin. Its walls are of that beautiful orange colour which distinguishes old buildings in countries where it never rains. A collection of royal statues, of very imposing appearance and in noble and chivalresque attitudes, decorates the exterior; but this is not the most remarkable feature about the church of San Juan de los Reyes, for all mediæval churches are peopled with statues. An immense number of chains suspended on hooks decorate the walls from top to bottom: they are the fetters of the Christian captives who were delivered at the conquest of Granada. These chains, thus hung up in the guise of ornaments and votive offerings, give the church somewhat of the air of a prison, which is rather strange and repulsive.

I was told an anecdote connected with this subject, which I will insert here, as it is both short and characteristic. The dream of every jefe politico in Spain is to possess an alameda, as that of every prefect in France is to have a Rue de Rivoli in his town. The dream of the jefe politico of Toledo was, therefore, to procure the population committed to his government the pleasures of a public promenade. The site was chosen, and, thanks to the co-operation of the inmates of the Presidio, the necessary levellings were soon completed. All the promenade now wanted was trees, but trees cannot be improvised, and the jefe politico very judiciously resolved to substitute for them short posts, connected with iron chains. As money, however, is very scarce in Spain, the ingenious official, who certainly possessed a fertile imagination, if any one ever did, thought of the historical chains of San Juan de los Reyes, and said to himself, "They are exactly what I want, and are all ready to my hand!" Accordingly, the chains of the captives set free by Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic, were hung on the posts of the alameda, while each of the smiths who had done the work received a few armfuls of the heroic metal for his trouble. Certain intelligent persons (you are sure to find some everywhere) said that it was an act of Vandalism, and the chains were taken back to the church. As for those which had been given in payment to the workmen, they had long since been forged into ploughshares, mules' shoes, and other utensils. This story is perhaps a piece of calumny, but it has all the air of probability; I give it as I heard it related. But let us return to our church. The key turned with difficulty in the rusty lock, but as soon as this slight obstacle was surmounted, we entered the dilapidated but most elegant and admirable cloisters. Slender columns supported on their florid capitals a number of arches adorned with the most delicate nervures and embellishments, while all along the walls ran long inscriptions in praise of Ferdinand and Isabella, in Gothic characters, intertwined with flowers, a Christian imitation of the sentences and verses from the Koran employed by the Moors as an architectural ornament. What a pity it is that so precious an edifice should be thus abandoned!

By giving a few kicks against the doors, which were either barricaded with worm-eaten planks, or obstructed by rubbish, we succeeded in forcing our way into the church, which is a charming building, and, with the exception of a few places where it had been wantonly mutilated, seemed as if it had only been completed yesterday. Gothic art never produced anything more suave, more elegant, or more fine. All round it runs a gallery pierced and penetrated like a fish-slice, hanging its adventurous balcony on the clusters of pillars, and following exactly their indentations and projections; gigantic scroll-work, eagles, monsters, heraldic animals, coats of arms, banners, and emblematic inscriptions, similar to those in the cloisters, complete the decorations. The choir, which is situated opposite the retablo, at the other extremity of the church, is supported by a very bold and handsome elliptic arch.

The altar, which, without doubt, was a masterpiece of sculpture and painting, has been pitilessly pulled down. These useless acts of destruction sadden the heart, and make you doubt the human understanding: how do old stones impede new ideas? Cannot a revolution be effected without the Past being demolished? It strikes me that the Constitucion would have lost nothing by leaving intact the church of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic – that noble queen, who believed the bare word of Genius, and endowed mankind with a new world.

Venturing up a staircase that was half in ruins, we penetrated into the interior of the convent. The refectory is a tolerably spacious apartment, presenting nothing peculiarly worthy of notice, save a frightful picture placed over the door. This picture, rendered still more hideous by the coat of dust and dirt which covers it, represents a dead body in a state of decomposition, with all those horrible details which are treated so complacently by Spanish artists. A symbolical and funereal inscription, one of those menacing biblical sentences, which warn human nothingness in so terrible a manner, is written at the bottom of this sepulchral painting, which seems a very singular one to select for a refectory. I do not know whether all the stories of monkish gluttony are true, but for my own part I should have but a very delicate appetite in a dining-room decorated in this fashion.

Overhead, on each side of a long corridor, are ranged, like the cells in a beehive, the deserted cells of the monks, who have long since disappeared: they are all exactly similar to one another, and all covered with white stucco. This whiteness diminishes the poetical effect a great deal, by preventing monsters and other bugbears of the imagination from hiding themselves in the dark holes and corners. The interior of the church and cloisters is also whitewashed; this gives them a sort of new and recent appearance, which forms a strong contrast with the style of the architecture and the state of the edifice. The absence of humidity and the great heat have not allowed any plants or weeds to spring up between the interstices of the stones or of the rubbish; and these remains are not enveloped in the green ivy mantle which Time throws over our northern ruins. We wandered about the abandoned edifice for a long time, going up and down a succession of break-neck staircases, exactly like Anne Radcliffe's heroes, except that we saw nothing in the way of phantoms save two poor lizards, that made their escape as quickly as they possibly could, being, doubtless, ignorant, in their character of Spaniards, of the French proverb, "The lizard is the friend of man." A stroll of this kind through the veins and limbs of a large building, from which all life has fled, is one of the most vivid pleasures that can be conceived; you expect, every moment, to meet at the turn of some gallery or other one of the old monks, with his glossy forehead and his eyes sunk in shade, walking gravely along with his arms folded on his breast, as he proceeds to take part in some mysterious service in the desecrated and deserted church.

We now left, for we had seen everything that was worth seeing, even the kitchens, down to which our guide conducted us with a Voltairean smile that a subscriber to the Constitutionnel would not have disowned. The church and cloisters are uncommonly magnificent; the rest of the place displays the strictest simplicity; everything was for the soul, nothing for the body.

At a short distance from San Juan de los Reyes, you observe, or rather, you do not observe, the celebrated mosque-like synagogue; for, unless you have a guide, you might pass by it twenty times without once suspecting that such a building existed. Our keeper knocked at a door cut in a wall formed of reddish clay, and presenting the most insignificant appearance. After waiting some time – for Spaniards are never in a hurry – the door was opened, and we were asked if we came to see the synagogue. On our answering in the affirmative, we were introduced into a kind of courtyard, filled with wild vegetation, in the midst of which stood a mangrove-tree, with its deeply serrated leaves, of a deep green, and as shining as if they had been varnished. At the back was a sort of wretched hovel, without the least pretension to any peculiar character, and looking more like a barn than anything else. We were shown into this hovel. Never was any one more surprised than we were: we found ourselves suddenly transplanted to the East, and beheld slender columns with spreading capitals like turbans, Turkish arches, verses of the Koran, a flat ceiling divided into compartments of cedar-wood, the day streaming in from above – in a word, nothing was wanting to sustain the illusion. The remains of old illuminated subjects, almost effaced, covered the walls with their strange hues, and increased the singular effect of the whole. This synagogue, which the Arabs turned into a mosque, and the Christians into a church, serves, at present, as the residence and workshop of a joiner. The joiner's bench now occupies the place of the altar. This act of profanation is of recent date. Vestiges of the retablo are still remaining, as well as the inscription, in black marble, commemorating the consecration of the edifice for Roman Catholic worship.

Talking of synagogues, I will here relate the following curious anecdote. The Jews of Toledo, probably with a view of diminishing the feeling of horror entertained for them by the Christians, asserted that they had not consented to the death of our Saviour; and made the following statement in support of their assertion: – When our Saviour was brought up for judgment, the council of priests, of which Caiaphas was president, sent round to each of the tribes to know whether our Saviour should be set free or put to death. The question was put to the Jews of Spain, and the synagogue of Toledo pronounced in favour of his acquittal. This particular tribe, therefore, according to them, is not covered with the blood of the Redeemer, and does not deserve the execration incurred by those Jews who voted against the Son of God. The original copy of the answer given by the Jews of Toledo, with a Latin translation of the Hebrew text, is – so says the report – preserved in the archives of the Vatican. In consideration of their conduct, they were allowed to erect this synagogue, which is, I believe, the only one ever tolerated in Spain.

We had heard of the ruins of an ancient Moorish country-house, called Galiana's Palace. On leaving the synagogue, we ordered our guide to conduct us thither, in spite of our fatigue, for our time was precious, as we had to set out again the next day for Madrid.

Galiana's Palace is situated outside the town, in the plain of the Vega; and in order to reach it, you have to cross the bridge of Alcantara. After a quarter of an hour's walk through fields irrigated by a thousand little canals, we came to a cluster of extraordinarily green trees, at the foot of which a water-wheel of the most antique and Egyptian simplicity was at work. Earthen jars, fixed to the spokes of the wheel by means of cords made of reeds, first drew up the water from the stream, and then emptied it into a canal of concave tiles, conducting to a reservoir, whence it was directed without difficulty, through small trenches, to whatever point had to be watered.

The dilapidated outline of a mass of reddish bricks rose up behind the foliage of the trees: this was Galiana's Palace. We made our way, through a low doorway, into this heap of ruins, that was inhabited by a family of peasants. It is impossible to conceive anything more black, more smoky, more sepulchral, or more dirty. The Troglodytes were lodged like princes in comparison; and yet the charming Galiana, the Moorish maiden with her long eyelashes tinged with henna, and her brocade jacket, covered with pearls, had once pressed the uneven floor with her little slippers, and once leant out at that window to look at the Moorish cavaliers who were exercising themselves in throwing the djerrid, at some distance away in the plain of the Vega.

We valiantly continued our researches, ascending to the upper parts of the building by means of crazy old ladders, and grasping hold of the tufts of dry weeds, which hung like a beard to the crabbed chin of the ancient walls. When we had arrived at the summit, we became aware of a strange phenomenon. We had entered the place with white trousers, and we left it with black ones; but the black tint was no ordinary black, it was alive, moving, skipping about; we were covered with imperceptible little fleas, who had precipitated themselves upon us in compact masses, attracted by the coldness of our northern blood. I never should have thought that there were so many fleas in the whole world.

A few pipes for conveying water into the hot baths are the only vestiges of magnificence which time has spared: the glass and enamelled porcelain mosaics; the slender marble columns with their gilt capitals, ornamented with carving and verses from the Koran; the alabaster basins; the stones pierced in a thousand different places in order to allow the perfumes to filter through; – all, all had disappeared. All that is left is the carcass of the principal walls, and heaps of bricks rapidly crumbling to dust; for these marvellous edifices, which remind the spectator of the fairy palaces in the "Arabian Nights," are unfortunately only built of bricks or clay, crusted over with stucco or plaster. All the lacework, all the arabesques, are not, as is generally believed, carved in marble or stone, but merely moulded in plaster, by which method they can be reproduced without end and without any great cost. Had it not been for the extraordinarily conservative quality of the climate of Spain, all these edifices erected of such slight materials would never have remained standing at the present day.

The legend of Galiana is more successfully preserved than her palace. She was the daughter of king Galafre, who loved her more than aught else in the world, and had built for her in the plain of the Vega a country-house, with delicious gardens, kiosks, baths, fountains, and cascades, which rose and fell exactly as the moon increased or waned, either by means of magic, or by one of those hydraulic artifices so familiar to the Arabs. Idolized by her father, Galiana lived in this charming retreat in the most agreeable manner, amusing herself with music, poetry, and dancing. Her hardest task was to escape the importunities of her admirers. The most troublesome and the most determined of them all was a certain petty king of Guadalajara, called Bradamant, a gigantic, valiant, and ferocious Moor. Galiana could not bear him, and, as the chronicler says, "What avails it that the cavalier be all fire, if the lady be all ice?" The Moor, however, was not to be rebuffed, and his delight at seeing and speaking to Galiana was so intense that he caused a subterranean passage to be dug from Guadalajara to Toledo, and through this passage he came to visit her every day.