Gautier Théophile
Wanderings in Spain
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 PUESTO
POR 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 vielles
A 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."
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.
