"I have heard of spirits walking with aerial bodies, and have been
wondered at by others; but I must only wonder at myself, for if they
be not mad, I'me come to my own buriall."--SHIRLEY's _Witty Fairie
One_
Everybody has heard of the fate of Don Juan, the famous libertine of
Seville, who for his sins against the fair sex and other minor peccadilloes
was hurried away to the infernal regions. His story has been illustrated in
play, in pantomime, and farce, on every stage in Christendom; until at
length it has been rendered the theme of the operas, and embalmed to
endless duration in the glorious music of Mozart. I well recollect the
effect of this story upon my feelings in my boyish days, though represented
in grotesque pantomime; the awe with which I contemplated the monumental
statue on horseback of the murdered commander, gleaming by pale moonlight
in the convent cemetery; how my heart quaked as he bowed his marble head,
and accepted the impious invitation of Don Juan: how each footfall of the
statue smote upon my heart, as I heard it approach, step by step, through
the echoing corridor, and beheld it enter, and advance, a moving figure of
stone, to the supper table! But then the convivial scene in the
charnel-house, where Don Juan returned the visit of the statue; was offered
a banquet of skulls and bones, and on refusing to partake, was hurled into
a yawning gulf, under a tremendous shower of fire! These were accumulated
horrors enough to shake the nerves of the most pantomime-loving schoolboy.
Many have supposed the story of Don Juan a mere fable. I myself thought so
once; but "seeing is believing." I have since beheld the very scene where
it took place, and now to indulge any doubt on the subject would be
preposterous.
I was one night perambulating the streets of Seville, in company with a
Spanish friend, a curious investigator of the popular traditions and other
good-for-nothing lore of the city, and who was kind enough to imagine he
had met, in me, with a congenial spirit. In the course of our rambles we
were passing by a heavy, dark gateway, opening into the courtyard of a
convent, when he laid his hand upon my arm: "Stop!" said he, "this is the
convent of San Francisco; there is a story connected with it which I am
sure must be known to you. You cannot but have heard of Don Juan and the
marble statue."
"Undoubtedly," replied I, "it has been familiar to me from childhood."
"Well, then, it was in the cemetery of this very convent that the events
took place."
"Why, you do not mean to say that the story is founded on fact?"
"Undoubtedly it is. The circumstances of the case are said to have occurred
during the reign of Alfonso XI. Don Juan was of the noble family of
Tenorio, one of the most illustrious houses of Andalusia. His father, Don
Diego Tenorio, was a favorite of the king, and his family ranked among the
_deintecuatros_, or magistrates, of the city. Presuming on his high
descent and powerful connections, Don Juan set no bounds to his excesses:
no female, high or low, was sacred from his pursuit: and he soon became the
scandal of Seville. One of his most daring outrages was, to penetrate by
night into the palace of Don Gonzalo de Ulloa, commander of the order of
Calatrava, and attempt to carry off his daughter. The household was
alarmed; a scuffle in the dark took place; Don Juan escaped, but the
unfortunate commander was found weltering in his blood, and expired without
being able to name his murderer. Suspicions attached to Don Juan; he did
not stop to meet the investigations of justice, and the vengeance of the
powerful family of Ulloa, but fled from Seville, and took refuge with his
uncle, Don Pedro Tenorio, at that time embassador at the court of Naples.
Here he remained until the agitation occasioned by the murder of Don
Gonzalo had time to subside; and the scandal which the affair might cause
to both the families of Ulloa and Tenorio had induced them to hush it up.
Don Juan, however, continued his libertine career at Naples, until at
length his excesses forfeited the protection of his uncle, the embassador,
and obliged him again to flee. He had made his way back to Seville,
trusting that his past misdeeds were forgotten, or rather trusting to his
dare-devil spirit and the power of his family to carry him through all
difficulties.
"It was shortly after his return, and while in the height of his arrogance,
that on visiting this very convent of Francisco, he beheld on a monument
the equestrian statue of the murdered commander, who had been buried within
the walls of this sacred edifice, where the family of Ulloa had a chapel.
It was on this occasion that Don Juan, in a moment of impious levity,
invited the statue to the banquet, the awful catastrophe of which has given
such celebrity to his story."
"And pray how much of this story," said I, "is believed in Seville?"
"The whole of it by the populace; with whom it has been a favorite
tradition since time immemorial, and who crowd to the theaters to see it
represented in dramas written long since by Tyrso de Molina, and another of
our popular writers. Many in our higher ranks also, accustomed from
childhood to this story, would feel somewhat indignant at hearing it
treated with contempt. An attempt has been made to explain the whole, by
asserting that, to put an end to the extravagances of Don Juan, and to
pacify the family of Ulloa, without exposing the delinquent to the
degrading penalties of justice, he was decoyed into this convent under a
false pretext, and either plunged into a perpetual dungeon, or privately
hurried out of existence; while the story of the statue was circulated by
the monks, to account for his sudden disappearance. The populace, however,
are not to be cajoled out of a ghost story by any of these plausible
explanations; and the marble statue still strides the stage, and Don Juan
is still plunged into the infernal regions, as an awful warning to all
rake-helly youngsters, in like case offending."
While my companion was relating these anecdotes, we had entered the
gateway, traversed the exterior courtyard of the convent, and made our way
into a great interior court; partly surrounded by cloisters and
dormitories, partly by chapels, and having a large fountain in the center.
The pile had evidently once been extensive and magnificent; but it was for
the greater part in ruins. By the light of the stars, and of twinkling
lamps placed here and there in the chapels and corridors, I could see that
many of the columns and arches were broken; the walls were rent and riven;
white burned beams and rafters showed the destructive effects of fire. The
whole place had a desolate air; the night breeze rustled through grass and
weeds flaunting out of the crevices of the walls, or from the shattered
columns; the bat flitted about the vaulted passages, and the owl hooted
from the ruined belfry. Never was any scene more completely fitted for a
ghost story.
While I was indulging in picturings of the fancy, proper to such a place,
the deep chant of the monks from the convent church came swelling upon the
ear. "It is the vesper service," said my companion; "follow me."
Leading the way across the court of the cloisters, and through one or two
ruined passages, he reached the distant portal of the church, and pushing
open a wicket, cut in the folding doors, we found ourselves in the deep
arched vestibule of the sacred edifice. To our left was the choir, forming
one end of the church, and having a low vaulted ceiling, which gave it the
look of a cavern. About this were ranged the monks, seated on stools, and
chanting from immense books placed on music-stands, and having the notes
scored in such gigantic characters as to be legible from every part of the
choir. A few lights on these music-stands dimly illumined the choir,
gleamed on the shaven heads of the monks and threw their shadows on the
walls. They were gross, blue-bearded, bullet-headed men, with bass voices,
of deep metallic tone, that reverberated out of the cavernous choir.
To our right extended the great body of the church. It was spacious and
lofty; some of the side chapels had gilded grates, and were decorated with
images and paintings, representing the sufferings of our Saviour. Aloft was
a great painting by Murillo, but too much in the dark to be distinguished.
The gloom of the whole church was but faintly relieved by the reflected
light from the choir, and the glimmering here and there of a votive lamp
before the shrine of a saint.
As my eye roamed about the shadowy pile, it was struck with the dimly seen
figure of a man on horseback, near a distant altar. I touched my companion,
and pointed to it: "The specter statue!" said I.
"No," replied he; "it is the statue of the blessed St. Iago; the statue of
the commander was in the cemetery of the convent, and was destroyed at the
tune of the conflagration. But," added he, "as I see you take a proper
interest in these kind of stories, come with me to the other end of the
church, where our whisperings will not disturb these holy fathers at their
devotions, and I will tell you another story that has been current for some
generations in our city, by which you will find that Don Juan is not the
only libertine that has been the object of supernatural castigation in
Seville."
I accordingly followed him with noiseless tread to the further part of the
church, where we took our seats on the steps of an altar, opposite to the
suspicious-looking figure on horseback, and there, in a low, mysterious
voice, he related to me the following narration:
"There was once in Seville a gay young fellow, Don Manuel de Manara by
name, who, having come to a great estate by the death of his father, gave
the reins to his passions, and plunged into all kinds of dissipation. Like
Don Juan, whom he seemed to have taken for a model, he became famous for
his enterprises among the fair sex, and was the cause of doors being barred
and windows grated with more than usual strictness. All in vain. No balcony
was too high for him to scale; no bolt nor bar was proof against his
efforts; and his very name was a word of terror to all the jealous husbands
and cautious fathers of Seville. His exploits extended to country as well
as city; and in the village dependent on his castle, scarce a rural beauty
was safe from his arts and enterprises.
"As he was one day ranging the streets of Seville, with several of his
dissolute companions, he beheld a procession about to enter the gate of a
convent. In the center was a young female arrayed in the dress of a bride;
it was a novice, who, having accomplished her year of probation, was about
to take the black veil, and consecrate herself to heaven. The companions of
Don Manuel drew back, out of respect to the sacred pageant; but he pressed
forward, with his usual impetuosity, to gain a near view of the novice. He
almost jostled her, in passing through the portal of the church, when, on
her turning round, he beheld the countenance of a beautiful village girl,
who had been the object of his ardent pursuit, but who had been spirited
secretly out of his reach by her relatives. She recognized him at the same
moment, and fainted; but was borne within the grate of the chapel. It was
supposed the agitation of the ceremony and the heat of the throng had
overcome her. After some time, the curtain which hung within the grate was
drawn up: there stood the novice, pale and trembling, surrounded by the
abbess and the nuns. The ceremony proceeded; the crown of flowers was taken
from her head; she was shorn of her silken tresses, received the black
veil, and went passively through the remainder of the ceremony.
"Don Manuel de Manara, on the contrary, was roused to fury at the sight of
this sacrifice. His passion, which had almost faded away in the absence of
the object, now glowed with tenfold ardor, being inflamed by the
difficulties placed in his way, and piqued by the measures which had been
taken to defeat him. Never had the object of his pursuit appeared so lovely
and desirable as when within the grate of the convent; and he swore to have
her, in defiance of heaven and earth. By dint of bribing a female servant
of the convent he contrived to convey letters to her, pleading his passion
in the most eloquent and seductive terms. How successful they were is only
matter of conjecture; certain it is, he undertook one night to scale the
garden wall of the convent, either to carry off the nun or gain admission
to her cell. Just as he was mounting the wall he was suddenly plucked back,
and a stranger, muffled in a cloak, stood before him.
"'Rash man, forbear!' cried he: 'is it not enough to have violated all
human ties? Wouldst thou steal a bride from heaven!'
"The sword of Don Manuel had been drawn on the instant, and, furious at
this interruption, he passed it through the body of the stranger, who fell
dead at his feet. Hearing approaching footsteps, he fled the fatal spot,
and mounting his horse, which was at hand, retreated to his estate in the
country, at no great distance from Seville. Here he remained throughout the
next day, full of horror and remorse; dreading lest he should be known as
the murderer of the deceased, and fearing each moment the arrival of the
officers of justice.
"The day passed, however, without molestation; and, as the evening
approached, unable any longer to endure this state of uncertainty and
apprehension, he ventured back to Seville. Irresistibly his footsteps took
the direction of the convent; but he paused and hovered at a distance from
the scene of blood. Several persons were gathered round the place, one of
whom was busy nailing something against the convent wall. After a while
they dispersed, and one passed near to Don Manuel. The latter addressed
him, with a hesitating voice.
"'Señor,' said he, 'may I ask the reason of yonder throng?'
"'A cavalier,' replied the other, 'has been murdered.'
"'Murdered!' echoed Don Manuel; 'and can you tell me his name?'
"'Don Manuel de Manara,' replied the stranger, and passed on.
"Don Manuel was startled at this mention of his own name; especially when
applied to the murdered man. He ventured, when it was entirely deserted, to
approach the fatal spot. A small cross had been nailed against the wall, as
is customary in Spain, to mark the place where a murder has been committed;
and just below it, he read, by the twinkling light of a lamp: 'Here was
murdered Don Manuel de Manara. Pray to God for his soul!'
"Still more confounded and perplexed by this inscription, he wandered about
the streets until the night was far advanced, and all was still and lonely.
As he entered the principal square, the light of torches suddenly broke on
him, and he beheld a grand funeral procession moving across it. There was a
great train of priests, and many persons of dignified appearance, in
ancient Spanish dresses, attending as mourners, none of whom he knew.
Accosting a servant who followed in the train, he demanded the name of the
defunct.
"'Don Manuel de Manara,' was the reply; and it went cold to his heart. He
looked, and indeed beheld the armorial bearings of his family emblazoned on
the funeral escutcheons. Yet not one of his family was to be seen among the
mourners. The mystery was more and more incomprehensible.
"He followed the procession as it moved on to the cathedral. The bier was
deposited before the high altar; the funeral service was commenced, and the
grand organ began to peal through the vaulted aisles.
"Again the youth ventured to question this awful pageant. 'Father,' said
he, with trembling voice, to one of the priests, 'who is this you are about
to inter?'
"'Don Manuel de Manara!' replied the priest.
"'Father,' cried Don Manuel, impatiently, 'you are deceived. This is some
imposture. Know that Don Manuel de Manara la alive and well, and now stands
before you. _I_ am Don Manuel de Manara!'
"'Avaunt, rash youth!' cried the priest; 'know that Don Manuel de Manara is
dead!--is dead!--is dead!--and we are all souls from purgatory, his
deceased relatives and ancestors, and others that have been aided by masses
of his family, who are permitted to come here and pray for the repose of
his soul!'
"Don Manuel cast round a fearful glance upon the assemblage, in antiquated
Spanish garbs, and recognized in their pale and ghastly countenances the
portraits of many an ancestor that hung in the family picture-gallery. He
now lost all self-command, rushed up to the bier, and beheld the
counterpart of himself, but in the fixed and livid lineaments of death.
Just at that moment the whole choir burst forth with a 'Requiescat in
pace,' that shook the vaults of the cathedral. Don Manuel sank senseless on
the pavement. He was found there early the next morning by the sacristan,
and conveyed to his home. When sufficiently recovered, he sent for a friar
and made a full confession of all that had happened.
"'My son,' said the friar, 'all this is a miracle and a mystery, intended
for thy conversion and salvation. The corpse thou hast seen was a token
that thou hadst died to sin and the world; take warning by it, and
henceforth live to righteousness and heaven!'
"Don Manuel did take warning by it. Guided by the counsels of the worthy
friar, he disposed of all his temporal affairs; dedicated the greater part
of his wealth to pious uses, especially to the performance of masses for
souls in purgatory; and finally, entering a convent, became one of the most
zealous and exemplary monks in Seville."
* * * * *
While my companion was relating this story, my eyes wandered, from time to
time, about the dusky church. Methought the burly countenances of the monks
in their distant choir assumed a pallid, ghastly hue, and their deep
metallic voices had a sepulchral sound. By the time the story was ended,
they had ended their chant; and, extinguishing their lights, glided one by
one, like shadows, through a small door in the side of the choir. A deeper
gloom prevailed over the church; the figure opposite me on horseback grew
more and more spectral; and I almost expected to see it bow its head.
"It is time to be off," said my companion, "unless we intend to sup with
the statue."
"I have no relish for such fare or such company," replied I; and, following
my companion, we groped our way through the mouldering cloisters. As we
passed by the ruined cemetery, keeping up a casual conversation, by way of
dispelling the loneliness of the scene, I called to mind the words of the
poet:
"--The tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart!
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, speak--and let me hear thy voice;
My own affrights me with its echoes."
There wanted nothing but the marble statue of the commander striding along
the echoing cloisters to complete the haunted scene.
Since that time I never fail to attend the theater whenever the story of
Don Juan is represented, whether in pantomime or opera. In the sepulchral
scene, I feel myself quite at home; and when the statue makes his
appearance, I greet him as an old acquaintance. When the audience applaud,
I look round upon them with a degree of compassion. "Poor souls!" I say to
myself, "they think they are pleased; they think they enjoy this piece, and
yet they consider the whole as a fiction! How much more would they enjoy
it, if like me they knew it to be true--_and had seen the very
place_!"
* * * * *