“Holy Places” generally. It is difficult to say how it originated--or
what led to the special selection of the Adriatic gulf as the scene
of such a fable; yet, generally speaking, the explanation is easy and
instructive. Nazareth was taken by Sultan Khalil in 1291, when he
stormed the last refuge of the Crusaders in the neighbouring city of
Acre. From that time, not Nazareth only, but the whole of Palestine,
was closed to the devotions of Europe. The Crusaders were expelled
from Asia, and in Europe the spirit of the Crusades was extinct. But
the natural longing to see the scenes of the events of the Sacred
History--the superstitious craving to win for prayer the favour of
consecrated localities--did not expire with the Crusades. Can we
wonder that, under such circumstances, there should have arisen the
feeling, the desire, the belief, that if Mahomet could not go to the
mountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet? The House of Loretto is
the petrifaction, so to speak, of the “Last Sigh of the Crusades”;
suggested possibly by the Holy House of St. Francis at Assisi, then
first acquiring its European celebrity. It is indeed not a matter of
conjecture that in Italy--the country where the passionate temperament
of the people would most need such stimulants--persons in this state
of mind did actually endeavour, so far as circumstances permitted,
to reproduce the scenes of Palestine within their own immediate
neighbourhood. One such is the Campo Santo of Pisa--“the Holy Field,”
as this is “the Holy House”--literally a cargo of sacred earth from
the Valley of Hinnom, carried, as is well known, not on the wings of
angels, but in the ships of the Pisan Crusaders. Another example is
the remarkable Church of St. Stephen’s at Bologna, within whose walls
are crowded together various chapels and courts, representing not
only, as in the actual Church of the Sepulchre, the several scenes
of the Crucifixion, but the Trial and Passion also; and which is
entitled, in a long inscription affixed to its cloister, the “Sancta
Sanctorum”; nay, literally, “the _Jerusalem_” of Italy. A third
still more curious instance may be seen at Varallo, in the kingdom of
Piedmont. Bernardino Caimo, returning from a pilgrimage to Palestine
at the close of the Fifteenth Century, resolved to select the spot in
Lombardy most resembling the Holy Land, in order to give his countrymen
the advantage of praying at the Holy Place without undergoing the
privations which he had suffered himself. Accordingly, in one of
the beautiful valleys leading down from the roots of Monte Rosa, he
chose (it must be confessed that the resemblance is of the slightest
kind) three hills, which should represent respectively Tabor, Olivet,
and Calvary; and two mountain-streams, which should in like manner
personate the Kedron and Jordan. Of these the central hill, Calvary,
became the “Holy Place” of Lombardy. It was frequented by S. Carlo
Barromeo; under his auspices the whole mountain was studded with
chapels, in which the scenes of the Passion are represented in waxen
figures of the size of life; and the whole country round now sends its
peasants by thousands as pilgrims to the sacred spot. We have only to
suppose these feelings existing as they naturally would exist in a more
fervid state two centuries earlier, when the loss of Palestine was more
keenly felt--when the capture of Nazareth especially was fresh in every
one’s mind--and we can easily imagine that the same tendency, which by
deliberate purpose produced a second Jerusalem at Bologna and a second
Palestine at Varallo, would, on the secluded shores of the Adriatic,
by some peasant’s dream, or the return of some Croatian chief from the
last Crusade, or the story of some Eastern voyager landing on their
coasts, produce a second Nazareth at Fiume and Loretto. What, in a more
poetical and ignorant age was in the case of the Holy House ascribed to
the hands of angels, was actually intended by Sixtus V. to have been
literally accomplished in the case of the Holy Sepulchre by a treaty
with the Sublime Porte for transferring it bodily to Rome, so that
Italy might then have the glory of possessing the actual sites of the
conception, the birth, and the burial of our Saviour.
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE
EDMUNDO DE AMICIS
The Alcazar, an old palace of the Moorish kings, is one of the best
preserved buildings in Spain. From the outside, it looks like a
fortress, as it is completely surrounded by high walls, battlemented
towers and old houses, which structures form two spacious courts in
front of the façade. Like the other parts of this building, the façade
is plain and severe. The door is ornamented with arabesques that are
painted and gilded, and there is also a Gothic inscription recording
the time when the Alcazar was restored by the order of the king Don
Pedro.
In fact, although the Alcazar is an Arabian palace, it is the work of
Christian rather than Arabian monarchs. The date that it was begun is
not known, but it was rebuilt towards the end of the Twelfth Century by
King Abdelasio. King Ferdinand took possession of it about the middle
of the Thirteenth Century; it was altered again by Don Pedro in the
next century, since when it was inhabited by nearly all the kings of
Castile. Finally it was chosen by Charles V. for the celebration of his
marriage with the Infanta of Portugal.
The Alcazar has witnessed the loves and crimes of three races of
kings, and every one of its stones awakens some memory or holds some
secret. After entering, you cross two or three rooms, in which there
is nothing Arabian left except the ceiling and some mosaics upon the
walls, and find yourself in a court that strikes you dumb with wonder.
A gallery composed of elegant arches supported by small marble columns
arranged in pairs runs along the four sides. The arches, walls, windows
and doors are covered with mosaics, carvings and arabesques. The latter
are delicate and intricate, in some places perforated like a veil, in
others thick and close as woven carpets and elsewhere again hanging and
jutting out like garlands and bunches of flowers. With the exception
of the brilliantly coloured decorations everything is as white, clean
and glistening as ivory. Four large doors, one in each side, lead into
the royal rooms. Here you no longer wonder; you are enchanted. Every
thing that the most ardent fancy could imagine in the way of wealth and
splendour is to be found in these rooms. From the ceiling to the floor,
around the doors, around the windows in the distant recesses, wherever
the eye may please to wander, such a multitude of gold ornaments and
precious stones, such a close network of arabesques and inscriptions,
such a marvellous blending of designs and colours appear that, before
you have gone twenty steps, you are overpowered and confused, and you
glance here and there as if trying to find a piece of bare wall upon
which to rest your eye.
[Illustration: THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE, SPAIN.]
In one of the rooms, the custodian pointed out a reddish spot upon the
marble pavement, and said very solemnly:
This is the stain caused by the blood of Don Fadrique, Grand Master of
the Order of Santiago, who was killed here in the year 1358, by the
order of the King Don Pedro, his brother.
When I heard this, I remember looking at the custodian as if to say:
“Let us move on,” and the good man answered dryly:
“Caballero, if I were to tell you to believe this on my word you would
be perfectly right to doubt it; but when you see the thing with your
own eyes, it seems to me--I may be mistaken,--but----”
“Yes,” I hastily replied, “yes it is blood, I have no doubt of it; but
don’t let us talk about it any more.”
Even if you are able to joke about a spot of blood, you cannot do so
about the story of the crime. The place awoke in my mind all the most
horrible facts. I seemed to hear Don Fadrique’s step echoing through
these gilded rooms, as he was being pursued by the soldiers armed with
clubs. The palace is shrouded in darkness; no noises are heard but
those of the executioners and their victim. Don Fadrique tries to enter
the court. Lopez de Padilla seizes him and he breaks away. Now he is in
the court; he grasps his sword; he utters maledictions upon it for the
cross of the hilt is entangled in the mantle of the Order of Santiago.
Now the archers arrive; he cannot draw it from its sheath; he flies
hither and thither as best he may. Fernandez de Roa overtakes him and
fells him with a blow from his mace; the others approach and wound him
and he expires in a pool of blood.
This sad memory soon vanishes amidst the thousand fancies of the
delicious life of the Moorish kings. These lovely little windows at
which the dreamy face of an Odalisk ought to appear at any moment;
these secret doors before which you pause, despite yourself, as if
you heard the rustling of a dress; these sleeping-rooms of princes
enveloped in a mysterious gloom, where you fancy you hear the sighing
of girls who lost in them their virginal purity; and the prodigious
variety of colours and friezes resembling an ever-changing symphony
excite your senses to such a degree that you are like one in a dream.
The delicate and very light architecture, the little columns (which
suggest the arms of a woman), the capricious arches, and the ceilings
covered with ornaments that hang in the form of stalactites, icicles,
and bunches of grapes,--all rouse in you the desire to seat yourself in
the centre of one of these rooms, pressing to your heart a beautiful
dark Andalusian head which will make you forget the world and lose all
sense of time, and with one long kiss that drinks away your life, put
you to sleep forever.
The most beautiful room on the ground floor is that of the ambassadors,
formed by four great arches supporting a gallery of forty-four smaller
arches, and above, a lovely cupola which is sculptured, painted and
ornamented with an inimitable grace and a fabulous magnificence. On the
next floor which contained the winter apartments, nothing remains but
an oratory of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic, and a small room
which is said to be the one where the King Don Pedro slept. You descend
from here, by a narrow, mysterious staircase, into the rooms inhabited
by the famous Maria di Padilla, a favourite of Don Pedro, whom popular
tradition accuses of having instigated Don Pedro to the murder of his
brother.
The gardens of the Alcazar are not large, nor extraordinarily
beautiful; but the fancies that they engender are more precious than
size or beauty. Beneath the shade of those oranges and cypresses, near
the soft sound of those fountains when a great brilliant moon shone
in the clear Andalusian sky and the host of courtiers and slaves lay
down to rest, how many sighs of lovelorn sultanas were heard! how many
humble words of proud kings! what mighty loves and embraces!
“Itimad! my love!” I murmured, thinking of the famous favourite of King
Al-Motamid, as I roamed from path to path as if following her spirit:
“Itimad! Do not leave me alone in this quiet paradise! Stop! Give me
one hour of delight to-night. Don’t you remember? You came to me and
your lovely locks fell over my shoulders like a mantle; and as the
warrior seizes his sword, I seized your neck, softer and whiter than
a swan’s! How beautiful you were! How my parched heart satisfied its
thirst on thy blood-coloured lips. Your beautiful body issued from your
splendidly embroidered robe like a gleaming blade from its scabbard;
and then I pressed with both hands your large hips and slender waist
in all the perfection of their beauty. How dear you are, Itimad! Your
kiss is as sweet as wine, and your glance, like wine, makes me lose my
reason!”
While I was uttering this declaration of love in the phrases and
imagery of the Arabian poets, I entered a pathway bordered with flowers
and suddenly felt a jet of water on my legs; I jumped back and had a
dash of it in my face; I turned to the right, and felt a spray on my
neck; turning to the left, I got another on the nape of my neck; then
I began to run and there was water under me, over me, and all around
me, in jets, sprays, and showers, so that in a moment I was as wet
as if I had been plunged in a tub. Just at the moment I was about to
shout I heard a loud laugh at the end of the garden, and, turning, I
saw a young man leaning against the wall and looking at me, as if to
say: “Did you enjoy it?” Then he showed me the spring he had touched in
order to play the trick and comforted me by saying that the Seville sun
would not leave me long in that wet condition, into which I had passed
so brusquely, ah me! from the amorous arms of my sultana.
[Illustration: THE TOWER OF BELEM, PORTUGAL.]
THE TOWER OF BELEM
ARTHUR SHADWELL MARTIN
The place where Vasco da Gama spent the night before starting on his
voyage of discovery, and where he was received by Emmanuel I., on his
triumphant return in 1499, was called Bairro de Restello, and here
stood a small _Ermida_, or hermitage, which had been founded for
the use of navigators by the great pioneer of maritime discovery,
Prince Henry the Navigator.
Osorio, Bishop of Sylves, thus describes the embarcation of the
successful expedition which Belem specially commemorates: There was a
chapel by the seaside, about four miles from Lisbon, built by Emmanuel
in honour of the Virgin Mary; thither Gama resorted the day before he
went aboard, and spent the whole night in offering up prayers, and
performing other religious duties. Next day he was followed by vast
crowds of people to take leave of him and the rest who embarked in the
expedition. Not only those in holy orders, but all present, with one
voice put up their petitions to the Almighty that he would grant them
a prosperous voyage and a safe return. Many of those who came to see
them aboard were deeply concerned, and expressed their sorrow as if
they had come to the funeral of their friends. “Behold,” said they,
“the cursed effects of avarice and ambition! What greater punishment
could be devised for these men, if guilty of the blackest crimes? To be
thrown upon the merciless ocean, to encounter all the dangers of such
a voyage, and venture their lives in a thousand shapes. Would it not
be more eligible to suffer death at home than be buried in the deep
at such a distance from their native country? These, and many other
things did their fears suggest. But Gama, though he shed some tears
at departure from his friends, was full of hope, and went aboard with
great alacrity. He sailed on the 9th of July, 1497. Those who stood on
the shore followed the ships with their eyes; nor did they move from
thence till the fleet was under full sail, and quite out of sight.”
A few weeks after the return of Vasco da Gama, the foundation-stone
of the edifice was laid by the thankful monarch. Boutaca, who was
responsible for some of the work at Setubal, supplied the general
design, and its details were worked out by the famous Joao de Castilho,
who assumed the superintendence of the work in 1517. John III.
discontinued the work in 1551, and it is still incomplete. The first
stone was laid in 1500 by the Fortunate King with great ceremony, and
the construction progressed very rapidly. The limestone of which the
buildings were constructed was procured from the Alcantara valley in
the vicinity, and lends itself readily to exquisite carving. Originally
white when it came from the quarry, it has now mellowed into tints of
rich brown, and it is very durable.
The architectural style of the building is what is called the _Arte
Manoelina_, called after the king, Emmanuel I., the Fortunate,
(1495–1521) under whose reign it flourished. It is a transitional
style, or rather a luxuriant medley of Gothic, Renaissance and
Mauresque. Its wealth of detail often borders on the extravagant and
fantastic, but its interest cannot be denied. Belem has been said to be
the last struggle between Christian and Pagan art in Portugal, and it
shows the scars of both in its excessive ornamentation. Its barbaric
splendour of enriched stonework cannot fail to fascinate the art-lover,
though it is inferior even in these characteristics to the beautiful
_Capella Imperfeita_ at Batalha.
There is a strange story told of the building of the church of
Belem. The architect had made some miscalculation, so that when the
scaffolding of the nave was removed, the vaulted roof fell, killing
a number of the workmen. When the damage was repaired, the architect
was so nervous that he fled to France. The king consequently gave
orders for the removal of the scaffolding by criminals under sentence
of death, with a promise of pardon in case they escaped death. It is
related that the walls and roof stood the strain this time, and the
criminals received the timbers of the scaffolding as perquisites, used
them in building houses for themselves, and later became pillars of
society. When the architect heard that his plans were justified, he
returned and was rewarded for his work with a pension. He also was
honoured by having his bust carved on one of the pillars.
The entire building is erected on a foundation of pine piles, and
suffered scarcely any damage in the great earthquake of 1755.
The great church contains many features of interest, several chapels,
magnificent arches, pulpits and choir stalls, and numberless statues.
Of the lifelike figure of St. Jerome, Philip II. said: “I am waiting
for it to speak to me.” The stalls are delicately carved with intricate
Arabesque tracery. There are two organs, one of which shows traces of
former magnificence. The capella-mór (death chapel) of Renaissance
decoration is entered through a magnificent arch flanked by two richly
carved pulpits. On the North in recesses are the tombs of King Emmanuel
and his Queen Maria, and on the South are similar ones of Joao III. and
his Queen Catharina. These sarcophagi are borne by elephants. In the
chapel beyond are tombs of other royal personages, including that of
King Sebastian, who mysteriously disappeared at the battle of Al-Kasr
al-Kebîr (1578); the eight children of Joao III., and a natural son of
his, Don Duarte, Archbishop of Braga. Close by is the tomb of Catherine
of Braganza, the neglected wife of the Merry Monarch, Charles II. of
England; and others of the Cardinal King Henrique and other Infantes.
Behind the high altar is a chapel containing the tombs of Alfonso VI.,
his brother Theodosio and a sister. The king is attired in the costume
of the period in which he lived, and his body is said to be in perfect
preservation.
The chief glory of the convent, however, is its superb cloisters,
the masterpiece of Joao de Castilho. They are about 180 feet square,
surrounded by a two-storied arcade. Other features are the Casa Pia,
the Refectory, the Sacristy and the Capella dos Jeronymos. The Sala dos
Reis contains (some imaginary) portraits of the kings of Portugal down
to John VI. The Spanish usurpers are omitted.
At the Eastern extremity of the suburb of Belem, on the banks of the
Tagus, are the constructions of the Belem tower, a massive building
rather more than 100 feet square, flanked on the corners by Gothic
turrets. It shelters a telegraph station and battery that defends the
port.
This tower (Torre de Sao Vicente) is generally regarded as one of the
most interesting structures in Lisbon. It stands really on a rocky
islet in the Tagus, but the silting up of the channel between it and
the shore renders its position less imposing than it used to be.
Moreover its picturesque effect has been further marred by the erection
of factories in the immediate vicinity.
In the castle of Belem is kept a registry-office for all vessels that
enter or leave the Tagus; as well as an establishment of custom-house
officers, health officers and naval police for the protection of
property.
The Torre de Belem is of three stories, and its commanding situation
affords a splendid view of the beautiful Tagus. Belem now forms
a suburb of Lisbon, and the vineyards that formerly adorned the
intervening banks of the river have been largely utilized for building
purposes, but the tower still forms a striking object in the landscape
and dominates the vicinity. The rhapsodies of travellers who visited
Lisbon half a century ago are still justified. One of them writes:
“From this point, the view up the river, to the East, is grand beyond
all conception; and, to do the magnificent opening of the scenery
justice, the most elaborate description would be perfectly inadequate.
The breadth of the mighty river crowded with the vessels of every
nation; men-of-war at anchor, and in various stages of equipment; the
heights to the South crowned with batteries, villages and vineyards,
descending down their sides to the very skirts of the water; the
numerous fishing and pleasure-boats gliding swiftly across the river in
various directions; the long uninterrupted line of palaces, convents
and houses, running along the shore from Belem to Lisbon, under the
elevated ridge upon which the splendid residence of the Portuguese
sovereigns, the Ajuda, is erected, and then the beauteous city itself,
with its domes and towers and gorgeous buildings, extended over its
many hills; and, above all, the deep blue of the heaven’s dazzling
canopy above,--form a combination of objects, the striking interest of
which can scarcely be represented to a northern imagination.”
The tower is said to be modelled on an old design by Garcia da Resende.
The lower part adjoins a sort of platform projecting over the river,
and is enclosed by a parapet with battlements and the shields of the
Knights of Christ. Six ornate turrets copied from Indian originals
adorn the corners. The decoration of the square tower itself on the
front facing the river consists of a balcony with traceried parapet and
round-headed windows. The other sides have bow-windows. Higher up, the
tower is girt with a passage for the use of its defenders. Four Indian
turrets ornament the flat roof. The interior contains several square
rooms which have suffered many restorations. One of them, the Sala
Regia is celebrated for its peculiar acoustic properties. The basement
is divided into dungeons that have seldom been vacant in the past. The
prisoners immured there received light and air only through gratings in
the floor of the casemates. They were constantly filled with political
offenders under Miguel.
VENETIAN PALACES
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
The Grand Canal is to Venice what the Strand is to London, the Rue
Saint-Honoré to Paris, and the Alcala to Madrid,--the principal artery
for the circulation of the whole city. Its form is that of a double S,
reversed, the sweep of which bounds the city around St. Mark’s while
the upper point borders upon the isle of Santa-Chiara, and the lower
point at the Custom-House, near the canal of the Giudecca. This S is
cut about the middle by the bridge of the Rialto.
[Illustration: THE FOSCARI PALACE, ITALY.]
The Grand Canal of Venice is the most marvellous thing in the world.
No other city can present so beautiful, so bizarre and so fairy-like
a spectacle: perhaps you may find elsewhere remarkable specimens
of architecture, but never placed in such picturesque conditions.
Here, every palace has a mirror in which to admire her own beauty,
just like a feminine coquette. The superb reality is repeated in a
charming reflection. The water lovingly caresses the feet of those
beautiful façades whose brows are kissed by a clear light and are
rocked in two skies. The little boats and the large barks which can
come up close to them seem moored on purpose to produce effective
dark spots, or foregrounds for the convenience of scene-painters and
water-colourists.
In drifting along by the Custom-House, which, with the Palace
Giustiniani (to-day the _Hôtel de l’Europe_) marks the entrance of
the Grand Canal, throw a glance at those skeleton-like heads of horses
sculptured in the square and dumpy cornice which supports the globe of
Fortune. Does this peculiar ornament mean that the horse was useless in
Venice (you get rid of him at the Custom-House) or rather is it not a
pure caprice of ornamentation? This explanation seems to me the best,
for I do not wish to fall into the symbolical exaggeration with which
I have been reproaching others. I have already described the Salute,
which I can see from my window and which does not require any attention
after having seen Canaletto’s picture, which is, perhaps, the painter’s
masterpiece. But here I experience embarrassment. The Grand Canal is
the true Golden Book in which all the Venetian nobility has signed its
name upon the monumental façades.
Each stone of the walls has a story to tell; each house is a palace;
each palace, a masterpiece with a legend: at each stroke of the oar,
the gondolier mentions a name which was as well-known at the time of
the Crusades as it is to-day; and this on the right and left for a
length of more than half a league.
I have written a list of these palaces, not quite all but the most
remarkable of them, and I dare not insert it on account of its length.
It takes up five or six pages: Pietro Lombardo, Scamozzi, Vittoria,
Longhena, Andrea Tremignan, Giorgio Massari, Sansovino, Sebastiano
Mazzoni, Sammichelli, the great architect of Verona, Selva, Domenico
Rossi, and Visentini designed and superintended the construction
of these princely dwellings,--without counting the marvellous
unknown artists of the Middle Ages who erected the most picturesque
and romantic ones, those that gave to Venice her distinction and
originality.
Upon these two banks, façades, all charming and variously beautiful,
succeed each other without interruption. After a specimen of
Renaissance architecture, with its columns and superimposed orders
comes a mediæval palace of the Gothic-Arabian style, of which the
Ducal palace is the prototype, with its open-work, balconies, its
ogives, its trefoils and its lace-like acrotera. A little farther is
a façade encased in coloured marbles, ornamented with medalions and
consoles; then comes a great rose-coloured wall, where a large window
with little columns is cut out. Every style is found here: Byzantine,
Saracen, Lombard, Gothic, Roman, Greek, and even Rococo; the column
and the small column, the ogive and the cincture and the capricious
capital filled with birds and flowers that has come from Acre or
Jaffa; the Greek capital found amidst Athenian ruins, the mosaic and
the bas-relief; the classic severity and the elegant fantasy of the
Renaissance. It is an immense gallery in the open air, where one can
study from his gondola the art of seven or eight centuries. What
genius, talent and money have been expended in this space that can be
traversed in less than an hour! What wonderful artists! But also what
intelligent and magnificent lords! What a pity that the patricians who
knew how to have such beautiful things made should exist no longer
save in the canvasses of Titian, Tintoretto and Il Moro!