The journey from Cordova to Seville does not awaken a sense of
astonishment, as does that from Toledo to Cordova, but it is even
more beautiful: there are continuous orange-orchards, boundless
olive-groves, hills clothed with vineyards, and meadows carpeted with
flowers. A few miles from Cordova one sees the ruined towers of the
frowning castle of Almodovar standing on a very high rock-platform,
which overlooks a vast extent of the surrounding country; at
Hornachuelos another old castle on the summit of a hill, in the midst
of a lonely, melancholy landscape; and then, beyond, the white city of
Palma, hidden in a dense orange-grove, which is surrounded in its turn
by a circle of truck-farms and flower-gardens. As the train runs on
one is carried through the midst of golden fields of grain, bordered
by long hedges of Indian fig trees and rows of dwarf palms, and dotted
with groves of pine and frequent orchards of fruit-bearing trees; and
at short intervals there are hills and castles, roaring streams, the
slender village belfries hidden among the trees, and the purple peaks
of distant mountains.
Most beautiful of all are the little country-houses scattered along the
road. I do not remember to have seen a single one of them that was not
as white as snow. The house was white, the neighboring well-curb was
white, the little wall around the kitchen-garden was white, as were
also the two posts of the garden-gate: everything seemed as if it had
been whitewashed the day before. Some of these houses have one or two
mullioned windows of Moorish design; others have arabesques over the
door; and still others roofs covered with variegated tiles like Arabian
houses. Here and there through the fields one sees the red-and-white
capes of the peasants, velvet hats against the green grass, and sashes
of all colors. The peasants whom one sees in the furrows and those who
run to see the train pass are dressed in the costumes of forty years
ago as they are represented in paintings: they wear velvet hats with
very broad brims which roll slightly back, with little crowns like
a sugar-loaf; short jackets, open waistcoats, breeches gathered in
at the knee like those of the priests, gaiters which almost meet the
breeches, and sashes around the waist. This style of dress, picturesque
but inconvenient, is exceedingly becoming to the slender figures of
these men, who prefer discomfort, if it be attended by beauty, to
comfort without it, and who spend half an hour every morning adorning
themselves, besides the time required to get into a pair of tight
breeches which will display a shapely thigh and a well-turned leg.
They have nothing in common with our Northern peasant of the hard face
and dull eye. Their great black eyes meet your own with a smile, as
if they would say, "Don't you remember me?" They cast daring glances
at the ladies who put their heads out of the windows, run to fetch a
match before you have so much as asked for it, sometimes answer your
questions in rhyme, and are even capable of laughing to show their
white teeth.
At Rinconado the campanile of the cathedral of Seville comes into view
in a line with the railroad, and to the right, beyond the Guadalquivir,
one sees the beautiful low hills, covered with olive-groves, at the
foot of which lie the ruins of Italica. The train rolled on, and I said
to myself, under my breath, speaking faster and faster as the houses
became thicker, with that suspense, full of longing and delight, which
one feels on approaching the doorway of one's love, "Seville! this is
Seville! The queen of Andalusia is at hand, the Athens of Spain, the
mother of Murillo, the city of poets and lovers, the storied Seville,
whose name I have pronounced from a child with a sentiment of loving
sympathy! What should I have given a few years since to have seen
it? No, it is not a dream! Those are really the houses of Seville;
those peasants yonder are Sevillians; that campanile which I see is
the Giralda! I am at Seville! How strange! It makes me laugh! What is
my mother doing at this moment? Would that she were here! Would that
this friend and that were here! It is a sin to be alone! See the white
houses, the gardens, the streets.... We are in the city.... It is time
to get out.... Ah! how beautiful is life!"
I went to a hotel, threw down my valise in the _patio_, and began
to stroll about the city. It seemed like seeing Cordova over again,
on a large scale, embellished and enriched; the streets are wider,
the houses higher, the _patios_ more spacious, but the general
appearance of the city is the same: there is the same spotless white,
the same intricate network of streets, everywhere the fragrance of
orange-blossoms, that subtile air of mystery, that Oriental atmosphere,
filling one's heart with a delicious sense of amorous melancholy, and
calling to mind a thousand fancies, desires, and visions of a distant
world, a new life, an unknown people, and an earthly paradise of
love, pleasure, and content. In those streets one reads the history
of the city: every balcony, every fragment of sculpture, every lonely
crossway, recalls some nocturnal adventure of a king, the inspiration
of a poet, the romance of a beauty, an amour, a duel, an abduction, a
story, or a festival. Here a memento of Maria de Padilla, there one of
Don Pedro; yonder of Cervantes, Columbus, Saint Theresa, Velasquez, or
Murillo. A column tells of the Roman dominion; a tower, the splendor of
Charles V.'s monarchy; and an alcazar, the magnificence of the Arabian
court. Beside the modest white cottages rise sumptuous marble palaces;
the little tortuous streets open into vast squares full of orange
trees; from silent, deserted corners one enters with a short turn a
street filled with a noisy crowd: and wherever one passes one sees
on the opposite side the graceful lattices of the _patios_, flowers,
statues, fountains, flights of stairs, walls covered with arabesques,
small Moorish windows, and slender columns of costly marble; and
at every window and in every garden little women clothed in white,
half hidden, like timid nymphs, among the leaves of grapevines and
rosebushes.
Passing from street to street, I came at length to the bank of the
Guadalquivir, close to the avenues of the Christina promenade, which
is to Seville what the Lung d'arno is to Florence. Here one enjoys a
charming spectacle.
I first approached the famous Torre del Oro. This famous tower was
called the Golden, either because it received the gold which the
Spanish ships brought from America or because King Don Pedro hid his
treasures there. It is an octagonal structure of three stories, growing
smaller as they ascend, crowned with battlements and washed by the
river. The story runs that this tower was built in Roman times, and
that for a long period the king's most beautiful favorite dwelt there
after it had been joined to the Alcazar by an edifice which was torn
away to make room for the Christina promenade.
This promenade extends from the ducal palace of Montpensier to the
Torre del Oro. It is entirely shaded with Oriental plane trees, oaks,
cypresses, willows, poplars, and other trees of northern latitudes,
which the Andalusians admire, as we admire the palms and aloes of the
plains of Piedmont and Lombardy. A great bridge spans the river and
leads to the suburb of Triana, from which one sees the first houses on
the opposite bank. A long line of ships, coasting vessels, and barges
extends along the river, and from the Torre del Oro to the ducal palace
there is a coming and going of rowboats. The sun was setting. A crowd
of ladies filled the avenues, groups of workmen were crossing the
bridge, the workmen on the ships labored more busily, a band of music
was playing among the trees, the river was rose-colored, the air was
fragrant with the perfume of flowers, the sky seemed all on fire.
I returned to the city and enjoyed the marvellous spectacle of Seville
by night. All the _patios_ were illuminated--those of the humble
houses with a half light, which gave them an air of mysterious beauty,
those of the palaces, full of little flames which were reflected in
the mirrors and flashed like jets of quicksilver in the spray of the
fountains, and shone with a thousand colors on the marbles of the
vestibules, the mosaics of the walls, the glass of the doors, and
the crystal of the candlesticks. Inside one saw a crowd of ladies,
everywhere one heard the sound of laughter, low voices, and music;
one seemed to be passing through so many ball-rooms; from every door
flowed a stream of light, fragrance, and harmony; the streets were
crowded; among the trees of the squares, in the avenues, at the end
of the narrow streets, and on the balconies,--everywhere were seen
white skirts fluttering, vanishing, and reappearing in the darkness,
and little heads ornamented with flowers peeped coquettishly from
the windows; groups of young men broke through the crowd with merry
shouts; people called to each other and talked from window to street,
and everywhere were rapid motion, shouting, laughter, and festal
gaiety. Seville was simply an immense garden in which revelled a people
intoxicated with youth and love.
Such moments are very sad ones for a stranger. I remember that I could
have struck my head against the wall. I wandered here and there almost
abashed, with hanging head and sad heart, as if all that crowd was
amusing itself for the sole purpose of insulting my loneliness and
melancholy. It was too late to present my letters of introduction, too
early to go to bed: I was the slave of that crowd and that gaiety, and
was obliged to endure it for many hours. I found a solace in resolving
not to look at the faces of the women, but I could not always keep my
resolve, and when my eyes inadvertently met two black pupils the wound,
because so unexpected, was more grievous than if I had encountered
the danger more boldly. Yes, I was in the midst of those wonderfully
famous women of Seville! I saw them pass on the arms of their husbands
and lovers; I touched their dresses, breathed their perfume, heard the
sound of their soft speech, and the blood leaped to my head like a
flame of fire. Fortunately, I remembered to have heard from a Sevillian
at Madrid that the Italian consul was in the habit of spending the
evening at the shop of his son, a merchant; I sought out the shop,
entered, and found the consul, and as I handed him a letter from a
friend I said, with a dramatic air which made him laugh, "Dear sir,
protect me; Seville has terrified me."
At midnight the appearance of the city was unchanged: the crowd and
light had not disappeared; I returned to the hotel and locked my door
with the intention of going to bed. Worse and worse! The windows
of my room opened on a square where crowds of people were swarming
around an orchestra that played without interruption, when the music
finally ended the guitars commenced, together with the cries of the
water-carriers and snatches of song and laughter; the whole night
through there was noise enough to wake the dead. I had a dream at
once delightful and tantalizing, but rather more tantalizing than
delightful. I seemed to be tied to the bed by a very long tress of dark
hair twisted into a thousand knots, and felt on my lips a mouth of
burning coals which sucked my breath, and around my neck two vigorous
little hands which were crushing my head against the handle of a guitar.
The following morning I went at once to see the cathedral.
To adequately describe this measureless edifice one should have at
hand a collection of the most superlative adjectives and all the most
extravagant similes which have come from the pens of the grand writers
of every country whenever they have described something of prodigious
height, enormous size, appalling depth, and incredible grandeur. When
I talk to my friends about it, I too, like the Mirabeau of Victor
Hugo, involuntarily make _un colossal mouvement d'epaules_, puff out
my throat, and gradually raise my voice, like Tommaso Salvini in the
tragedy of _Samson_ when, in tones which make the parquet tremble, he
says that he feels his strength returning to his limbs. To talk of the
cathedral of Seville tires one like playing a great wind instrument or
carrying on a conversation across a roaring torrent.
The cathedral of Seville stands alone in the centre of a vast square,
and consequently one can measure its vastness at a single glance. At
the first moment I thought of the famous motto which the chapter of the
primitive church adopted on the eighth of July, 1401, when they decreed
the erection of the new cathedral: "Let us build a monument which will
make posterity declare that we were mad." Those reverend canons did not
fail in their intention. But one must enter to be sure of this.
The exterior of the cathedral is grand and magnificent, but not to
be compared with the interior. The façade is lacking: a high wall
surrounds the entire building like a fortress. However much one walks
around and looks at it, one cannot succeed in fixing in one's mind a
single outline which, like the preface of a book, will give a clear
conception of the design of the work; one admires and occasionally
breaks out in the exclamation, "It is stupendous!" but it does not
please, and one hurries into the church, hoping to feel a sentiment of
deeper admiration.
On first entering one is amazed, and feels as if one were lost in an
abyss, and for some moments the eye can only describe immense curves
through that vast space, as if to assure you that the sight is real
and that fancy is not deceiving you. Then you approach one of the
pilasters, measure it, and look at the others in the distance: they are
as massive as towers, and yet they look so slender that one trembles
to think the edifice is resting on them. You run from one to another
with a rapid glance, follow their lines from pavement to vaulted
arch, and seem to be able to count the moments which it would take
for the eye to climb them. There are five naves, each of which would
form a great church, and in the central nave one could build another
high cathedral with its cupola and belfry. Altogether they form sixty
light, noble vaults which seem to be slowly expanding and rising as
one looks at them. Everything in this cathedral is enormous. The great
chapel in the middle of the principal nave, so high that it almost
touches the roof, seems like a chapel built for giant priests, to whose
knees the common altars would scarcely reach; the Easter candle seems
like the mast of a ship, the bronze candlestick which supports it,
like the pilaster of a church; the organs are like houses; the choir
is a museum of sculpture and carving which alone deserves a day's
study. The chapels are worthy of the church: in them are scattered
the masterpieces of sixty-seven sculptors and thirty-eight painters.
Montegna, Zurbaran, Murillo, Valdes, Herrera, Boldan, Roelas, and
Campana have left a thousand immortal traces of their handiwork. The
chapel of Saint Ferdinand, which contains the tombs of this king,
his wife Beatrice, Alfonso the Wise, the celebrated minister Florida
Blanca, and other illustrious personages, is one of the richest and
most beautiful. The body of King Ferdinand, who rescued Seville from
the dominion of the Arabs, clothed in his coat-of-mail with crown and
royal robe, rests in a crystal casket covered with a pall; on one side
lies the sword which he wore on the day of his entrance into Seville;
on the other, the staff, an emblem of authority. In this same chapel
is preserved a little ivory Virgin which the sainted king carried with
him to war, and other relics of great value. In the other chapels there
are great marble altars, Gothic tombs, statues of stone, wood, and
silver enclosed in large glass cases, with the breast and hands covered
with diamonds and rubies; there are also magnificent paintings, but,
unfortunately, the dim light which falls from the high windows does not
make them clear enough to be enjoyed in all their beauty.
From the examination of the chapels, paintings, and sculptures one
returns unwearied to admire the cathedral in its grand and, if one
may say, its formidable aspect. After climbing to those dizzy heights
one's glance and thoughts, as if exhausted by the effort, fall back
to the earth to gather new strength for another ascent. And the
images which multiply in one's head correspond to the vastness of the
basilica--measureless angels, heads of enormous cherubim, great wings
like the sails of a ship, and the fluttering of immense white robes.
The impression produced by this cathedral is wholly religious, but
it is not depressing: it is that sentiment which bears the thought
into interminable spaces and the awful silences where the thoughts of
Leopardi lost themselves; it is a sentiment full of yearning and holy
boldness, that delightful shudder which one feels on the brink of a
precipice, the turbulence and confusion of great thoughts, the divine
fear of the infinite.
As the cathedral is the most various of Spain (since the Gothic,
Germanic, Græco-Roman, Moorish, and, as it is vulgarly called, the
plateresque styles of architecture, have each left their individual
impress upon it), it is also the richest and has the greatest
privileges. In the times of greater clerical power they burned in
it every year twenty thousand pounds of wax; in it every day were
celebrated five hundred masses on eighty altars; the wine consumed
in the sacrifice amounted to the incredible quantity of eighteen
thousand seven hundred and fifty litres. The canons had trains of male
attendants like monarchs, came to church in splendid carriages drawn
by superb horses, and while they were celebrating mass had priests to
fan them with enormous fans adorned with feathers and pearls--a direct
concession from the Pope of which some avail themselves even in this
day. One need not speak of the festivals of Holy Week, which are still
famous the world over, and to which people gather from all parts of
Europe.
But the most curious privilege of the cathedral of Seville is the
so-called dance _de los seises_, which takes place every evening at
dusk for eight consecutive days after the festival of _Corpus Domini_.
I was in Seville during those days, and went to see it, and it seems
to me worth describing. From what had been told me I expected to see
a scandalous piece of buffoonery, and entered the church with my
mind prepared for a feeling of indignation at the desecration of the
sanctuary. The church was dark; only the great chapel was lighted; a
crowd of kneeling women filled the space between the chapel and the
choir. Some priests were sitting to the right and left of the altar; in
front of the altar-steps was spread a great carpet; two lines of boys
from eight to thirteen years of age, dressed like Spanish cavaliers
of the Middle Ages, with plumed hats and white stockings, were drawn
up, one before the other, facing the altar. At a signal from a priest
a soft strain from violins broke the profound silence of the church,
and the two rows of boys advanced with the step of a contra-dance, and
began to divide, intermingle, separate, and come together again with a
thousand graceful movements, and then all together they broke into a
harmonious musical chant, which echoed through the gloom of the vast
cathedral like the singing of an angelic choir; and a moment later
they began to accompany the dance and the chant with tamborines. No
religious ceremony has ever moved me like this. It is impossible to
express the effect produced by those young voices under those immense
domes, those little creatures at the foot of the towering altars, that
dance, solemn and almost humble, the ancient costume, the kneeling
crowd, and the surrounding gloom. I left the church with my soul calmed
as if I had been praying.
A very curious anecdote is related in connection with this ceremony.
Two centuries ago an archbishop of Seville, who regarded the dance
and tamborines as unworthy instruments of praising God, wished to
prohibit the ceremony. Everything was thrown into confusion: the
people protested; the canons made themselves heard; the archbishop was
obliged to appeal to the Pope. The Pope, whose curiosity was aroused,
wished to see this silly dance with his own eyes, that he might decide
intelligently in the matter. The boys in their cavalier dress were
taken to Rome, received at the Vatican, and made to dance and sing
before His Holiness. His Holiness laughed, did not disapprove, and,
wishing to give one knock on the hoop and another on the barrel, and so
to satisfy the canons without offending the archbishop, decreed that
the boys should continue to dance so long as the clothes which they
then wore lasted; after that time the ceremony was to be abolished.
The archbishop laughed in his beard, if he had one; the canons laughed
too, as if they had already found the way to outwit both the Pope and
the archbishop. And, in fact, they renew some part of the boys' dress
every year, so that the whole garment can never be said to have worn
out, and the archbishop, as a scrupulous man, who observed the commands
of the Pope to the letter, could not oppose the repetition of the
ceremony. So they continued to dance, and they dance and will dance so
long as it pleases the canons and the Lord.
As I was leaving the church a sacristan made me a sign, led me behind
the choir, and pointed out a tablet in the pavement, upon which I read
an inscription which stirred my heart. Under that stone lay the bones
of Ferdinand Columbus, the son of Christopher, who was born at Cordova,
and died at Seville on the twelfth of July, 1536, in the fiftieth
year of his age. Under the inscription run some Latin verses with the
following significance:
"Of what avail is it that I have bathed the entire universe with my
sweat, that I have three times passed through the New World discovered
by my father, that I have adorned the banks of the gentle Beti, and
preferred my simple taste to riches, that I might again draw around
thee the divinities of the Castalian spring, and offer thee the
treasures already gathered by Ptolemy,--if thou, passing this stone in
silence, returnest no salute to my father and givest no thought to me?"
The sacristan, who knew more about the inscription than I did,
explained it to me. Ferdinand Columbus was in his early youth a page of
Isabella the Catholic and of the prince Don Juan; he travelled to the
Indies with his father and his brother the admiral Don Diego, followed
the emperor Charles V. in his wars, made other voyages to Asia, Africa,
and America, and everywhere collected with infinite care and at great
expense the most precious books, from which he composed a library which
passed after his death into the hands of the chapter of the cathedral,
and remains intact under the famous name of the Columbian Library.
Before his death he wrote these same Latin verses which are inscribed
on the tablet of his tomb, and expressed a desire to be buried in the
cathedral. In the last moments of his life he had a vessel full of
ashes brought to him and sprinkled his face with them, pronouncing
as he did so the words of Holy Writ, _Memento homo quia pulvis es_,
chanted the _Te Deum_, smiled, and expired with the serenity of a
saint. I was at once seized with a desire to visit the library and left
the church.
A guide stopped me on the threshold to ask me if I had seen the _Patio
de los Naranjos_--the Court of Oranges--and, as I had not done so, he
conducted me thither. The Court of Oranges lies to the north of the
cathedral, surrounded by a great embattled wall. In the centre rises a
fountain encircled by an orange-grove, and on one side along the wall
is a marble pulpit, from which, according to the tradition, Vincenzo
Ferrer is said to have preached. In the area of this court, which is
very large, rose the ancient mosque, which is thought to have been
built toward the end of the twelfth century. There is not the least
trace of it now. In the shade of the orange trees around the margins of
the basin the good Sevillians come to take the air in the burning noons
of summer, and only the delightful verdure and the perfumed air remain
as memorials of the voluptuous paradise of Mohammed, while now and then
a beautiful girl with great dark eyes darts between the distant trees.
The famous Giralda of the cathedral of Seville is an ancient Moorish
tower, built, it is affirmed, in the year one thousand after the design
of the architect Geber, the inventor of algebra. The upper part has
been changed since Spain was reconquered, and has been rebuilt like a
Christian bell-tower, but it will always retain its Moorish appearance,
and, after all, is prouder of the banished standards of the vanquished
than of the cross recently planted upon it by the victors. It is a
monument which produces a strange sensation: it makes one smile; it is
measureless and imposing as an Egyptian pyramid, and at the same time
light and graceful as a summer-house. It is a square brick tower of a
mellow rose-color, unadorned to a certain height, and from that point
up ornamented with mullioned Moorish windows, which appear here and
there like the windows of a house provided with balconies, and give
it a very beautiful appearance. From the platform, which was formerly
covered by a variegated roof surmounted by an iron pole which supported
four enormous golden balls, now rises the Christian bell-tower in three
stories, the first of which is taken up by the bells, the second is
encircled by a balcony, and the third consists of a sort of cupola
upon which, like a weather-vane, turns a colossal gilded statue which
represents Faith, with a palm in one hand and a banner in the other.
This statue is visible a long distance from Seville, and flashes when
the sun strikes it like an enormous ruby in the crown of a gigantic
king, who sweeps with his glance the entire valley of Andalusia.
I climbed all the way to the top, and was there amply rewarded for
the fatigue of the ascent. Seville, all white like a city of marble,
encircled by a diadem of gardens, groves, and avenues, surrounded by a
landscape dotted with villas, lay open to the view in all the wealth of
its Oriental beauty. The Guadalquivir, freighted with ships, divides
and embraces it in a majestic curve. Here the Torre del Oro casts its
graceful shadow on the azure waters of the river; there the Alcazar
rears its frowning towers; yonder the gardens of Montpensier raise
above the roofs of the building an enormous mass of verdure: one's
glance penetrates the bull-ring, the public gardens, the _patios_ of
the homes, the cloisters of the churches, and all the streets which
converge toward the cathedral; in the distance appear the villages
of Santi Ponce, Algaba, and others which whiten the slopes of the
hills; to the right of the Guadalquivir the great suburb of Triana;
on one side along the horizon the broken peaks of the Sierra Morena;
and in the opposite direction other mountains enlivened by infinite
azure tints; and over all this marvellous panorama the clearest, most
transparent, and entrancing sky which has ever smiled upon the face of
man.
I descended from the Giralda and went to see the Columbian Library,
located in an old building beside the Court of Oranges. After I had
seen a collection of missals, Bibles, and ancient manuscripts, one of
which is attributed to Alfonso the Wise, entitled "The Book of the
Treasure," written with the most scrupulous care in the ancient Spanish
language, I saw--let me repeat it, I saw--I, with my own moist eyes,
as I pressed my hand on my beating heart--I saw a book, a treatise
on cosmography and astronomy in Latin, with the margins covered with
notes written in the hand of Christopher Columbus! He had studied that
book while he revolved his great design in his mind, had pored over
its pages in the night-watches, had touched it perhaps with his divine
forehead in those exhausting vigils when sometimes he bent over the
parchments with utter weariness and bathed them with his sweat. It is
a tremendous thought! But there is something better. I saw a writing
in the hand of Columbus in which are collected all the prophecies of
the ancient writers, sacred and profane, in regard to the discovery of
the New World, written, it is said, to induce the sovereigns of Spain
to provide the means to carry out his enterprise. There is, among
others, a passage from the _Medea_ of Seneca, which runs: _Venient
annis saecula seris, quibus oceanus vincula rerum laxet et ingens
pateat tellus_. And in the volume of Seneca, which may also be found
in the Columbian Library, alongside of this passage there is a note
by Ferdinand Columbus, which says: "This prophecy was fulfilled by my
father, the admiral Christopher Columbus, in the year 1492." My eyes
filled with tears; I wished I were alone, that I might have kissed
those books, have tired myself out turning and re-turning their leaves
between my hands, have detached a tiny fragment, and carried it with me
as a sacred thing. Christopher Columbus! I have seen his characters! I
have touched the leaves which he has touched! I have felt him very near
me! On leaving the library, I know not why--I could have leaped into
the midst of the flames to rescue a child, I could have stripped myself
to clothe a beggar, I could joyfully have made any sacrifice--I was so
rich!
After the library the Alcazar, but before reaching it, although it is
in the same square as the cathedral, I felt for the first time what the
Andalusian sun is like. Seville is the hottest city of Spain, it was
the hottest hour of the day, and I found myself in the hottest part
of the city; there was a flood of light; not a door, not a window,
was open, not a soul astir; if I had been told that Seville was
uninhabited, I should have believed it. I crossed the square slowly
with half-shut eyes and wrinkled face, with the sweat coursing in great
drops down my cheeks and breast, while my hands seemed to have been
dipped in a bucket of water. On nearing the Alcazar I saw a sort of
booth belonging to a water-carrier, and dashed under it headlong, like
a man fleeing from a shower of stones. I took a little breathing-spell,
and went on toward the Alcazar.
The Alcazar, the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, is one of the
best-preserved monuments in Spain. From the outside it looks like a
fortress: it is entirely surrounded by high walls, embattled towers,
and old houses, which form two spacious courtyards in front of the
façade. The façade is bare and severe, like the rest of the exterior;
the gate is adorned with gilded and painted arabesques, between which
one sees a Gothic inscription which refers to the time when the Alcazar
was restored by order of King Don Pedro. The Alcazar, in fact, although
a Moorish palace, is the work of Christian rather than of Moorish
kings. It is not known exactly in what year it was built: it was
reconstructed by King Abdelasio toward the end of the twelfth century,
conquered by King Ferdinand toward the middle of the thirteenth
century; altered a second time, in the following century, by King Don
Pedro; and then occupied for longer or shorter periods by nearly all
the kings of Castile; and finally selected by Charles V. as the place
for the celebration of his marriage with the infanta of Portugal. The
Alcazar has witnessed the loves and crimes of three generations of
kings; every stone awakens a memory and guards a secret.
You enter, cross two or three rooms in which there remains little
of the Moorish excepting the vaulted ceiling and the mosaics around
the walls, and come out into a court where you stand speechless with
wonder. A portico of very delicate arches extends along the four sides,
supported by slender marble columns, joined two by two, and arches
and walls and windows and doors are covered with carvings, mosaics,
and arabesques most intricate and exquisite, here perforated like
lace, there closely woven and elaborate like embroidered tapestry,
yonder clinging and projecting like masses and garlands of flowers;
and, except the mosaics, which are of a thousand colors, everything
is white, clean, and smooth as ivory. On the four sides are four
great doors, through which you enter the royal apartments. Here
wonder becomes enchantment: whatever is richest, most various, and
most splendid, whatever the most ardent fancy sees in its most ardent
dreams, is to be found in these rooms. From pavement to the vaulted
ceiling, around the doors, along the window-frames, in the most hidden
corners, wherever one's glance falls, one sees such a luxuriance
of ornaments in gold and precious stones, such a close network of
arabesques and inscriptions, such a marvellous profusion of designs and
colors, that one has scarcely taken twenty steps before one is amazed
and confused, and the wearied eye wanders here and there searching for
a hand's breadth of bare wall where it may flee and rest. In one of
these rooms the guide pointed out a red spot which covered a good part
of the marble pavement, and said in a solemn voice, "These are the
blood-stains of Don Fadrique, grand master of the order of Santiago,
who was killed on this very spot, in the year 1358, by order of his
brother, King Don Pedro."
I remember that when I heard these words I looked in the face of the
custodian, as if to say, "Come, let us be going," and that good man
answered in a dry tone,
"_Caballero_, if I had told you to believe this thing on my word, you
would have had every reason to doubt; but when you can see the thing
with your very eyes, I may be wrong, but--it seems to me...."
"Yes," I hastened to say--"yes, it is blood: I believe it, I see it;
let's say no more about it."
But if one can be playful over the blood-spots, one cannot be so over
the story of the crime; the sight of the place revives in the mind all
the most horrible details. Through the great gilded halls one seems
to hear the echo of Don Fadrique's footsteps, followed by those of
the bowmen armed with bludgeons; the palace is immersed in gloom; one
hears no other sound save that of the executioners and their victim;
Don Fadrique tries to enter the courtyard; Lopez de Padilla catches
him; Fadrique throws him off and is in the court; he grasps his sword;
curses on it! the cross of the hilt is held fast in the mantle of
the order of Santiago; the bowmen gain upon him; he has not time to
unsheath the sword; he flees here and there, groping his way; Fernandez
de Roa overtakes him and fells him with a blow of his club; the others
run up and set upon him, and Fadrique dies in a pool of blood....
But this sad recollection is lost among the thousand images of the
sensuous Moorish kings. Those graceful little windows, where it seems
as if you ought to see every other moment the languid face of an
odalisque; those secret doors, at which you pause in spite of yourself,
as if you heard the rustle of garments; those sleeping chambers of
the sultans, shrouded in mysterious gloom, where you seem to hear
only the confused amorous lament of all the maidens who there lost
the flower of their virgin purity; that prodigal variety of color and
line, which like a tumultuous and ever-changing harmony arouses the
senses to such fantastic flights that you doubt whether you are waking
or sleeping; that delicate and lovely architecture, all of slender
columns, that seem like the arms of women; capricious arches, little
rooms, arched ceilings crowded with ornaments hanging in the form of
stalactites, icicles, and clusters of grapes, of as many colors as a
flower-garden;--all this stirs your desire to sit down in the middle of
one of those rooms and to press to your heart a lovely brown Andalusian
head which will make you forget the world and time, and, with one long
kiss that drinks away your life, give you eternal sleep.
On the ground floor the most beautiful room is the Hall of the
Ambassadors, formed by four great arches which support a gallery
with forty-four smaller arches, and above a beautiful cupola carved,
painted, gilded, and chased with inimitable grace and fabulous splendor.
On the upper floor, where were the winter apartments, there remain only
an oratory of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic, and a little room in
which the king Don Pedro is said to have slept. From it one descends by
a narrow mysterious staircase to the rooms where dwelt the famous Maria
de Padilla, the favorite of Don Pedro, whom popular tradition accuses
of instigating the king to kill his brother.
[Illustration: _Moorish Arches, Alcazar, Seville_]
The gardens of the Alcazar are neither very large nor particularly
beautiful, but the memories which they recall are of greater value than
extent or beauty. In the shade of those orange trees and cypresses, to
the murmur of those fountains, when the great white moon was shining in
that limpid Andalusian sky, and the many groups of courtiers and slaves
rested there, how many long sighs of ardent sultanas! how many lowly
words from proud kings! what passionate loves and embraces! "Itimad, my
love!" I murmured, thinking of the famous mistress of King Al-Motamid
as I wandered from path to path as if following her phantom,--"Itimad,"
I repeated, "do not leave me alone in this silent paradise! Dost
thou remember how thou camest to me? Thy wealth of hair fell over my
shoulder, and dearer than the sword to the warrior wert thou to me! How
beautiful thou art! Thy neck is soft and white as the swan's, and like
berries are thy red, red lips! How marvellous is the perfection of thy
beauty! How dear thou art, Itimad, my love! Thy kisses are like wine,
and thy eyes, like wine, steal away my reason!"
While I was thus making my declarations of love with phrases and images
stolen from the Arabian poets, at the very moment when I turned into
a bypath all bordered with flowers, suddenly I felt a stream of water
first on one leg and then on the other. I jumped aside, and received
a spray in my face; I turned to the right, and felt another stream
against my neck; to the left, another jet between my shoulders. I began
to run: there was water under me and around me in every direction, in
jets, streams, and spray; in a moment I was as wet as if I had been
dipped in the bath-tub. Just as I opened my mouth to call for help it
all subsided, and I heard a ringing laugh at the end of the garden. I
turned and saw a young fellow leaning against a low wall looking at me
as if he were saying, "How did you like it?" When I came out he showed
me the spring he had touched to play this little joke, and comforted me
with the assurance that the sun of Seville would not leave me long in
that dripping condition, into which I had passed so rudely, alas! from
the lovely arms of my sultana.
That evening, in spite of the voluptuous images which the Alcazar had
called to my mind, I was sufficiently calm to contemplate the beauty
of the women of Seville without fleeing to the arms of the consul for
safety. I do not believe that the women of any other country are so
bewitching as the fair Andalusians, not only because they tempt one
into all sorts of mischief, but because they seem to have been made to
be seized and carried away, so small, graceful, plump, elastic, and
soft are they. Their little feet could both be put easily into one's
coat-pocket, and with an arm one could lift them by the waist like
babies, and by the mere pressure of the finger could bend them like
willow wands. To their natural beauty they add the art of walking and
looking in a way to turn one's head. They fly along, glide, and walk
with a wave-like motion, and in a single moment, as they pass, they
show a little foot, make you admire an arm or a slender waist, reveal
two rows of the whitest teeth, and dart at you a long veiled glance
that melts and dies in your own; and on they go with an air of triumph,
certain of having turned your blood topsy-turvy.
To form an idea of the beauty of the women of the people and the
picturesqueness of their dress you must go by day to visit the
tobacco-manufactory, which is one of the largest establishments of
the kind in Europe and employs not less than five thousand hands. The
building faces the vast gardens of the duke of Montpensier: almost all
of the women work in three immense rooms, each divided into three parts
by as many rows of pillars. The first view is astounding: there, all
at once, eight hundred girls present themselves before one's eyes in
groups of five or six, sitting around work-tables as close as possible,
the farthest indistinct and the last scarcely visible; all of them
young and a few children--eight hundred jet-black heads and eight
hundred brown faces from every province of Andalusia, from Jaen to
Cadiz, from Granada to Seville!
One hears a buzzing as of a square full of people. The walls, from one
door to the other, in all three of the rooms are lined with skirts,
shawls, kerchiefs, and scarfs; and--a very curious thing--that entire
mass of garments, which would fill to overflowing a hundred old-clothes
shops, presents two predominant colors, in two continuous lines one
above the other, like the stripes of a very long flag--the black of the
shawls above, and the red mixed with white, purple, and yellow--so that
one seems to see an immense costumer's shop or an immense ball-room
where the ballet-dancers, in order to be free, have hung on the walls
every part of their dress which it is not absolutely necessary to wear.
The girls put on these dresses when they go out, and wear old clothes
to work in; but white and red predominate in those dresses also. The
heat is insupportable, consequently they lighten their clothing as
much as possible, and among those five thousand one will scarcely find
fifty whose arms and shoulders the visitor may not contemplate at
his pleasure, without counting the extraordinary cases which present
themselves suddenly as one passes from room to room, behind the doors
and columns, and around the distant corners. There are some very
beautiful faces, and even those who are not beautiful have something
about them which attracts one's glance and lingers in the memory--the
complexion, the eyes, the brow, or the smile. Many of them, especially
so-called _Gitane_, are as dark as dark mulattos and have protruding
lips; others have eyes so large that a faithful picture of them would
be considered a monstrous exaggeration; the greater part are small and
well-formed, and all have a rose or carnation or some sort of wild
flower in their hair. They are paid in proportion to the work they do,
and the most skilful and industrious earn as much as three francs per
day; the lazy ones--_las holgazanas_--sleep with their arms crossed on
the table and their heads resting on their arms; mothers are working,
and swinging a leg to which is bound a cord that rocks the cradle.
From the cigar-room one passes to the cigarette-room, and from it to
the box-factory, and from the box-factory to the packing-room, and in
them all one sees the red skirts, black hair, and fine eyes. In each of
those rooms how many stories of love, jealousy, despair, and misery!
On leaving the factory one seems for some time to see black eyes in
every direction regarding him with a thousand varying expressions
of curiosity, indifference, sympathy, cheerfulness, sadness, and
drowsiness.
The same day I went to see the Museum of Painting. The Seville gallery
does not contain very many paintings, but those few are worth a
great museum. There are the masterpieces of Murillo, and among them
his immortal _Saint Anthony of Padua_, which is said to be the most
divinely inspired of his works, and one of the greatest achievements
of human genius. I visited the gallery in the company of Señor Gonzalo
Segovia and Ardizone, one of the most illustrious young men of Seville,
and I wish he were here beside my table at this moment to testify in a
foot-note that when my eyes first lit upon the picture I seized his arm
and uttered a cry.
Only once in my life have I felt such a profound stirring of my soul as
that which I felt on seeing this picture. It was one beautiful summer
night: the sky was bright with stars, and the vast plain lay extended
before me from the high place where I stood in deep silence. One of
the noblest creatures I have ever met in my life was at my side. A few
hours before we had been reading some pages from one of Humboldt's
works: we looked at the sky and talked of the motion of the earth, the
millions of worlds, and the infinite with those suppressed tones as of
distant voices which one unconsciously uses in speaking of such things
in the silent night. Finally we were still, and each, with eyes fixed
on the heavens, gave himself up to fancies. I know not by what train
of thought I was led; I know not what mysterious chain of emotions was
formed in my heart; I know not what I saw or felt or dreamed. I only
know that suddenly a veil before my mind seemed to be rent asunder; I
felt within me a perfect assurance of that which hitherto I had longed
for rather than believed; my heart expanded with a feeling of supreme
joy, angelic peace, and limitless hope; a flood of scalding tears
suddenly filled my eyes, and, grasping the hand of my friend, which
sought my own, I cried from the depths of my soul, "It is true! It is
true!" and began to cry like a child.
The _Saint Anthony of Padua_ brought back the emotions of that evening.
The saint is kneeling in the middle of his cell; the child Jesus in
a nebulous halo of white vaporous light, drawn by the power of his
prayer, is descending into his arms. Saint Anthony, rapt in ecstasy,
throws himself forward with all his power of body and soul, his head
thrown back, radiant with an expression of supreme joy. So great was
the shock which this picture gave me that when I had looked at it a few
moments I was as exhausted as if I had visited a vast gallery, and a
trembling seized me and continued so long as I remained in that room.
Afterward I saw the other great paintings of Murillo--a _Conception_, a
_Saint Francis embracing Christ_, another version of _Saint Anthony_,
and others to the number of twenty or more, among them the famous and
enchanting _Virgin of the Napkin_, painted by Murillo upon a real
napkin in the Capuchin convent of Seville to gratify a desire of a lay
brother who was serving him: it is one of his most delicate creations,
in which is revealed all the magic of his inimitable coloring--but none
of these paintings, although they are objects of wonder to all the
artists of the world, drew my heart or thoughts from that divine _Saint
Anthony_.
There are also in this gallery paintings by the two Herreras, Pacheco,
Alonzo Cano, Pablo de Cespedes, Valdes, Mulato, a servant of Murillo
who ably imitated his style, and finally the large famous painting of
the _Apotheosis of Saint Thomas of Aquinas_, by Francesco Zurbaran,
one of the most eminent artists of the seventeenth century, called
the Spanish Caravaggio, and possibly his superior in truth and moral
sentiment,--a powerful naturalist, a strong colorist, and an inimitable
painter of austere friars, macerated saints, brooding hermits, and
terrible priests, and an unsurpassed poet of penitence, solitude, and
meditation.
After seeing the picture-gallery Señor Gonzalo Segovia led me through
a succession of narrow streets to the street _Francos_, one of the
principal ways of the city, and stopped me in front of a little
draper's shop, saying with a laugh, "Look! Doesn't this shop make you
think of something?"
"Nothing at all," I replied.
"Look at the number."
"It is number fifteen: what of it?"
"Oh! plague on it!" exclaimed my amiable guide,
"'Number fifteen,
On the left-hand side'!"
"The shop of the _Barber of Seville_!" I cried.
"Precisely!" he responded--"the shop of the Barber of Seville; but
be on your guard when you speak of it in Italy; do not take your
oath, for traditions are often misleading, and I would not assume the
responsibility of confirming a fact of such importance."
At that moment the merchant came to the door of the shop, and, divining
why we were there, laughed and said, "_No esta_" ("Figaro is not
here"), and with a gracious bow he retired.
Then I besought Señor Gonzalo to show me a _patio_, one of those
enchanting _patios_ which as I looked at them from the street made me
imagine so many delightful things. "I want to see at least one," I said
to him--"to penetrate once into the midst of those mysteries, to touch
the walls, to assure myself that it is a real thing and not a vision."
My desire was at once fulfilled: we entered the _patio_ of one of his
friends. Señor Gonzalo told the servant the object of our visit, and we
were left alone. The house was only two stories in height. The _patio_
was no larger than an ordinary room, but all marble and flowers, and
a little fountain in the middle, and paintings and statues around,
and from roof to roof an awning which sheltered it from the sun. In
a corner was a work-table, and here and there one saw low chairs and
little benches whereon a few moments previously had doubtless rested
the feet of some fair Andalusian, who at that moment was watching us
from between the slats of a blind. I examined everything minutely, as
I would have done in a house abandoned by the fairies: I sat down,
closed my eyes, imagined I was the master, then arose, wet my hand with
the spray of the fountain, touched a slender column, went to the door,
picked a flower, raised my eyes to the windows, laughed, sighed, and
said, "How happy must those be who live here!" At that moment I heard
a low laugh, and saw two great black eyes flash behind a blind and
instantly disappear. "Truly," I said, "I did not believe that it was
possible to still live so poetically upon this earth. And to think that
you enjoy these houses all your life! and that you have the inclination
to rack your brains about politics!"
Señor Gonzalo showed me the secrets of the house. "All this furniture,"
said he, "these paintings, and these vases of flowers disappear on
the approach of autumn and are taken to the second story, which is
the living apartment from autumn to spring. When summer comes beds,
wardrobes, tables, chairs--everything is brought down to the rooms on
the ground floor, and here the family sleep and eat, receive their
friends, and do their work, among the flowers and marbles to the murmur
of the fountain. And at night they have the doors open, and from the
sleeping-rooms one can see the _patio_ flooded with moonlight and
smell the fragrance of roses."
"Oh, stop!" I exclaimed, "stop, Señor Gonzalo! Have pity on strangers!"
And, laughing heartily, we both went out on our way to see the famous
_Casa de Pilato_.
As we were passing along a lonely little street I looked in a window
of a hardware-shop and saw an assortment of knives so long, broad,
and unusual that I felt a desire to buy one. I entered: twenty were
displayed before my eyes, and I had the salesman to open them one by
one. As each knife was opened I took a step backward. I do not believe
it is possible to imagine an instrument more barbarous and terrifying
in appearance than one of them. The handles are of wood, copper, and
horn, curved and carved in open patterns, so that one may see through
their little pieces of isinglass. The knives open with a sound like a
rattle, and out comes a large blade as broad as the palm of your hand,
as long as both palms together, and as sharp as a dagger, in the form
of a fish, ornamented with red inlaying, which suggests streaks of
clotted blood, and adorned with fierce and threatening inscriptions.
On the blade of one there will be written in Spanish, _Do not open
me without reason, nor shut me without honor_; on another, _Where I
strike, all is over_; on a third, _When this snake bites, there is
nothing left for the doctor to do_; and other gallantries of the same
sort. The proper name of these knives is _navaja_--a word which also
has the meaning of razor--and the _navaja_ is the popular duelling
weapon. Now it has fallen into disuse, but was at one time held in
great honor; there were masters who taught its use, each of whom had
his secret blow, and duels were fought in accordance with the rules
of chivalry. I bought the most terrible _navaja_ in the shop, and we
entered the street again.
The _Casa de Pilato_, held by the Medina-Coeli family, is, after
the Alcazar, the most beautiful monument of Moorish architecture in
Seville. The name, _Casa de Pilato_, comes from the fact that its
founder, Don Enriquez de Ribera, the first marquis of Tarifa, had
it built, as the story goes, in imitation of the house of the Roman
prætor, which he had seen in Jerusalem, where he went on a pilgrimage.
The edifice has a modest exterior, but the interior is marvellous.
One first enters a court not less beautiful than the enchanting court
of the Alcazar, encircled by two orders of arches, supported by
graceful marble columns, forming two very light galleries, one above
the other, and so delicate that it seems as if the first puff of wind
would cast them into ruins. In the centre is a lovely fountain resting
on four marble dolphins and crowned by a bust of Janus. Around the
lower part of the walls run brilliant mosaics, and above these every
sort of fantastic arabesque, here and there framing beautiful niches
containing busts of the Roman emperors. At the four corners of the
court the ceilings, the walls, and the doors are carved, embroidered,
and covered with flowers and historic tapestries with the delicacy of
a miniature. In an old chapel, partly Moorish and partly Gothic in
style, and most delicate in form, there is preserved a little column,
scarcely more than three feet in height, the gift of Pius V. to a
descendant of the founder of the palace, at one time viceroy of Naples:
to that column, says the tradition, was bound Jesus of Nazareth to be
scourged. This fact, even if it were true, would prove that Pius V. did
not believe it in the slightest degree. For he would not lightly have
committed the unpardonable mistake of depriving himself of a valuable
relic to make a present to the first comer. The entire palace is full
of sacred memories. On the first floor the custodian points out a
window which corresponds to that by which Peter sat when he denied his
Lord, and the little window from which the maid-servant recognized him.
From the street one sees another window with a little stone balcony,
which represents the exact position of the window where Jesus, wearing
the crown of thorns, was shown to the people.
The garden is full of fragments of ancient statuary brought from Italy
by that same Don Pedro Afan de Ribera, viceroy of Naples. Among the
other fables that are told about this mysterious garden is one to the
effect that Don Pedro Afan de Ribera placed in it an urn brought
from Italy containing the ashes of the emperor Trajan, and a curious
person carelessly struck the urn and overturned it; the emperor's ashes
were thus scattered over the grass, and no one has ever succeeded in
collecting them. So this august monarch, born at Italica, by a very
strange fate has returned to the vicinity of his natal city, not in the
very best condition in which to meditate upon its ruins, to tell the
truth, but he was near it, at any rate.
In spite of all that I have described, I may say that I did not see
Seville, but just commenced to see it. Nevertheless, I shall stop
here, because everything must have an end. I pass by the promenaders,
the squares, the gates, the libraries, the public buildings, the
mansions of the grandees, the gardens and the churches; but allow
me to say that, after several days' wandering through Seville from
sunrise to sunset, I was obliged to leave the city under the weight of
a self-accusing conscience. I did not know which way to turn. I had
reached such a condition of weariness that the announcement of a new
object to be seen filled me with foreboding rather than pleasure. The
good Señor Gonzalo kept up my courage, comforted me, and shortened the
journeys with his delightful company, but, nevertheless, I have only a
very confused remembrance of all that I saw during those last days.
Seville, although it no longer merits the glorious title of the
Spanish Athens, as in the times of Charles V. and Philip II., when it
was mother and patron of a large and chosen band of poets and artists,
the seat of culture and of the arts in the vast empire of its monarchs,
is even yet that one among the cities of Spain, with the exception
of Madrid, in which the artistic life is most vigorously maintained,
as is evidenced by the number of its men of genius, the liberality
of its patrons, and the popular love of the fine arts. It contains a
flourishing academy of literature, a society for the protection of the
arts, a well-known university, and a colony of scholars and sculptors
who enjoy an honorable distinction throughout Spain. But the highest
literary fame in Seville belongs to a woman--Catharine Bohl, the
author of the novels which bear the name of Fernan Caballero, widely
read in Spain and America, translated into almost all the languages
of Europe, and known also in Italy (where some of them were published
not long since) by every one who at all occupies himself with foreign
literature. They are admirable pictures of Andalusian manners, full
of truth, passion, and grace, and, above all, possessing a vigor of
faith and a religious enthusiasm so fearless and a Christian charity
so broad that they would startle and confuse the most skeptical man
in the world. Catharine Bohl is a woman who would undergo martyrdom
with the firmness and serenity of a Saint Ignatius. The consciousness
of her power is revealed in every page: she does not hesitate to
defend her religion, and confronts, assails, threatens, and overthrows
its enemies; and not only the enemies of religion, but every man and
everything that, to use a common expression, conforms to the spirit
of the age, for she never forgives the least sin which has been
committed from the times of the Inquisition to our own day, and she is
more inexorable than the Pope's syllabus. And herein perhaps lies her
greatest defect as a writer--that her religious convictions and her
invectives are entirely too frequent and grow tiresome, and disgust and
prejudice the reader rather than convince him of her own beliefs. But
there is not a shadow of bitterness in her heart, and as her books, so
is her life, noble, upright, and charitable. In Seville she is revered
as a saint. Born in that city, she married early in life, and is now a
widow for the third time. Her last husband, who was Spanish ambassador
at London, committed suicide, and from that day she has never laid
aside her mourning. At the time of my visit she was almost seventy; she
had been very beautiful, and her noble, placid face still preserved
the impress of beauty. Her father, who was a man of considerable
genius and great culture, taught her several languages in early life:
she knows Latin thoroughly and speaks Italian, German, and French
with admirable facility. At this time, however, she is not writing at
all, although the editors and publishers of Europe and America are
offering her large sums for her works. But she does not live a life of
inactivity. From morning to night she reads all sorts of books, and
while she reads she is either knitting or embroidering, for she very
firmly believes that her literary studies ought not to take one minute
from her feminine employments. She has no children, and lives in a
lonely house, the best part of which has been given to a poor family;
she spends a great part of her income in charity. A curious trait of
her character is her great love of animals: she has her house full of
birds, cats, and dogs, and her sensibilities are so delicate that she
has never consented to enter a carriage, for fear of seeing the horse
beaten on her account. All suffering affects her as if she herself
were bearing it: the sight of a blind man or of a sick person or of a
cripple of any sort distresses her for an entire day; she cannot close
her eyes to sleep unless she has wiped away a tear; she would joyfully
forego all her honors to save any unknown person a heartache. Before
the Revolution her life was not so isolated: the Montpensier family
received her with great honor, and the most illustrious families of
Seville vied with each other in entertaining her at their homes: now
she lives only among her books and a few friends.
In Moorish times Cordova took the lead in literature and Seville in
music. "When a scholar dies at Seville," said Averroes, "and they wish
to sell his books, they send them to Cordova; but if a musician dies
at Cordova, they send his instruments to Seville to be sold." Now
Cordova has lost her literary primacy, and Seville holds first place
both in literature and music. Truly the times are past in which a poet
by singing of the beauty of a maiden draws around her a crowd of lovers
from all parts of the realm, and when one prince envies another simply
because a poet has sung in his praise a verse more beautiful than any
which the other had inspired, and a caliph rewards the author of a
noble hymn by a gift of a hundred camels, a troop of slaves, and a vase
of gold--when a happy strophe improvised at an opportune time releases
a slave from his chains or saves the life of one condemned to death,
and when the musicians are followed through the streets of Seville by
a train of monarchs, and the favor of poets is more sought than that
of kings, and the lyre is more terrible than the sword. But the people
of Seville are always the most poetic people of Spain. The _bon mot_,
the word of love, the expression of joy and enthusiasm, fly from their
lips with a fascinating spontaneity and grace. The common people of
Seville improvise, and talk as though they are singing, gesticulate as
if they are declaiming, laugh and play like children. One never grows
old at Seville. It is a city where life melts away in a continuous
smile, with no other thought than the enjoyment of the beautiful sky,
the lovely little houses, and the delightful little gardens. It is
the most peaceful city in Spain, and the only one which since the
Revolution has not been agitated by those sad political commotions
which have stirred the others: politics do not penetrate the surface;
the Sevillians are content to make love; all else they take in jest.
_Todo lo toman de broma_, say the other Spaniards of the Sevillians;
and in truth with that fragrant air, with those little streets like
those of an Oriental city, with those fiery little women, why should
they trouble themselves? At Madrid they speak ill of them; they say
they are vain, false, fickle, and silly. It is jealousy: they envy them
their happy indolence, the sympathy which they inspire in strangers,
their girls, their poets, their painters, their orators, their Giralda,
their Alcazar, their Guadalquivir, their life, and their history. So
say the Sevillians, striking their breasts with one hand and puffing
into the air a cloud of smoke from the inseparable _cigaritto_; and
their lovely little women revenge themselves upon their envious sisters
and all the other women in the world, speaking with spiteful pity of
long feet, large waists, and dull eyes, that in Andalusia would not
receive the honor of a glance or the homage of a sigh. A charming and
amiable people, in truth; but, alas! one must look at the reverse side
of the medal: superstition reigns and schools are lacking, as is the
case throughout all Southern Spain; this is partly their own fault and
partly not; but the negative is probably the smaller part.
The day of my departure arrived unexpectedly. It is strange: I remember
scarcely any particulars of my life at Seville; it is remarkable if
I can tell where I dined, what I talked about with the consul, how I
spent the evenings, and why I chose any given day to take my departure.
I was not myself; I lived, if I may use the expression, out of myself;
all the while I remained in the city I was a little dazed. Apart from
the art-gallery and the _patio_ my friend Segovia must have found that
I knew very little; and now, I know not why, I think of those days
as of a dream. Of no other city are my recollections so vague as of
Seville. Even to-day, while I am certain of having been at Saragossa,
Madrid, and Toledo, sometimes when I think of Seville a doubt steals
upon me. It seems to me like a city much farther away than the most
distant boundaries of Spain, and that to journey there again I must
travel months and months, cross unknown continents and wide seas,
among people totally different from our own. I think of the streets
of Seville, of certain little squares and certain houses, as I would
think of the spots on the moon. Sometimes the image of that city passes
before my eyes like a white figure, and disappears almost before I
can grasp it with my mind--sometimes in a breath of air, at certain
hours of the day, at a garden-gate; in humming a song which I heard a
boy sing on the steps of the Giralda. I cannot explain this secret to
myself; I think of Seville as of a city which I have still to see, and
I enjoy looking at the prints and thumbing the books which I bought
there, for they are tangible things that convince me of my visit. A
month ago I received a letter from Segovia which said, "Come back to
us." It gave me untold pleasure, but at the same time I laughed as if
he had written, "Make a voyage to Pekin." It is for this very reason
that Seville is dearer to me than all the other cities of Spain; I
love it as I might love a beautiful unknown woman who, crossing a
mysterious wood, might look my way and throw me a flower. How often in
the theatre or at the café, when a friend shakes me and asks, "What are
you thinking about?" I am obliged to leave the little room of Maria de
Padilla to return to him, or a boat that is gliding along in the shade
of the Christina plane trees, or Figaro's shop, or the vestibule of a
_patio_ full of flowers, fountains, and lights.
I embarked on a boat of the Segovia Company, near the Torre del Oro, at
an hour when Seville is wrapped in deep sleep and a burning sun covers
it with a flood of light. I remember that a few moments before the
boat started a young man came on board in search of me, and gave me a
letter from Gonzalo Segovia, containing a sonnet which I still cherish
as one of my most precious mementos of Seville. On the boat there was
a company of Spanish singers, an English family, some laboring-men,
and babies. The captain, being a good Andalusian, had a cheery word
for everybody. I soon began a conversation with him. My friend Gonzalo
was a son of the proprietor of the line, and we talked of the Segovia
family, of Seville, the sea, and a thousand pleasant things. Ah! the
poor man was far from thinking that a few days later the unlucky ship
would founder in the midst of the sea and bring him to such a terrible
end! It was the _Guadaira_, that was lost a short distance from
Marseilles by the bursting of the boiler on the sixteenth day of June,
1872.
At three o'clock the boat started for Cadiz.