uprising of 1835 against the monasteries, a movement more political than
religious, there has been no terrible iconoclastic mania, such as in
France and England; the cities which were looted, like Valladolid and
Salamanca, during the French invasion, suffered in a different way.
Then, too, Spanish cathedrals do not part with their art treasures; the
gifts of personal and inappropriate jewels when they have accumulated
too needlessly are sometimes sold for the benefit of the church, but the
art treasures made for the service of the Altar are not parted with. In
Valencia it is told that Rothschild's agent tried in vain to buy
Benvenuto Cellini's silver pax there: $10,000 $15,000, $20,000, he
offered: "_Las cosas de la catedral no se venden_," was the answer.
"$50,000," said the agent. The Cathedral was poor and needed repairs.
"It is useless," was the firm answer of the Chapter, "We do not sell the
things of the Altar." In Salamanca the verger told us that an Englishman
had offered an immense sum for the iron screen round the tomb of Bishop
Anaya (his mother the dainty little lady in pattens) and though the
screen was in an unused chapel of the _catedral vieja_, it was refused.
These unsullied temples of the Holy Spirit, where stately ceremonials
are still an every-day occurrence, differ in every city, the carven
wealth of Burgos, the soaring grace of León, the solid grandeur of
Santiago, Toledo, a dream of His House, Seville, rising imposing past
expectation, the small, dark symmetry of Barcelona, the solemn space of
prayer before Avila's high altar, Sigüenza's tomb-filled chapels,
Saragossa, draped with priceless Flemish tapestries for the feast,
Palencia dim and holy at daybreak, worship-bowed Lugo,--indelible
memories of beauty and exaltation, the cathedrals of Spain are not mere
artistic memorials of the past, their soul is not fled. Such churches
cannot but have an influence on the people among whom they rise. If on
one of different race they impress themselves with the actuality of a
living experience, what must they mean to those whose childhood and old
age have known them in solemn moments. I came across an autobiographical
bit by the novelist Alacón, describing the influence on him of one of
these great churches of the past. He grew up in the small Andalusian
city of Gaudix, like many Spanish towns its great day being well over;
the only grandeur left, the only palace inhabited, was the _iglesia
mayor_: "From the Cathedral I first learned the revealing power of
architecture, there first heard music and first grew to admire pictures;
there also in solemn feasts, mid incense, lights, and the swell of the
organ, I dreamed of poetry and divined a world different from what
surrounded me. Thus faith and beauty, religion and inspiration, ambition
and piety were born united in my soul."
On the way to the Cathedrals each day we passed through the arcaded
plaza, which at the noon and evening hours was thronged with an
animated crowd; we noticed once more the democratic relation between the
classes, smart officers in pale blue uniforms strolled up and down
chatting with plain countrymen whose capes, tossed over the shoulder,
let the gaudy red and green velvet facing be seen. The daily walk
brought us past the House of the Shells, whose walls are studded with
the pilgrim emblem, and one day as I paused to look into the lovely
inner court, the owner came out, prayer-book in hand, on her way to
church, and with the grave courtesy of her race, she invited the
stranger in to examine her romantic dwelling. Most of the buildings in
the city are a light brown sandstone that suits the gorgeous surface
decoration of Isabella's period, here seen in its full glory. There is
no pure early-Gothic in the city; Romanesque-transition is found in the
old Cathedral, and late florid-Gothic in the new Cathedral, later still
some baroque extravagances, since Salamanca claims a doubtful honor as
the birthplace of that exponent of bad taste, José Churriguera. But the
style that is supreme here is the Plateresque, the silversmith period
when late-Gothic and Renaissance met: the façades seem as if molded in
clay, so lavish is their work. In one respect Salamanca has been more
fortunate than its rival Oxford, in having used a stone soft in
appearance, but so durable that the chiseling is almost as finished
to-day as when first cut. Everywhere in the town this Plateresque work
is found; at times more Renaissance than Gothic, as in Espíritu Santo, a
convent like Las Huelgas for noble ladies, or as in the beautiful patio
of the Irish College; the Dominican church of San Esteban is more Gothic
than Plateresque.
Like the Jesuits, the second of the monastic orders whose cradle is
Spain, may well be proud of the record in its native land. The society
of Ignatius can boast besides its saints, scholars like Ripalda, Lainez,
Salmerón, Isla, Suárez, Mariana, the great historian, and Hervás y
Panduro, "the father of philology," who has been credited by Professor
Max Müller with "one of the most brilliant discoveries in the history of
the science of language." And the Dominicans can claim a de Soto, a
Melchor Cano, Luis de Granada, Las Casas, defender of the Indians, and,
fame of this special monastery of Santo Domingo, a Diego de Deza, the
protector of Columbus. With this learned man, tutor to Isabella's only
son, lodged the discoverer years before his memorable voyage, and it was
in a room called De Profundis, leading from the cloisters, that he first
explained his theories to the community who espoused his cause with
perseverance, in opposition to the stupid savants of the University.
They, appointed by the Queen to investigate his claims, found them
"vain and unpractical," not worthy of serious notice. On the 400th
anniversary of Columbus' discovery, a memorial statue was put up in the
square near the mediæval tower of Clavero: on the pedestal are reliefs
of his two patrons, Isabella, and Fray Diego de Deza, "_gloria de la
orden de Santo Domingo, protector constante de Cristóbal Colón_."
Imposing as is San Esteban, the triumph of the Catholic Kings' heraldic
style of architecture is the façade of the University Library, as
autobiographic of its age as is Santiago's _Pórtico de la Gloria_ of an
earlier century. It is one mass of delicate carving, badges, medalions,
and scrolls, increasing in size as it rises, so that an effect of
uniformity is obtained. There is the true ring of that chivalrous
generation in the inscription, "The Kings to the University, and this to
the Kings," you raise your head proudly with a flash of the eye, feeling
for a moment that you are almost a Spaniard yourself.
[Illustration: FAÇADE OF THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, SALAMANCA]
Opposite the library's façade is a statue of one of the University's
noted men, that attractive personality, Fray Luis de León. Tall,
stalwart, for he came of a warrior race of Spanish grandees, ascetic,
with intellectual forehead, a man capable of sainthood, of the type
noble, he faces the school where he studied as a youth and passed a
later life in research and teaching. In Luis de León is found an
equilibrium of character, a magnanimity united with genius, which often
distinguished the men born in the _siglo de oro_. This Augustinian monk
was a deep theologian, ahead of his times, as most deep thinkers are; he
made a translation of the Songs of Songs too advanced for the age, and
his enemies accused his orthodoxy to the Inquisition. For five years he
lived in confinement, and it was during this semi-imprisonment that he
wrote his great mystic book, "Los Nombres de Cristo," and also some of
his lyrics. The University remained loyal to him by refusing to place
another lecturer in his seat; then when he had justified himself before
the Holy Office, he was set at liberty, and a host of friends
accompanied him back to his post. He entered the lecture hall quietly,
after his five years of absence, and opened the discourse with rare
tact, a generous, high-minded overlooking of personal rancour:
"Gentlemen, as we were saying the other day." This famous mot of Luis de
León, "_como decíamos ayer_," shows a quality unexpected in Spain, but
characteristic often of her sons, that of amenity, a kindly tolerance of
the world's foibles, found in Cervantes, and to show it has not died
out, this same amenity was a predominating trait of the late
distinguished novelist, Don Juan Valera. Luis de León, true follower of
his patron Augustine, knew that there is no sin that one man commits
that all men are not capable of, if not helped by God. "Even while he
aspires, man errs."
Had the erudite monk been merely a scholar, he had been a personality in
his own day, but would not be alive for us; but he can claim an enduring
fame. Professor Menéndez y Pelayo calls him the most exalted of Spanish
lyric poets, and names his "Ascensión," "Al Apartamiento," "A Salinas,"
"A Felipe Ruiz," "Alma Región Lucient," "La Noche Serena," as the six
most beautiful of Spanish lyrics. Learn them by heart, he says, and they
will astonish you with each repetition. Luis de León had the
Wordsworthian note of simple living and high thinking, of a personal
love of nature, long before the Lake School: the "Ode to Retirement"
might have been penned at Grasmere. Everything led his soul to God; he
fed on the mystics and rose to their height and serenity of thought.
From his love of the classics came his sobriety of form and purity of
phrase; he is a true Horacian, penetrated as well by the spirit of the
great Hebrew writers, with the _espíritu cristiano_ added, yet though
drawing his culture from many sources he is personal and modern. Such
praise from the great critic sends one to an enthusiastic study of Fray
Luis, and a knowledge of his poems makes the visit to his tomb in
Salamanca more than one of mere curiosity.
Like most of the cities and villages of León province, this one too lies
asleep, resting on its former honors, though there are hints, such as
the new hospital, that she is rousing herself to life. She feels a
confidence in her own future, as is subtly shown in the decoration of
the plaza, where empty spaces are left for the names of coming great
men. It is with this city of the past that the most homelike memory of
our tour in Spain is associated, the happy hour round an English
tea-table eating bread and butter, and chatting at last, oh so eagerly,
in one's native tongue. It was the rector of the Irish college who gave
us this delightful taste of home, and fresh from six weeks of freezing,
stone-paved rooms, of cinnamon-flavored chocolate, how we appreciated
his hospitality! The school of young seminarians is housed in one of the
five remaining of the University buildings, but only moved here when the
original college, founded by Philip II and dedicated to St. Patrick, was
demolished by Ney and Marmont's soldiery.
We found our host in his library poring over a Greek book with a
professor from the University, and we were welcomed with the
heart-warming kindness of his native land. The professor obviously hoped
the invading Americans would not tarry long, but he little knew that a
Celtic host in the heart of Spain and a cozy tea-table at the critical
hour of a raw, bleak day made a combination not to be resisted; we
lingered into the late afternoon and left reluctantly indeed. I would
wish for all travelers a friendly visit to the _Colegio de Nobles
Irlandeses_, that they might see the tall, northern-looking lads pacing
up and down the sculptured sixteenth-century courtyard, might pause in
the Chapel, and look out from the library windows over the city, with a
genial cicerone to name the churches and colleges; then Salamanca would
not seem a dead city, but a peaceful, contented survival of the past.
SEGOVIA.
"No hay un pueblo esclavo
Si no lo quiere ser:
¡Cantad, españoles!
Cantad! Cantad!"
(Hymn sung May, 1908, for the centenary of _Dos de Mayo_.)
We reached Segovia at five o'clock in the early morning of November
first after an indescribably fatiguing day and night of travel, the one
confusion of our tour in Spain, and partly owing to a mistake in the
usually reliable guide book. It may be of help to other travelers if I
describe this misadventure. On returning from Galicia, we had left the
express route at Astorga, and pausing there a night, took the local line
south to Zamora and Salamanca. After a stay of some days in the old
university city, we were lured out to a small town, fifteen miles away,
Alba de Tormes, where St. Teresa died. It seemed unnecessary to return
to Salamanca in order to go on to Avila, since a diligence ran to Avila
from a town not far from Alba de Tormes. Our book gave the distance of
this ride as fourteen miles, whereas fourteen leagues, more than three
times fourteen miles, would be nearer the truth. For, on reaching Alba
we found it was a diligence journey of over ten hours; with the roads in
a frightful condition after a month's rain, the trip was out of the
question. So spending the night at Alba de Tormes, we went back to
Salamanca, there to find it was not the special day for the train that
connects directly with the express route south. Whereupon it seemed
best, rather than to wait a couple of days for this train, to take the
long trip round by Zamora and Toro to the junction Medina del Campo,
whence the express route to Madrid branches, one line passing by Avila,
another by Segovia.
It happened to be eight minutes before the starting of the train, when I
went to the ticket office at Salamanca with my _carnet kilométrique_,
yet nevertheless the agent refused me the tickets, saying that his
office closed five minutes before the starting of each train. "But there
are yet eight minutes," I exclaimed. His personal watch said five; so we
were obliged to start without the usual complementary tickets. We
decided to descend at the first stop and there have our kilometrics torn
off, but before reaching this station the conductor came to collect
tickets, and by his face, false and mobile, we knew we were in for a
struggle. We explained our dilemma and offered the one peseta, ninety
centimes, which was marked in his book and our own, as the full first
class tariff for twelve kilometers. He contemptuously refused and
demanded eight pesetas each for that short ride of eight miles. We did
not hesitate to refuse; whereupon when we reached the stopping station
he tried by confused explanations to prevent the agent there from giving
us the necessary complementary tickets. But fortunately in the hurry to
procure them during the few minutes of our pause, I had stumbled in
stepping from the carriage and slightly cut my hand on the pebbles. This
roused the Spanish sense of chivalry and the agent moved aside the
conductor and gave me what I asked. We again offered this latter the
lawful fare for the eight miles we had ridden without tickets, and again
he demanded eight pesetas. On reaching Zamora, he boldly brought up the
Chief of that station, a trickster in league with him, and both demanded
the unjust fare. A Spanish gentleman was passing, and seeing two ladies
in trouble, stopped to ask if he could be of assistance. When we
explained the case, he asked us to give him the lawful fare and turning
to the station-master and the conductor, presented it to them with a
scathing rebuke: like beaten dogs they slunk away. Several times
gentlemen came to our aid in this way, as if it hurt their pride to have
their race so misrepresented.
It is this petty thieving among a class that should be above it, such
as postal clerks and railway officials, that rouses the traveler's harsh
criticisms of Spain and makes him so unjust to her. The radical cure
lies in the men being better paid, for their salaries are such pittances
that many of them look on extortion as their right. The tourist can do
something toward lessening the abuse, by firmly refusing to be cheated.
Our experience was that firmness always won the battle; if one is of a
fiery temperament there is a scene, if one is phlegmatic, one sits
immovable as a rock and lets the other storm. If one yields finally one
has the scene as well as the putting of oneself in the wrong.
To continue our day of ill-luck. From Zamora, we crawled along the dull,
local line to the junction Medina del Campo, which we reached at eleven
at night. We then changed our plans and got tickets for Segovia,
deciding to leave Avila till later. At Medina we spent six weary hours
in the waiting room, strolling up and down the windy platform, entering
the buffet now and then to drink coffee, trying to rouse imaginative
interest by thinking this was the spot where Isabella the Queen had
died. But in vain, it was too dismal. How we abused Baedeker! And how we
abused Spain and her railway system! Trains came and went, men muffled
in their cloaks entered and left the dark waiting room, we the only
impatient ones. A Spaniard accepts such things in full piety. Whoever
heard of going faster than twenty miles an hour and what more natural
than to wait in a station between trains half a night?
At two o'clock that raw windy morning we boarded the express to Segovia
and finding the ladies' compartment full, for we were now on the direct
route from Paris, we had to force ourselves into the carriage with two
furiously cross, sleepy Frenchmen.
High, cold Segovia, almost 3,000 feet above the sea! A wind, _de todos
los demonios_, was blowing that bleak first of November, and to give the
final small touch of ill-luck, it lifted and bore away to the mysterious
darkness outside, a treasured veil that the sun had at length toned to a
rare tint. We stumbled into the ill-lighted station-buffet for more hot
coffee, sending the luggage ahead to the sleeping hotel; for the
faithful hotel-omnibus had been there waiting as usual. Strange memories
remain of Spain's station restaurants,--the flitting waiters filling the
bowls of coffee for the silent travelers, (no man is more silent than a
traveling Spaniard);--frugal enduring scenes, not a touch of comfort,
one eats to live indeed. "The French taste, the Germans devour, the
Italians feast, the Spaniards _se alimentan_!"
As the dawn was breaking we left the station and walked, buffeted by the
gale, through the mournful streets that lead to the town, passing on the
way the Artillery Academy, where the country's crack regiments are
trained. As we descended to the market place below the steep hill on
which Segovia is built, a sight greeted us that repaid a thousand fold
for the dreary day and night of unnecessary travel, for guide-book
blunders, personal stupidity, dishonest officials, collarless, cross
Frenchmen and even lost automobile veils. For there, rising one hundred
and fifty feet in noble dignity and proportion, its boulders held
together by their own weight, without cement or clamping, stood the
giant Roman aqueduct that Trajan left his native land, and framed by its
arches were hills, villages, and churches, under a sky of delicate rose.
Never was there a lovelier sunrise, fragile, shell-like, dewy.
We climbed the steps that mount to the city beside the aqueduct, pausing
again and again to look at the stupendous thing. Then we passed through
quiet streets, with Romanesque doorways at every step (Segovia with
Avila has the best portals in Spain) till we reached the hotel. Though,
later, the night in Medina del Campo station revenged itself in a twenty
hours' sleep, we were now too deeply fatigued to rest, and so soon were
afoot again. A stone's throw brought us to the central square of
Segovia, on one side of which is prominent the apse of the late-Gothic
Cathedral. We pushed beyond it, here and there pausing to study some
ancient doorway or to enter a carved courtyard, till at length the
street ended in the big open space before the superbly set Alcázar, and
we looked out on that memorable view.
With the towering Roman aqueduct on one side of the town and this Castle
at the other, Segovia may claim to be one of the most picturesquely set
cities in the world. The view from the Plaza de la Reina Victoria before
the Alcázar is one of the unforgettable sights of the Peninsula, of the
inmost fiber of Castile. On the horizon lies one of Spain's sad,
isolated villages. A winding road leads to it, along which plod the
familiar carriers of the land, brothers of Sancho's patient Rucio; the
rocky hills stretch away, dotted with ancient churches. Close to the
city lie oases of trees and gardens such as the monastery enclosure of
La Parral, with its noticeable stone pines. The Alcázar with its
bartizan towers is built on a lofty crag that rises like the prow of a
giant ship above the meeting of two bosky little streams, the Eresma
which yielded the "trout of exceeding greatness" whereon Charles I of
England supped in this castle, and the peaceful brook, Clamores. Thus in
one landscape are united hardy uplands, leafy parks, a mediæval town
with church towers and fortified castle, making a scene whose
individuality is beyond beauty, whose profound charm never palls. Here
one communes with the silent, inner soul of Spain, the land of Isabella,
of Garcilaso, of Teresa, of Cervantes, not a trace of whose spirit is
found in Madrid, but in such spots as Toledo and Avila and this.
Segovia merits a prolonged stay. There were two Englishwomen in our
hotel, who had passed months painting in the unfrequented city and found
it a treasure house for the artist. It is full of Romanesque churches of
the 11th and 12th centuries; so many are there that some are unused and
falling into decay. The two best are San Martín and San Millán; the
first, in the center of the town, surrounded by noticeable houses, has
outside cloisters, that serve as a sunny lounging place for the people.
From San Martín you can descend to San Millán by the steps beside the
Plaza Isabel II. Apart from the church itself, with colossal animals
carved on its capitols, the view from its porch is a most beautiful one,
including the aqueduct, the Cathedral, and climbing houses, part of
whose foundations it is plain to see are the apses of ancient churches.
Segovia's Cathedral is not Romanesque like most of her churches, but
late-Gothic, designed by the same architect who did Salamanca's new
Cathedral, and like it, though a poor thing exteriorly, the inside is
dignified and effective: it is more fortunate than its sister church in
having a curved east end, not Salamanca's cold hall-like apse. The
cloisters of Segovia belonged to the earlier Cathedral; they were taken
down and skillfully reset here; the pillars being elliptical in shape
like Oviedo, are not thoroughly pleasing. In a chapel opening out of the
cloisters is the touching, small tomb of the prince whose nurse dropped
him by accident from a window of the Alcázar, back in the 14th century;
and a good example of the countless rare tombs of Spain is the bishop,
with an exquisite ascetic face of chiseled marble, who lies in the
passage leading to the cloisters.
As we were in Segovia on All Saints' Day, we went to the celebration in
the Cathedral, saw the prelate--the train of his red robe held by
bearers--met at the church door by the canons and conducted in state to
his throne. The vergers were very gorgeous; the leader carried a silver
staff and wore a white wig and a white robe, his two assistants also in
white wigs but with red velvet robes. The following day, All Souls',
these vergers were dressed in mourning, and in the center of the
black-draped church was placed, with true Spanish realism, a covered
bier. On All Saints' Day there was really good music on the organ whose
pipes flared out over aisles and choir; also an excellent sermon to
which all listened in rapt attention, officers, peasants, and grave
faced hidalgos standing in a characteristic group around the pulpit. The
best way to learn Spanish and to learn more than the lip language of
this race, is to listen to the sermons. Their eloquence is natural and
contagious, and the peroration, delivered with _brio_, is often an
artistic treat. Attend the sermons and frequent the early morning
services, and you stumble on scenes of unobtrusive piety that tell you,
despite some Spanish pessimists, that the soul of religion still lives
in this land of the latest crusaders. As Sunday was the day we had set
for the trip to La Granja, I went early to the Cathedral, and at Mass in
a dark chapel of the apse, I watched long two gallant little lads of
twelve and fourteen, smart in their artillery uniforms, swords, and
white gloves. They went to Communion with their mother, who, like most
Spanish women in church, was dressed in black with a draped veil, a
fashion that lends an air of distinction to the plainest. This group of
three remained to pray after the others had left the chapel, remained as
a pleasure really to pray, the serious, high-browed, little faces bent
over their books of devotion as they read the After-Communion devotions
by the light of a tall candle placed on the floor beside them; then
their blue eyes closed in such sweet, unconscious piety that it touched
the heart strangely. And when, their prayers over, they left the
Cathedral, each seized the mother's arm with a gay scamper of
delight--she probably on a visit to them--and now for a whole day of
vacation and enjoyment!
In the same uniform as the small Communicants of Segovia Cathedral,
other embryo artillery officers fill the city. At our hotel was a table
where a number of the older students dined each day. They were well-bred
lads with inborn sedateness, never boorish nor loud-voiced; noblesse
oblige still is a reality in spite of the dissipated, smart set in
Madrid by which we too often generalize. I shall not soon forget the
look of pained displeasure with which they watched the over familiar
treatment of the waiter by a foreign lady.