_Con imnos de alabanza que inflamen al Señor._
It was a curious, old-fashioned music, reminding one a little of the
quiet harmonies of Gluck. Then, putting on their hats, the pages danced,
continuing their song; they wound in and out of one another, gravely
footing it, swaying to and fro with the music very slowly. The measure
was performed with the utmost reverence. Now and then the chorus came,
and the fresh boys' voices, singing in unison, filled the church with
delightful melody. And still the old archbishop prayed, his face buried
in his hands.
The boys ceased to sing, but continued the dance, marking the time now
with castanets, and the mundane instrument contrasted strangely with the
glittering altar and with the kneeling priests. I wondered of what the
archbishop thought, kneeling so humbly--of the boys dancing before the
altar, fresh and young? Was he thinking of their white souls darkening
with the sins of the world, or of the troubles, the disillusionments of
life, and the decrepitude? Or was it of himself--did he think of his own
youth, so long past, so hopelessly gone, or did he think that he was old
and worn, and of the dark journey before him, and of the light that
seemed so distant? Did he regret his beautiful Seville with the blue
sky, and the orange-trees bowed down with their golden fruit? He seemed
so small and weak, overwhelmed in his gorgeous robes.
Again the ten boys repeated their song and dance and their castanets,
and with a rapid genuflection disappeared.
The archbishop rose painfully from his knees and ascended to the altar.
A priest held open a book before him, and another lighted the printed
page with a candle; he read out a prayer. Then, kneeling down, he bent
very low, as though he felt himself unworthy to behold the magnificence
of the Queen of Heaven. The people fell to their knees, and a man's
voice burst forth--_Ave Maria, gratia plena_; waves of passionate sound
floated over the worshippers, upwards, towards heaven. And from the
Giralda, the Moorish tower, the Christian bells rang joyfully. The
archbishop turned towards the people; and when in his thin, broken voice
he gave the benediction, one thought that no man in his heart felt such
humility as the magnificent prince of the Church, Don Marcelo Spinola y
Maestre, Archbishop of Seville.
The people flocked out quickly, and soon only a few devout penitents
remained. A priest came, waving censers before the altar, and thick
volumes of perfume ascended to the Blessed Virgin. He disappeared, and
one by one the candles were extinguished. The night crept silently along
the church, and the silver image sank into the darkness; at last two
candles only were left on the altar, high up, shining dimly.
Outside the sky was still blue, bespattered with countless stars.
NOTE.--I believe there is no definite explanation of this ceremony,
and the legend told me by an ancient priest that it was invented
during the Moorish dominion so that Christian services might be
held under cover of a social gathering--intruding Muslims would be
told merely that people were there assembled to see boys dance and
to listen to their singing--is more picturesque than probable.
Rather does it seem analogous with the leaping of David the King
before the Ark of Jehovah, when he danced before the Lord with all
his might, girt with a linen Ephod; and this, if I may hazard an
opinion, was with a view to amuse a deity apt to be bored or
languid, just as Nautch girls dance to this day before the idols of
the Hindus, and tops are spun before Krishna to divert him.
XIX
[Sidenote: The Giralda]
The Christian bells rang joyfully from the Moorish tower, the great old
bells christened with holy oil, _el Cantor_ the Singer, _la Gorda_ the
Great, _San Miguel_. I climbed the winding passage till I came to the
terrace where stood the ringers, and as they pulled their ropes the
bells swung round on their axles, completing a circle, with deafening
clamour. The din was terrific, so that the solid masonry appeared to
shake, and I felt the vibrations of the surrounding air. It was a
strange sensation to shout as loud as possible and hear no sound issue
from my mouth.
The Giralda, with its Moorish base and its Christian belfry, is a symbol
of Andalusia. There is in the Ayuntamiento an old picture of the Minaret
built by Djâbir the Moor, nearly one hundred feet shorter than the
completed tower, but surmounted by a battlemented platform on which are
huge brazen balls and an iron standard. These were overthrown by an
earthquake, and later, when the discoveries of Christopher Columbus had
poured unmeasured riches into Seville, the Chapter commissioned Hernan
Ruiz to add a belfry to the Moorish base. Hernan Ruiz nearly ruined the
mosque at Cordova, but here he was entirely successful. Indeed it is
extraordinary that the two parts should be joined in such admirable
harmony. It is impossible to give in words an idea of the slender grace
of the Giralda, it does not look a thing of bricks and mortar, it is so
straight and light that it reminds one vaguely of some beautiful human
thing. The great height is astonishing, there is no buttress or
projection to break the very long straight line as it rises, with a kind
of breathless speed, to the belfry platform. And then the renaissance
building begins, ascending still more, a sort of filigree work,
excessively rich, and elegant beyond all praise. It is surmounted by a
female figure of bronze, representing Faith and veering with every
breeze, and the artist has surrounded his work with the motto: _Nomen
Domini Fortissima Turris_.
But the older portion gains another charm from the Moorish windows that
pierce it, one above the other, with horseshoe arches; and from the
arabesque network with which the upper part is diapered, a brick
trellis-work against the brick walls, of the most graceful and delicate
intricacy. The Giralda is almost toylike in the daintiness of its
decoration. Notwithstanding its great size it is a masterpiece of
exquisite proportion. At night it stands out with strong lines against
the bespangled sky, and the lights of the watchers give it a magic
appearance of some lacelike tower of imagination; but on high festivals
it is lit with countless lamps, and then, as Richard Ford puts it, hangs
from the dark vault of heaven like a brilliant chandelier.
I looked down at Seville from above. A Spanish town wears always its
most picturesque appearance thus seen, but it is never different; the
_patios_ glaring with whitewash, the roofs of brown and yellow tiles,
and the narrow streets, winding in unexpected directions, narrower than
ever from such a height and dark with shade, so that they seem black
rivulets gliding stealthily through the whiteness. Looking at a northern
city from a tall church tower all things are confused with one another,
the slate roofs join together till it is like a huge uneven sea of grey;
but in Seville the atmosphere is so limpid, the colour so brilliant,
that every house is clearly separated from its neighbour, and sometimes
there appears to be between them a preternatural distinctness. Each
stands independently of any other; you might suppose yourself in a
strange city of the _Arabian Nights_ where a great population lived in
houses crowded together, but invisibly, so that each person fancied
himself in isolation.
Immediately below was the Cathedral and to remind you of Cordova, the
Court of Oranges; but here was no sunny restfulness, nor old-world
quiet. The Court is gloomy and dark, and the trim rows of orange-trees
contrast oddly with the grey stone of the Cathedral, its huge porches,
and the flamboyant exuberance of its decoration. The sun never shines in
it and no fruit splash the dark foliage with gold. You do not think of
the generations of priests who have wandered in it on the summer
evenings, basking away their peaceful lives in the sunshine; but rather
of the busy merchants who met there in the old days when it was still
the exchange of Seville, before the Lonja was built, to discuss the war
with England, or the fate of ships bringing gold from America. At one
end of the court is an old stone pulpit from which preached St. Francis
of Borga and St. Vincent Ferrer and many an unknown monk besides. Then
it was thronged with multi-coloured crowds, with townsmen, soldiers and
great noblemen, when the faith was living and strong; and the preacher,
with all the gesture and the impassioned rhetoric of a Spaniard, poured
out burning words of hate for Jew and Moor and Heretic, so that the
listeners panted and a veil of blood passed before their eyes; or else
uttered so eloquent a song in praise of the Blessed Virgin, immaculately
conceived, that strong men burst into tears at the recital of her
perfect beauty.
XX
[Sidenote: The Cathedral of Seville]
Your first impression when you walk round the cathedral of Seville,
noting with dismay the crushed cupolas and unsightly excrescences, the
dinginess of colour, is not enthusiastic. It was built by German
architects without a thought for the surrounding houses, brilliantly
whitewashed, and the blue sky, and it proves the incongruity of northern
art in a southern country; but even lowering clouds and mist could lend
no charm to the late Gothic of _Santa Maria de la Sede_.
The interior fortunately is very different. Notwithstanding the Gothic
groining, as you enter from the splendid heat of noonday, (in the Plaza
del Triunfo the sun beats down and the houses are more dazzling than
snow,) the effect is thoroughly and delightfully Spanish. Light is very
fatal to devotion and the Spaniards have been so wise as to make their
churches extremely dark. At first you can see nothing. Incense floats
heavily about you, filling the air, and the coolness is like a draught
of fresh, perfumed water. But gradually the church detaches itself from
the obscurity and you see great columns, immensely lofty. The spaces are
large and simple, giving an impression of vast room; and the choir,
walled up on three sides, in the middle of the nave as in all Spanish
cathedrals, by obstructing the view gives an appearance of almost
unlimited extent. To me it seems that in such a place it is easier to
comprehend the majesty wherewith man has equipped himself. Science
offers only thoughts of human insignificance; the vastness of the sea,
the terror of the mountains, emphasise the fact that man is of no
account, ephemeral as the leaves of summer. But in those bold aisles, by
the pillars rising with such a confident pride towards heaven, it is
almost impossible not to feel that man indeed is god-like, lord of the
earth; and that the great array of nature is builded for his purpose.
Typically Spanish also is the decoration, and very rich. The
choir-stalls are of carved wood, florid and exuberant like the Spanish
imagination; the altars gleam with gold; pictures of saints are framed
by golden pillars carved with huge bunches of grapes and fruit and
fantastic leaves. I was astounded at the opulence of the treasure; there
were gorgeous altars of precious metal, great saints of silver, caskets
of gold, monstrances studded with rare stones, crosses and crucifixes.
The vestments were of unimaginable splendour: there were two hundred
copes of all ages and of every variety, fifty of each colour, white for
Christmas and Easter, red for Corpus Christi, blue for the Immaculate
Conception, violet for Holy Week; there were the special copes of the
Primate, copes for officiating bishops, copes for dignitaries from other
countries and dioceses. They were of the richest velvet and satin,
heavily embroidered with gold, many with saints worked in silk, so
heavy that it seemed hardly possible for a man to bear them.
In the Baptistery, filling it with warm light, is the _San Antonio_ of
Murillo, than which no picture gives more intensely the religious
emotion. The saint, tall and meagre, beautiful of face, looks at the
Divine Child hovering in a golden mist with an ecstasy that is no longer
human.
It is interesting to consider whether an artist need feel the sentiment
he desires to convey. Certainly many pictures have been painted under
the influence of profound feeling which leave the spectator entirely
cold, and it is probable enough that the early Italians felt few of the
emotions which their pictures call forth. We know that the masterpieces
of Perugino, so moving, so instinct with religious tenderness, were very
much a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. But Luis de Vargas, on the
other hand, daily humbled himself by scourging and by wearing a hair
shirt, and Vicente Joanes prepared himself for a new picture by
communion and confession; so that it is impossible to wonder at the rude
and savage ardour of their work. And the impression that may be gathered
of Murillo from his pictures is borne out by the study of his grave and
simple life. He had not the turbulent piety of the other two, but a calm
and sweet devotion, which led him to spend long hours in church,
meditating. He, at any rate, felt all that he expressed.
I do not know a church that gives the religious sentiment more
completely than Seville Cathedral. The worship of the Spaniards is
sombre, full-blooded, a thing of dark rich colours; it requires the
heaviness of incense and that overloading of rococo decoration. It is
curious that notwithstanding their extreme similarity to the
Neapolitans, the Andalusians should in their faith differ so entirely.
Of course, in Southern Italy religion is as full of superstition--an
adoration of images in which all symbolism is lost and only the gross
idol remains; but it is a gayer and a lighter thing than in Spain. Most
characteristic of this is the difference between the churches; and with
_Santa Maria de la Sede_ may well be contrasted the Neapolitan _Santa
Chiara_, with its great windows, so airy and spacious, sparkling with
white and gold. The paintings are almost frolicsome. It is like a
ballroom, a typical place of worship for a generation that had no desire
to pray, but strutted in gaudy silks and ogled over pretty fans,
pretending to discuss the latest audacity of Monsieur Arouet de
Voltaire.
XXI
[Sidenote: The Hospital of Charity]
The Spaniards possess to the fullest degree the art of evoking devout
emotions, and in their various churches may be experienced every phase
of religious feeling. After the majestic size and the solemn mystery of
the Cathedral, nothing can come as a greater contrast than the Church of
the Hermandad de la Caredad. It was built by don Miguel de Mañara, who
rests in the chancel, with the inscription over him: '_Aqui jacen los
huesos y ceñizas del peor hombre que ha habido en el mundo; ruegan por
el_'--'Here lie the bones and ashes of the worst man that has ever been
in the world; pray for him.' But like all Andalusians he was a braggart;
for a love of chocolate, which appears to have been his besetting sin,
is insufficient foundation for such a vaunt: a vice of that order is
adequately punished by the corpulence it must occasion. However, legend,
representing don Miguel as the most dissolute of libertines, is more
friendly. The grave sister who escorts the visitor relates that one day
in church don Miguel saw a beautiful nun, and undaunted by her habit,
made amorous proposals. She did not speak, but turned to look at him,
whereupon he saw the side of her face which had been hidden from his
gaze, and it was eaten away by a foul and loathsome disease, so that it
seemed more horrible than the face of death. The gallant was so
terrified that he fainted, and afterwards the face haunted him, the face
of matchless beauty and of revolting decay, so that he turned from the
world. He devoted his fortune to rebuilding the hospital and church of
the Brotherhood of Charity, whose chief office it was to administer the
sacraments to those condemned to death and provide for their burial, and
was eventually received into their Order.
It was in the seventeenth century that Mañara built his church, and
consequently rococo holds sway with all its fantasies. It is small,
without aisles or chapels, and the morbid opulence of the decoration
gives it a peculiar character. The walls are lined with red damask, and
the floor carpeted with a heavy crimson carpet; it gives the sensation
of a hothouse, or, with its close odours, of a bedchamber transformed
into a chapel for the administration of the last sacrament. The
atmosphere is unhealthy: one pants for breath.
At one end, taking up the entire wall, is a reredos by Pedro Roldan, of
which the centrepiece is an elaborate 'Deposition in the Tomb,' with
numerous figures coloured to the life. It is very fine in its mingling
of soft, rich hues and flamboyant realism. The artist has revelled in
the opportunity for anguish of expression that his subject afforded, but
has treated it with such a passionate seriousness that, in his grim,
fierce way, he does not fail to be impressive. The frame is of twisted
golden pillars, supported by little naked angels, and decorated with
grapes and vine-leaves. Above and at the sides are great saints in
carved wood, and angels with floating drapery.
Murillo was on terms of intimacy with don Miguel de Mañara, and like him
a member of the Hermandad. For his friend he painted some of his most
famous pictures, which by the subdued ardour of their colour, by their
opulent tones, harmonise most exquisitely with the church. Marshal
Soult, with a fine love of art that was profitable, carried off several
of them, and their empty frames stare at one still. But before that,
when they were all in place, the effect must have been of unique
magnificence.
It must be an extraordinary religion that flourishes in such a place, an
artificial faith that needs heat like tropical plants, that desires
unnatural vows. It breathes of neurotic emotions with its damask-covered
walls, with its carpet that deadens the footfall, its sombre, gorgeous
pictures. The sweet breeze of heaven never enters there, nor the
sunlight; the air is languid with incense; one is oppressed by a
strange, heavy silence. In such a church sins must be fostered for the
morbid pleasure of confession. One can imagine that the worshippers in
that overloaded atmosphere would see strange visions, voluptuous and
mystical; the Blessed Mary and the Saints might gain visible and
palpable flesh, and the devil would not be far off. There the gruesome
imaginings of Valdes Leal are a fitting decoration. Every one knows that
grim picture of a bishop in episcopal robes, eaten by worms, his flesh
putrefying, which led Murillo to say: 'Leal, you make me hold my nose,'
and the other answered: 'You have taken all the flesh and left me
nought but the bones.' Elsewhere, by the same master, there is a
painting that suggests, with greater poignancy to my mind because less
brutally, the thoughts evoked by the more celebrated work, and since it
seems to complete the ideas awakened by this curious chapel, I mention
it here.
It represents a priest at the altar, saying his mass, and the altar
after the Spanish fashion is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. He
wears a magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wears
them as though their weight were more than he could bear; and in the
meagre, trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the dark
hollowness of the eyes and in the sunken cheeks, there is a bodily
corruption that is terrifying. The priest seems to hold together with
difficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no eager yearning of the
soul to burst its prison, only with despair; it is as if the Lord
Almighty had forsaken him, and the high heavens were empty of their
solace. All the beauty of life appears forgotten, and there is nothing
in the world but decay. A ghastly putrefaction has attacked already the
living man; the worms of the grave, the piteous horror of mortality, and
the darkness before him offer nought but fear, and what soul is there to
rise again! Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark
night of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of
life whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart.
* * *
Then, if you would study yet another phase of the religious sentiment,
go to the Museo, where are the fine pictures that Murillo painted for
the Capuchin Monastery. You will see all the sombreness of Spanish
piety, the savage faith, dissolved into ineffable love. Religion has
become a wonderful tenderness, in which passionate human affection is
inextricably mingled with god-like adoration. Murillo, these sensual
forms quivering with life, brought the Eternal down to earth, and gave
terrestrial ardour to the apathy of an impersonal devotion; that,
perhaps, is why to women he has always been the most fascinating of
painters. In the _Madonna de la Servilleta_--painted on a napkin for the
cook of the monastery--the child is a simple, earthly infant, fresh and
rosy, with wide-open, wondering eyes and not a trace of immortality. I
myself saw a common woman of the streets stand before this picture with
tears running down her cheeks.
'_Corazon de mi alma!_' she said, 'Heart of my soul! I could cover his
little body with kisses.'
She smiled, but could hardly restrain her sobs. The engrossing love of a
mother for her child seemed joined in miraculous union with the worship
of a mortal for his God.
Murillo had neither the power nor the desire to idealise his models. The
saints of these great pictures, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Felix of
Cantalicio, St. Thomas of Villanueva, are monks and beggars such as may
to this day be seen in the streets of Seville. St. Felix is merely an
old man with hollow cheeks and a grey, ragged beard; but yet as he
clasps the child in his arms with eager tenderness, he is transfigured
by a divine ecstasy: his face is radiant with the most touching
emotion. And St. Antony of Padua, in another picture, worships the
infant God with a mystic adoration, which, notwithstanding the realism
of the presentment, lifts him far, far above the earth.
XXII
[Sidenote: Gaol]
I was curious to see the prison in Seville. Gruesome tales had been told
me of its filth and horror, and the wretched condition of the prisoners;
I had even heard that from the street you might see them pressing
against the barred windows with arms thrust through, begging the
passer-by for money or bread. Mediæval stories recurred to my mind and
the clank of chains trailed through my imagination.
I arranged to be conducted by the prison doctor, and one morning soon
after five set out to meet him. My guide informed me by a significant
gesture that his tendencies were--bibulous, and our meeting-place was a
tavern; but when we arrived they told us that don Felipe--such was his
name--had been taken his morning dram and gone; however, if we went to
another inn we should doubtless find him. But there we heard he had not
yet arrived, he was not due till half-past five. To pass the time we
drank a mouthful of _aguardiente_ and smoked a cigarette, and eventually
the medico was espied in the distance. We went towards him--a round, fat
person with a red face and a redder nose, somewhat shabbily dressed.
He looked at me pointedly and said:
'I'm dry. _Vengo seco._'
It was a hint not to be neglected, and we returned to the tavern where
don Felipe had his nip.
'It's very good for the stomach,' he assured me.
We sallied forth together, and as we walked he told me the number of
prisoners, the sort of crimes for which they were detained--ranging from
man-slaughter to petty larceny--and finally, details of his own career.
He was an intelligent man, and when we came to the prison door insisted
on drinking my health.
The prison is an old convent, and it is a little startling to see the
church façade, with a statue of the Madonna over the central porch. At
the steps a number of women stood waiting with pots and jars and
handkerchiefs full of food for their relatives within; and when the
doctor appeared several rushed up to ask about a father or a son that
lay sick. We went in and there was a melodramatic tinkling of keys and
an unlocking of heavy doors.