A WORLD'S WONDER.
Barcelona--H. C.'s anxiety--Mutual salutes--Old
impressions--Disappointment--Familiar cries and
scenes--Flower-sellers--Perpetual summer--Commercial
element--Manchester of Spain--Surrounding country--Where care comes
not--Barcelonita--The quays--A land of corn and wine--Relaxing
air--Lovely ladies--Ancient element conspicuous by its
absence--Historical past--Great in the Middle Ages--Wise and
powerful--Commerce of the world--Wealth and learning--Waxes
voluptuous--Ferdinand and Isabella--Diplomatic but not
grateful--Brave and courageous--Fell before
Peterborough--Napoleon's treachery--Republican people--Prosperous
once more--Ecclesiastical treasures--Matchless
cathedral--Inspiration--Influence of the Moors--Work of Majorcan
architect--Dream world--Imposing scene.
We made way without further let or hindrance, and about ten o'clock the
train steamed into Barcelona. H. C. gazed out anxiously for a regiment
of soldiers with drawn swords, and was relieved at seeing only the usual
couple of policemen with guns and cocked hats, looking harmless and
amiable. He smiled benignly, saluted, and they returned the compliment.
Our hearts beat quicker as we found ourselves in presence of familiar
haunts. The very name conjured up a thousand scenes and pictures, every
one of them a delightful recollection. From its fair port we had more
than once sailed in days gone by for our beloved Majorca, loveliest of
islands. Here we had spent days of pleasant expectation, waiting for the
island steamer; more than once had returned with a cargo of Majorcan
pigs, and after a tug-of-war seen some of the obstinate animals landed
at last without their tails. Arriving from the sea was a far pleasanter
way of gaining a first impression. The coast views are very fine.
Approaching the harbour, church turrets and towers are outlined against
the transparent sky. Passing between low reaches, the immense fortress
of Montjuich, nearly a thousand feet high, rises like an impregnable
rock defying the world.
Approaching to-night by train was less exciting and romantic. Still it
was Barcelona, and the porters calling out the syllables in their soft
Spanish set our heart beating.
It was a certain disappointment to find our favourite Four Nations--at
that time one of the best hotels in Spain--closed. We had to put up with
the Falcon, not by any means the same thing. It is pleasant to return to
familiar quarters and people who welcome you as old habitues. The
atmosphere of the Falcon was also more commercial and had no repose
about it. Yet it was on the Rambla, and the next morning we awoke to the
well-known cries of Barcelona, the old familiar scene.
A very Spanish scene, with its broad imposing thoroughfare and double
row of well-grown trees rustling in the wind, glinting in the sunshine,
filling the air with music and flashes of light. As the morning went on,
the broad road became more crowded. Stretching far down, under the
trees, were flower-stalls full of lovely blossoms. Roses, violets and
hyacinths scented the air. It was delightful to see such profusion in
November; to find blue skies and balmy airs rivalling the flowers. This
land of perpetual summer is highly favoured. If a cold wind arises,
turning the skies to winter, it is only for a short interval. Though it
be December, summer soon returns, and the sunny clime is all the
lovelier by contrast.
Like the Hotel Falcon, the element of Barcelona is, we have said,
commercial. It is perhaps the most flourishing and enterprising of all
the towns of Spain. There are immense ship-building yards, and all sorts
of ironwork is made, but the town itself has no sign or sound of
manufacturing. It has been called the Manchester of Spain, yet its skies
are for ever blue, the air is clear and untainted: a peculiar brilliancy
and splendour of atmosphere not often met with even in the sunny South.
The country for many miles around is beautiful and undulating; beyond
the immediate hills it has often a wild and savage grandeur that
sometimes reaches the sublime. Year by year the town grows in extent.
Well-organised tramways carry you to and fro through endless
thoroughfares. The richer merchants have built themselves streets of
palatial residences that stretch away into suburbs. Few cities are so
brilliantly lighted. If Spain is a poor country, Barcelona seems to have
escaped the evil. There is animation about it, perpetual movement, a
quiet activity. For it is quiet with all its business and energy, and so
far has the advantage over Madrid, where the commercial element was less
evident but the noise infinitely greater. There people seemed to like
sound for its own sake. In Barcelona they were intent upon making money,
and as far as one can see, gained their object. Everything prospered. It
was delightful to go down to the fine harbour and watch the vessels
loading and unloading, the flags of all nations vividly contrasting with
the brilliant blue sky as they flashed and fluttered in the wind. The
port is magnificent. Its waters are blue as the heaven above them, and a
myriad sun-gleams light up its surface. Nothing can be more exhilarating
and picturesque. The faintest outline of a ship possesses a nameless
charm; suggests freedom, wide seas, infinite space: speaks of
enterprise, danger, and courage, yet is an emblem of absolute repose;
hours and days and weeks where the world cannot reach you, and its cares
and worries are non-existent.
Nowhere is the element found under more favourable conditions than in
Barcelona. Few harbours are so well placed. Climb the heights for a
bird's-eye view of the port, and the scene is enchanting. Low-lying
shores undulate towards the mouth of the harbour; green pastures,
glittering sandhills, the blue flashing sea stretch beyond. If your
vision could carry so far, you might gaze upon the lovely Island of
Majorca, rising like a faultless gem out of its deep blue setting of the
Levant. Nothing meets the eye but the broad line of the horizon, broken
here and there by a passing vessel.
[Illustration: THE RAMBLA: BARCELONA.]
On the other side the water, beyond the shipping, lies a small new
settlement of houses called Barcelonita. It is not aristocratic and is
the laundry of the mother town, where dwell the ladies who undertake to
rapidly bleach and destroy one's linen with unrighteous chemicals, and
have earned for Barcelona an unenviable reputation. Ship-builders and
fishermen alone dispute the right of way with these women of the
wash-tub. Turning back to the town, the broad thoroughfare running down
a portion of the quays is lined with magnificent palms, giving it an
almost Oriental aspect. At one end rises a monument to Columbus; at the
other an enormous triumphal arch, combining the Oriental with the
classical; the former quite the pleasanter. Everything bears witness to
the well-being of Barcelona. Its quays are lined with bales of goods.
Men keep tally with the monotonous sing-song one knows so well. Boxes of
oranges betray themselves by their exquisite perfume, and the whole year
round brings a succession of fruits. In this lovely climate the earth is
abundantly productive. It is a land of corn and wine; the warm days of
winter more beautiful than those of summer.
Of Barcelona this is especially true. Its climate seemed more relaxing
than that of any other Spanish town. Even Valencia, so much farther
south, appeared less enervating. Long walks were out of the question.
All one could do was to hire one of the open carriages and drive lazily
about: a luxury obtained at a trifling cost. But vehicles and drivers
hardly seemed to share in the general prosperity; both appeared equally
shabby, worn-out and antediluvian. Their horses looked no less forlorn.
In the afternoons the Rambla was crowded with people, strolling to and
fro under the shadow of the trees. All the town seemed to close ledgers,
lock up counting-houses, and turn to the very innocent pleasure of
taking the air.
Ladies appeared with mantillas and fans; the younger women here as in
Madrid using a distinct language of fan and eye. Large, softly flashing
eyes, full of expression for the most part. H. C.'s susceptible heart
had no chance of repose. His dreams were feverish and disturbed by
night; his leisure moments by day devoted to love-sonnets. These lovely
ladies in their first youth are certainly very captivating and poetical;
and a slight touch of the voluptuous, _dolce far niente_ element is a
distinct characteristic of their subtle grace and charm.
In the afternoons, if the Rambla gained a charm it also lost one. The
flower-stalls disappeared with their picturesque and pretty
flower-sellers. Empty spaces remained, looking forlorn and neglected.
Great masses of blossom that delighted the eye and scented the early
morning were no more. Here the red and white camellias flourish in the
open air, but are by no means given away, as they were almost given away
in Valencia. Barcelona has its price for flowers as for everything else.
All this, the reader will say, belongs to the modern element. The
splendid outlines of Gerona; the old-world houses, with their ancient
ironwork and Gothic windows; the Anselmos, Rosalies, Delormais' of
Barcelona--where were they?
Conspicuous by their absence. With the exception of a few narrow
tortuous streets, Barcelona is essentially modern. Even these
picturesque thoroughfares are distinguished by discomfort, a shabby air,
and little beauty of outline. In the Rambla you might almost fancy
yourself on a Paris boulevard. Barcelona has increased so rapidly that
all the new part, including the rich suburb of Gracia--its West-End--is
twice as large as the old. All its great buildings are modern; and
modern, though specially bright and engaging, is the scene of its port
and harbour.
Yet with few vestiges of age, Barcelona has an historical past. In both
a religious and military sense, she has played her part in the annals of
Spain. More than one document in the archives of Samancas holds records
to her honour and glory.
Her days are said to go back to four centuries before Rome, and
tradition credits Hercules with her foundation. Two hundred years later,
under the Romans, it became a city, and about the year 400 A.D. began to
prosper. Tarragona was the capital when the Moors destroyed it, and
Barcelona, wise in its generation, yielded to the conquerors and
succeeded as chief town. In the ninth century it was ruled by a
Christian chief of its own under the title of Count of Barcelona, merged
later on into that of King of Aragon.
But it was in the Middle Ages that Barcelona was great, and these Middle
Ages have left their mark on her ecclesiastical history. Powerful, she
used her power well; rich, she spent wisely.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CORO, GERONA CATHEDRAL.]
At that time, she divided with Italy the commerce of the East,
practically the commerce of the world. She was the terror of the
Mediterranean. Trade was her sheet-anchor. The Castilians held trade in
contempt, and suffered in consequence; Barcelona, proud of her commerce,
flourished. Her name was great in Europe. The city became famous for
wealth and learning, a rendezvous of kings, the resort of fashion,
voluptuous in its tastes. Ferdinand and Isabella especially loved it,
though self-indulgence played little part in their lives. Here in 1493
they received Columbus after his famous voyage of discovery.
Yet this very connection with Castile led to the decline of Barcelona.
In her policy she has never been consistent, otherwise than consistently
selfish. Now and then, to keep up her prestige, she has claimed the aid
of a foreign power, only to throw it off when her turn was served.
Diplomacy, but not gratitude, has been her strong point--and sometimes
she has overreached herself.
Nevertheless, as we have said, there are passages in her history of
which she may be proud. She behaved bravely, but suffered, at the time
Marlborough was gaining his victories elsewhere, when she had to fight
Spain and France single-handed--for Barcelona, it will be remembered,
formed part of an independent kingdom. Louis XIV. sent Berwick with
40,000 men to the rescue of Philip V., and an English fleet under
Wishart blockaded them. Against this formidable array, Barcelona acted
with courage, but the foe was strong. She fell; was sacked, burnt, and
lost her privileges. In the War of Succession, in 1795, her almost
impregnable fort was taken by Lord Peterborough--one of the great
captures of modern times. But she arose again and kept her prosperity
until Napoleon obtained possession of her by treachery in 1808, when
Duhesme, entering with 11,000 men as a pretended ally, took the Citadel.
Napoleon looked upon Barcelona as the key of Spain, and considered it
practically impregnable.
Of the beauty of her site there can be only one opinion, but she is, and
always has been, very Republican. That her people are noisy, turbulent,
riotous, they have clearly shown of late years. In any revolt she would
be ready to take the lead. Should the kingly power ever fall in Spain,
Barcelona will be amongst the first to hoist the red flag. Though no
longer the terror of the Mediterranean, she seems to have regained more
than her former prosperity, and on a safer basis than of old. In 1868
one of the last vestiges of antiquity--the town walls--disappeared to
make way for the modern element.
But if the streets of Barcelona are modern, and to some extent
uninteresting, the same cannot be said of her churches. She is rich in
ecclesiastical treasures. Catalonia has a style of architecture as
marked as it is pre-eminently her own. If her churches are less
magnificent and extensive than those of other countries, in some points
they are more beautiful.
We have referred to one of these points--the extreme width of the
interiors. This, however, is not a feature in Barcelona, though in both
height and breadth it is splendidly proportioned. In effect, tone and
feeling, we place this cathedral before all others whether in Spain or
elsewhere. Beauty and refinement, the repose of a dim religious light,
softness and perfection of colouring, these merits cannot be surpassed.
Crowded with detail, it is so admirably designed that perfect harmony
exists. Every succeeding hour spent within its walls seems to bring to
light some new and unexpected feature. Day after day admiration
increases, and wonder and surprise; and many visits are needed before
its infinite beauties can be appreciated.
From the moment of entering you are charmed beyond all words. Here is a
building no human mind could plan or human hands have raised. Never
other building suggested this. However great the admiration--from St.
Peter's at Rome, largest in the world, to Westminster Abbey, one of the
most exquisite--nothing seems beyond man's power to accomplish.
Barcelona alone strikes one as a dream-vision enchanted into shape and
substance, possessing something of the supernatural, and is full of a
sense of mystery. A faint light softens all outlines; half-concealed
recesses meet the eye on every hand; mysterious depths lurk in the
galleries over the side chapels. Sight gradually penetrates the darkness
only to discover some new and beautiful work. Not very large, it is so
perfectly proportioned that the effect is of infinitely greater space.
Not a detail would one alter or single outline modify.
[Illustration: PULPIT AND STALLS, BARCELONA CATHEDRAL.]
Some of its coloured windows are amongst the loveliest and richest in
the world. Rainbow shafts fall across pillars and arches. We are in Eden
and this is its sacred fane. The whole building is an inspiration.
It is cruciform, and stands on the site of an ancient Pagan temple.
This, in 1058, gave place to the first Christian church, very little of
which now remains. Converted into a mosque, it ceased to be Christian
during the reign of that wonderful people, the Moors--wonderful
throughout their long career, and falling at last, like Rome, by a fatal
luxury. The more one sees their traces and remains, the more their
strength is confirmed. Their influence upon Spain was inestimable. In
all they did a certain religious element is apparent, not an element of
barbaric worship, but of cultivation and reverence. Strange they should
have hated the Christians, failing to realise an influence that was
gradually changing the face of the earth.
In Spain their history runs side by side with that of the Christians,
yet they were so divided that nothing done by the one was right in the
sight of the other. So each kept its school jealously separate, to our
endless gain. The very name of Moorish architecture quickens the pulse,
conjuring visions that appeal to all one's imagination and sense of
beauty. Intellectually they were more advanced. The rough and warlike
Christians had not the nervous development of the Moors, who were
learned in the arts and sciences; possessed the traditions of centuries;
had ruled the fortunes of the world. Christianity had to triumph in the
end; but for long the Moors were powerful and supreme.
Barcelona Cathedral was commenced at the end of the thirteenth century,
in the year 1298, and carried on through a great part of the fourteenth.
It seems to have been the work of Jayme Fabre, who was summoned over
from Palma de Mallorca by the King of Aragon and the reigning bishop,
and designed and for many years superintended the work. To him is due
the chief credit of this world's wonder, to Mallorca the honour of
producing him.
Nearly the whole merit lies in the interior, and the exterior is of
little value. Its poor and modern west front opens to a square, but the
remainder is so surrounded by buildings and houses that it is difficult
to see any part of it. The octagonal steeples are plain below the
belfry; but the upper stages, pierced and beautiful, are finished off by
pierced parapets. Some of the windows are richly moulded. The small
flying buttresses are not effective. The east end is the best part, with
its Gothic windows and fine tracery, though otherwise severely simple.
Here the upper part of the buttresses have been destroyed, and the walls
ending without roof or parapet give it a half-ruinous appearance.
The interior has an aisle and chapels around the apse, following the
French rather than the Spanish school. The details, however, are
entirely Catalonian. The arches are narrow, but extremely beautiful. The
capitals of the fluted pillars are small, delicate, and refined, and the
groining of the roof is carried up in exquisite lines. Beyond the main
arches is a small arcaded triforium, and above this a circular window to
each bay.
The dark stone is rich, solemn and magnificent in effect. Owing to the
clever placing of the windows and the prevalence of stained glass, a
semi-obscurity for ever reigns: not so great as that of Gerona, but so
far dim and religious that only when the sun is full on the south
windows can many of the details be seen.
The Coro, forming part of the plan of the building, is less aggressive
than in many of the Spanish cathedrals. The stalls are of great delicacy
and refinement; the Bishop's throne, which has been compared to that of
Winchester, is large and magnificent, taking its proper position at the
east end of the choir. The pulpit at the north corner, and the staircase
leading to it, are marvels of exquisite wood-carving and rare old
ironwork. The canopies are delicately wrought, and the _misereres_
ornamented with fine foliage. Upwards, the eye is arrested by the beauty
of the surrounding fluted pillars, on which rest the main arches of the
nave. These cut and intersect the pointed arches of the deep galleries
beyond, placed above the side chapels, of which there are an immense
number. Turn which way you will, it is nothing but a long view of
receding aisles, arches, and columns free or partly hidden by some
lovely pillar; windows of the deepest, richest colours ever seen;
mysterious recesses where daylight never penetrates; a subdued tone of
infinite refinement; a solemn repose and sense of unbroken harmony.
[Illustration: TWILIGHT IN BARCELONA CATHEDRAL]
A little to the right the eye rests on the great organ, filling up one
of the deep dark galleries. Its immense swinging shutters are open,
exposing silvery pipes. The organist is at his post, but only for
recreation, for it is not the hour of service. Soft, sweet music
breathes and vibrates through the aisles, dies away in dim recesses,
floats out of existence in the high vaulting of the roof; but the sense
of repose is never disturbed. Sitting in a quiet corner of the stalls,
amidst all this beauty of tone and outline, one feels in Paradise.
But the charm of charms lies in the octagonal lantern at the west end,
and here Barcelona stands unrivalled.
This crowning glory is of extreme richness yet delicacy of detail.
Looking upwards and catching all the infinite combinations of arches and
angles--the bold piers resting on square outlines--the marvellous
cuttings and intersectings--the purity yet simplicity of design--the dim
religious light in which all is so mysteriously veiled--the few beams of
light cunningly admitted at the extreme summit--observing this, one is
lost in silent wonder. It seems almost as difficult to penetrate into
the beauty and mystery of this lantern as into heaven itself. And we ask
ourselves again and again if the world contains a more exquisite
dream-building than this.
Well do we remember the first time we saw this lantern and its imposing
accompaniment.
A state council was being held in the church. Immediately beneath it sat
the clergy; Bishop, Dean, and Canons in gorgeous vestments. One carried
a Cardinal's hat, whose thin inscrutable face reminded us a little of
Antonelli, that man of influence and mystery, whom none understood, and
whose greatest schemes and ambitions were not destined to succeed. Many
were dressed in purple and fine linen; not a few looked as though they
fared sumptuously. Their actions were grave and solemn. Something
weighty and momentous as the election of a new pope or the founding of a
new religion, might have been under discussion. In reality, it was the
choice of a new canon. One or two possessed refined, intellectual
faces, but the greater number were not born to be leaders of men. The
gravity of the occasion, perfect outlines of the building, splendour of
the vestments, all the pomp and ceremony with which, at last, they broke
up the assembly; the veneration paid to the old Bishop and he of the
crimson hat; the solemn procession filing down the aisle and through the
cloisters to the Bishop's palace--this remains in the memory as an
impressively splendid picture. Fifteen years have gone by since that
day, but we see it as vividly before us as though it had been but
yesterday.