LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
First impressions--Devoted to pleasure--Peace-loving--Climate makes
gay and lively--New element--Few traces of the past--Old
palaces--Steals into the affections--City of the
Cid--Ecclesiastical attractions--Archbishopric--University--Homer
must nod sometimes--Comparative repose--De Nevada carries us
off--Admirable host--Conversational--Grave and gay--Mercy, not
sacrifice--Library--At Puzol--Exacting a promise--The hour
sounds--Count Pedro appears--Fragrant coffee--Served by
magic--Specially prepared temptation--Perverting facts--Land
flowing with milk and honey--Inquiring mind--Mighty man of
valour--Cid likened to Cromwell--Retribution--Ibn Jehaf the
murderer--Reign of terror--The faithful Ximena--Cid's
death-blow--Priest turns schoolmaster--"Beware!"--Earthly
paradise--Land of consolation--System of irrigation--Famous
council--Poetical Granada--No appeal--Apostles' Gateway--Earth's
fascinations--Picturesque peasants--Pretty women--Countess Pedro
shakes her head--Leave-taking--Next morning--Quiet activity--Market
day--Splendours of flower-market--Lonja de Seda--Vanishing
dream--Audiencia--San Salvador--Antiquity yields to
comfort--Convent of San Domingo--Miserere--Impressive
ceremony--City of Flowers--Without the walls--Famous river--Change
of scene.
Valencia proved more modern and bustling than we had imagined. After the
quiet streets of Tarragona it appeared to us the most crowded place we
had ever been in; tramcars ran to and fro; there was much noise and
excitement. Half the crowd was composed of the student class. All seemed
in an uproar, but it was only their natural tone and manner. The
Valencians, especially the lower classes, are devoted to pleasure; the
work of the day over, they live for enjoyment.
[Illustration: ANCIENT GATEWAY: VALENCIA.]
Involuntarily we were reminded of our old days in the Quartier Latin;
but there, excitement often meant revolutionary mischief. The Valencians
are peace-loving, and their climate forces them to be gay and lively.
Though passionate and hasty, like a violent tornado the rage soon
passes. This evening, in spite of much movement, a constant buzzing of
voices, an excitement that filled the air, everything was in order.
Laughter and chatter abounded, far more so than we had found in most
Spanish towns. Until now the character of the Spaniard on ordinary
occasions had seemed rather given to silence: in Valencia we came upon a
new element, approaching the French or Italian.
The city has lost much of its ancient interest. As late as 1871, the
wonderful old walls, massive and battlemented, were pulled down to find
work for the poor. Twelve gates admitted to the interior: and what the
walls were may be judged by the few gates that remain.
Within the city the air is close and relaxing, the skies are brilliant,
the sun intensely hot, the streets narrow and densely packed with
houses. This was designed to keep out the heat, but also keeps out air
and light. The houses in the side-streets are tall, massive and
sombre-looking, and here some of the wonderful old palaces remain. The
principal thoroughfares are commonplace; one has, as it were, to seek
out the beauties. It is in its exceptional features that Valencia
shines, and gradually steals into your affections. Not, however, as
Tarragona the favoured. The pure air, stately repose and dignified charm
of that Dream of the Past is very opposed to the noisy unrest and
crowded thoroughfares, constant going to and fro, and confined
atmosphere of this ancient city of the Cid.
Nevertheless it has its ecclesiastical attractions in the way of
churches: some with interesting towers, though few with fine interiors.
It is an archbishopric, therefore has a cathedral. It possesses a
university, and most of the crowd we saw evidently thought that the bow
cannot always be strung and Homer must sometimes nod. They fill the
cafes and theatres, go mad with excitement in the bull-ring when the
Sunday performance is given, and occasionally have a free fight amongst
themselves; when some of them get locked up by way of warning to the
many rather than as a punishment to the few. After such an outbreak,
never very desperate, peace reigns for a time: peace that is never
seriously broken.
[Illustration: A STREET IN VALENCIA.]
It was a relief that first evening to return to the comparative repose
of the hotel. When the hour for dinner had struck, de Nevada in clerical
garments came to our rooms and carried us off to his own sitting-room
where dinner was served. We seemed fated to fall in with the clerical
element in Spain, and as yet had certainly not regretted it. De Nevada
was evidently well known and highly considered by the hotel people,
who exerted their best efforts in his favour, which also fell to our
portion. His conversation was a mixture of grave and gay, with much wit
and humour. He had outlived his sorrows, it may be, yet their influence
remained. Every now and then a chance word or allusion seemed to vibrate
some long-silent chord in heart or memory. A momentary shadow would pass
over his face as a small cloud passing over the sun for an instant
overshadows the earth. It was over in a flash, and he would at once be
his genial, jovial self, full of strong spirits toned down by excellent
breeding and the thought of what was due to his cloth. Probably we saw
more of his inner character than if we had dined with the de la Torres.
We had him to ourselves, his undivided attention, and amongst various
topics he gave us a great insight into many of the by-ways of the
Spanish Church. "It is a subject in which I am deeply interested," he
said. "I am writing a book thereon, and devoting considerable space to
the vexed argument of the Inquisition. It has never been properly
handled, and I am not afraid to say that it was a serious blot, if not
on the characters, at least on the judgment of Ferdinand and Isabella.
Souls were never yet gained nor religions established by cruelty and
torture. It is partly for that reason that I am here. The Archbishop has
a magnificent library, and I want a week of reference amongst the books.
We are as brothers, and I should take up my quarters in the palace, only
that I like to be independent. To-day he is at Puzol, where he has a
country house. When here I generally dine with him; was to have done so
to-morrow night; but it is an informal engagement, and if you will
promise to meet me again at the same hour, we will dine here together.
And now the hour sounds for the de la Torres. Let us be punctual, as we
must be so in leaving. Did you ever see so charming, so devoted a
couple? Who would not dwell in such a fools' paradise?"
He sent our maitre-d'hotel to inquire if it would be agreeable to them
to receive us, and in response Count Pedro appeared upon the scene. All
our rooms adjoined.
"We are more than ready," he cried. "I am quite sure," laughing, "that
you think we spend all our time sitting hand-in-hand and looking into
each other's eyes. My dear Nevada, we are quite a sober couple, with a
great deal of matter-of-fact sense about us."
"Which only proves how difficult it is for people to know themselves,"
laughed the priest. "But now for the sunshine of madame's presence."
In their sitting-room all banqueting signs had been removed. On the
table steamed fragrant coffee, with a decanter of Chartreuse, side by
side with cigars and cigarettes. The most fastidious woman in Spain will
never object to smoking in her presence. Countess de la Torre had
exchanged her becoming travelling-dress for a still more becoming
evening costume. She looked dazzlingly beautiful, her pure white neck
and arms decorated with jewels. As she rose and received us with a
high-bred, bewitching grace, we thought we had seldom seen a fairer
vision.
"Ah!" cried de Nevada, glancing at the table. "Your feast of orange
blossoms and butterflies' wings was served by magic. In fact I am not
aware that we are told Adam and Eve in Paradise ate anything. Life was
eternal and needed no renewing."
"You forget," laughed Madame de la Torre. "They ate fruit, or how could
Eve have tempted Adam with an apple?"
"I have always held that as a specially prepared temptation," said the
priest. "They had never eaten anything until then, and the danger lay in
the new experience."
"Monsieur de Nevada, you must go to school again," laughed Countess
Pedro. "Or you are wilfully perverting facts to suit your purpose. I
shall have to inform against you to the Archbishop. We are going to see
him to-morrow morning. Are you not in his jurisdiction?"
"No, madame," replied the priest. "I hold no preferment in the province
of Valencia. This Garden of Spain blooms not for my pleasure. Yet, how
can I say so, for who enjoys it more when fate brings me here?"
"It is indeed the Garden of Spain," said de la Torre. "I often wished we
were as favoured in the neighbourhood of Toledo--though we have little
to complain of."
"Valencia is a land flowing with milk and honey," said de Nevada. "You
must not hope for two Canaans so near each other."
"Tell me," said Madame de la Torre, as she poured out coffee with a
graceful hand, "why this town is called Valencia del Cid. I thought the
Cid had only to do with Burgos. I fear I am exposing my ignorance."
"It would be difficult to know what the Cid had not to do with and where
he did not go," returned de Nevada. "He was a mighty man of valour,
according to his lights: also a great barbarian. In those days we might
all have been the same. In my own mind, I have always likened him to the
English Cromwell; and if Cromwell was in any way better than he, it is
that he lived six centuries later. They were equally determined and
unscrupulous. What a wonderful passage is that in the history of
England! But the Cid had much to do with Valencia. He came here in 1094,
and after a siege of twenty months took the town. It is remarkable how
retribution follows a man, as surely as shadow follows the substance.
'Be sure your sin will find you out.' Never was truer proverb What says
Shakespeare?" continued the priest, turning to us:
"'Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
The fateful shadows that hang by us still.'
"I don't know that I quote correctly, and my English is barbarous," he
laughed. "Never could I master that fine language; perhaps for the
reason that I never dwelt long enough in your country. Few and short
have my visits been. It was in 1095 that the Cid took Valencia. Ibn
Jehaf the murderer was on the throne, having killed Yahya, whom Alonso
VI. had placed there. This act brought the Cid down upon them. The first
thing he did was to burn Jehaf alive on the great square that you will
see to-morrow when you go to the Archbishop: act worthy of the tyrant.
He ruled here for five years. His will was law; it was a small reign of
terror. Then he died, and his faithful wife Ximena endeavoured to hold
the reins. Those were not times when a woman could rule easily, and in
1101 the Moors brought hers to an end and banished her from the
province. It is said that when the Cid captured Valencia he took his
wife and daughter to a height to show them the richness of the country;
and promised his favourite daughter that if she pleased him in her
marriage that fair prospect from the boundaries of the Saguntum Hills on
the north to the confines of the sea on the east should be her dowry: a
promise never to be fulfilled. Within three years the daughter died
unwedded; a death so violent that it is said to have struck a death-blow
to the Cid, and to have brought home to him many of his perfidious acts.
Certain it is that he was never the same man afterwards. Another two
years brought his own life to a close. But, madame, you are beguiling me
into a history, and turning the old priest into a schoolmaster."
Our fair hostess laughed.
"You make me your debtor," she replied. "I shall take greater interest
in what I see to-morrow, and look at everything through the eyes of the
past. Has the Archbishop any relics of the Cid?"
"Not only of the Cid, but of many other historical persons and events,"
said de Nevada. "You must especially notice the library with its fine
collection of books. I may be there at the moment, and if so will
promote myself to the honour of Librarian-in-chief to Countess Pedro de
la Torre."
"Beware!" laughed madame. "Countess Pedro has a thirst for knowledge.
Your office will be no sinecure."
"My labour of love will at least equal madame's diligence, though the
climate is hardly favourable to very hard work," smiled the priest.
"Even Nature conspires to indolence in the people. The ground brings
forth abundantly, and almost unaided. The Moors thought it an earthly
paradise--as it is. I am not sure but they considered it the scene of
the first paradise. Heaven, they said, was suspended immediately above,
and a portion of heaven had fallen to earth and formed Valencia. To the
sick and sorrowing it is a land of consolation. In its balmy airs--far
more healing than those of Italy--the former recover strength; in the
brilliance of its sunshine, the blueness of its skies, the splendour of
its flowers and vegetation, the troubled mind finds peace and repose."
"Its system of irrigation--to descend to the commonplace," laughed de la
Torre--"is perfect. Does the council still sit in the Apostles'
Gateway?"
"Indeed it does," replied the priest. "And far from being commonplace,
the idea to me, surrounded by its halo of the past, is full of
picturesque romance."
"What is that?" asked madame. "It is dangerous to make these remarks
before an inquiring mind."
"The matter is simple," said de Nevada. "Valencia is the most perfectly
irrigated province in Spain, not excepting Granada. Especially is that
the case in the surrounding neighbourhood. You must have noticed narrow
channels running through the fields as you passed in the train. The
system presents infinite difficulties. Not one of the least is that all
shall share alike in the fertilizing streams. In Granada a good deal is
done by signals, and occasionally in the night-silence you may hear the
silver bell sounding upon the air and carried from field to field: token
that the dams are opened and the water flows. In Valencia they have
nothing so poetical. The tribunal was instituted centuries ago by the
Moors. It has been handed down from generation to generation and still
continues. Being perfect, the system works well. Every Thursday morning
seven judges sit in the great doorway of the cathedral, and hear all
complaints relating to irrigation. These judges choose each other from
the yeomen and irrigators of the neighbourhood. They pronounce sentence,
and against that sentence there is no appeal. The judges are integrity
itself. It is their motto, and it seems as impossible for them to go
wrong as for a Freemason to betray the secrets of his craft. I think the
system might with advantage be adopted by other tribunals."
"I should like to see and converse with these judges," said madame, "and
decorate them with the order of the Golden Fleece. Surely they deserve
it?"
"That order, I fear, is reserved for those of higher rank," replied the
priest. "Yet I have often myself thought they should wear an order of
Distinguished Merit: a sort of Cross of the Legion of Honour--after the
French idea--open to all ranks and classes. But as you proceed on your
journey to-morrow evening, you will not be here on a Thursday. The
judges are indeed to be condoled with."
"I have slightly changed our plans," said Count Pedro, "and we leave the
day after to-morrow by the early train. It will be less fatiguing for
Isabel. We shall also see more of the country. I never tire of gazing
upon the beauties of nature, and fortunately my wife is in sympathy with
me. Seas, mountains, forests, vast territories, cultivated plains or
sandy deserts, all alike fill me with a delight and rapture nothing else
can equal. I hope to spend some of the first years of our married life
in becoming intimate with the best points of many lands."
"You will find few more charming spots than Valencia," returned the
priest. "Its rich plains never fail. No sooner has one harvest been
gathered than another appears. Did you notice the peasants in the fields
as we came along, sitting at work with their knees up to their ears? How
picturesque they look walking down a road in their short white linen
trousers and jackets and scarlet mantles, coloured handkerchiefs wound
round the head like a turban, and blue scarves tied round the waist. I
have watched them many a time. You will see nothing of this in the town
itself."
"I don't quite like the type of face," objected de la Torre. "It is too
African. The sun has grilled them to a colour that is almost mahogany.
And they are superstitious and revengeful."
"But their imagination is lively and keeps them in almost constant good
humour," returned the priest, "so they seldom think of revenge. How well
they sing their _fiera_, how jovially they dance the _rondella_. It is
quite a pleasure to look at this abandonment of happiness, this
existence utterly free from care. Believe me, they have their virtues.
And how pretty the women are! Few women in Spain equal those of
Valencia. They are singularly graceful and their walk is perfect. Notice
a congregation of women in church. You will hardly find elsewhere an
assemblage so conspicuous for beauty of face and grace and nobility of
form."
Countess Pedro shook her head. "Oh!" she cried, raising her clasped
hands. "I shall have more and more to tell to the Archbishop. Monsieur
de Nevada, you are not supposed to know that female beauty exists, and
here you are describing it with an eloquence which comes from the
heart."
[Illustration: RENAISSANCE TOWER: VALENCIA.]
"With humble deference to your opinion, madame, I disagree with you,"
laughed the priest. "All things beautiful are to be appreciated;
above everything else a beautiful woman, the noblest work of God. We
worship the stars in the heavens, though we can never attain to them. Do
you imagine that I could be in this room and remain insensible to such
charms as few women possess?"
Our fair hostess blushed with pleasure. No woman is insensible to a
compliment of which she can easily judge the sincerity. Every woman also
likes to be praised before the husband to whom she is devoted. The age
of de Nevada permitted him to be candid in expressing his admiration,
whilst the in some sort family connection that would take place at the
marriage referred to, had paved the way to an immediate and friendly
intimacy.
In spite of the priest's emphatic determination to leave punctually, the
hour had long struck when we reluctantly took our departure. Both de la
Torre and his fair wife were charming, refined and intellectual, and the
moments had passed all too quickly.
* * * * *
Next morning the crowded streets had thinned. Most of the people had
disappeared, reserving themselves for the evening. Yet there was a
constant, quiet activity going on, which gave the city a lively and
prosperous air. It was market-day; the most picturesque market we had
yet seen in Spain; thronged with buyers and sellers, piled up with all
the fruits and vegetables of the South. Figs, grapes and pomegranates
abounded at very small prices. The market-place was full of colouring,
in part due to the bright handkerchiefs and scarves worn by men and
women.
All was as nothing compared with the splendour and perfume of the
covered flower-market. For a few halfpence one carried away sufficient
to decorate a palace. For ninepence one woman offered us a bouquet more
than a yard round. We had never seen anything like it and wondered if it
was meant to grace some foreign Lord Mayor's banquet. This sum was asked
with some hesitation, seeing that we were strangers: she was prepared to
take half the amount. The roses were far lovelier than those that grow
in the gardens of Italy and find their way across the Channel. We gave a
few halfpence for a large handful of tuberoses and pinks, and the woman
was so charmed at the liberal payment that she presented us with a great
bunch of sweet verbena. We possess some of the leaves now, and the
scent--rare above all other scents--hangs round them still. Each morning
we renewed our purchase. The flowers were always there. For them it was
market-day all the year round.
The market-place was a charming three-cornered square; on one side a
Renaissance church that for its style was really picturesque and formed
an admirable background to the women and stalls. The interior, all gilt
and glitter, set one's teeth on edge, but that did not alter the outward
effect.
Opposite was a far lovelier building--the Lonja de Seda, or ancient Silk
hall--of exquisitely beautiful and refined fifteenth-century Gothic.
The immense rooms were ornamented with fluted columns without capitals,
that spread out like the leaves of a palm-tree and lost themselves in
the roof. Behind it was an old garden, with wonderful architectural
surroundings. A long stone staircase ended in a Gothic doorway of
graceful outlines and deep rich mouldings. Windows filled with
half-ruined tracery looked on to the garden with its trees and flowers.
The upper part was an open Gothic arcade with rich ornamentations and
medallions, above which rose a massive square tower with a round Norman
turret.
This dream-building was vanishing under the hands of the restorer. The
court was filled with workmen, and the exquisite tone of age, the
rounded, crumbling outlines were beginning to disappear. We were just in
time to see it at its best.
[Illustration: MARKET PLACE, VALENCIA.]
From this we made our way to the cathedral, of which little need be
said. After the architectural dreams of Catalonia, it was terribly
unsatisfactory. The interior gave out no sense of grandeur, repose or
devotion. On Sunday, during service, it gained a certain solemn
impressiveness from the kneeling crowd, but that was all. Begun in the
thirteenth century, and originally Gothic, few traces of the first
building remain. Certain portions of the exterior are beautiful and
striking; especially the magnificent north doorway--the Apostles'
Gateway; deep and richly ornamented, though many of its statues have
disappeared. It is here that the Tribunal of the Waters sits in
judgment, to which we have heard de Nevada allude.
[Illustration: LONJA DE SEDA: VALENCIA.]
Near the cathedral was the Audiencia, or Court of Justice, one of the
most perfect buildings in Europe. Though the ground-floor has been
divided into public offices, the elaborately carved and gilt ceilings
remain, decorated with splendid honey-comb pendentives of the Moorish
School. The first floor is given up to the matchless Salon de Cortes,
where justice is administered; its walls covered with curious frescoes
of the sixteenth century, chiefly portraits of the members of the
Cortes assembled in session. The rich carving of the room is in native
pine, and was finished in the sixteenth century, when art was still at
its best. A narrow gallery runs round the room supported by slender
columns. Below this are coats-of-arms and busts of the kings of Aragon,
with appropriate historical incidents. The ceiling is also elaborately
carved in lozenges encased in square panels. Not the smallest fragment
of the room has been left undecorated, and its refined, subdued tone is
lovely in the extreme. Here we found the sword and banner of Jayme el
Conquistador, which the Valencians place amongst their chief treasures.
The churches are numerous, but not specially interesting. San Salvador
possesses a rude expressive sculpture of the thirteenth century, a
curious image, supposed to have been carved by Nicodemus, and said to
have miraculously found its solitary way from Syria across the seas.
Not far from this is the Church, given to the Templars by James I. in
1238, when already a building of some antiquity. Here was the remarkable
tower of Alibufat, on which the Cross was first displayed. But like the
people of Zaragoza, who pulled down their leaning tower, so the
Valencians demolished the tower of Alibufat to widen a street. We have
seen that even their ancient walls were not spared. They have no respect
for antiquity; no love for the past. A modern spirit possesses them; a
love of pleasure and comfort; a desire to get money for the sake of
indulgence. Gay, lively, full of excitement and impulse, everything
yields to the passing moment.
Next we come to the once vast and splendid Convent of San Domingo, in
the days of its glory one of the richest and most powerful convents in
Spain, but now shorn of all its ecclesiastical element. Outlines alone
remain: the chapter-house and cloisters of late Gothic still beautiful
and refined. In a small chapel supported by four slender pillars San
Vincente Ferrer took upon him the vows of a monk.
[Illustration: SALON DE CORTES: AUDIENCIA.]
Of the religious ceremonies the most imposing is the Miserere which
takes place every Friday in the church of the Colegio del Patriarca.
High Mass is first given at nine o'clock. The music both at this and the
Miserere is magnificent. Many of the rank and fashion of Valencia are
constant in their attendance. Ladies assemble in a great crowd, each
wearing a black mantilla. As they kneel in penitential attitude the
scene is full of devotional grace and charm.
The space above the high altar is covered with a purple pall which looks
black and funereal. Chanting commences: slow and solemn and in the minor
key.
Suddenly, in the midst of the sad cadences, the picture above the altar
descends by machinery, and in its place is seen a lilac veil. There is a
slight movement, a half-raising of the head, amidst the congregation; an
attitude of expectation. The mournful but exquisite music does not
cease. It is soft and subdued, appealing to the senses. Presently the
veil is withdrawn and gives place to a grey veil. This in turn passes
away and a black veil appears, representing the veil of the Temple. It
is torn asunder, and an image of the Saviour on the Cross is disclosed.
The upturned heads gaze for a moment; on many a countenance appears the
emotion actually felt. Imagination is stirred by the dramatic
representation. A murmur escapes the kneeling multitude; the music
swells to a louder strain, the voices gain a deeper pathos. Then voices
and organ gradually die away to a whisper and cease.
Silence reigns. For a moment there is no sound or stir. Then all is
over; the Miserere is at an end. Quietly the fair penitents rise from
their knees and stream out into the streets, which gain an additional
charm as they pass onwards with their perfect forms and graceful walk.
In spite of the somewhat claptrap element, the Miserere is impressive
from the beautiful and refined music, the kneeling crowd, the deep
obscurity that gives it mystery. It is even worth a day or two's delay
in this fair City of Flowers and other delights.
For in our mind we always associate Valencia with the perfume of
flowers. Roses for ever bloom, and like silver in the days of Solomon,
are accounted as little worth. But if they were plentiful as to the
Greeks of old they would only seem the lovelier.
Some of the streets are very picturesque, with long narrowing vistas of
houses and balconies, casements and quaint outlines, all in the strong
light and shadow of sunshine, with perhaps a church tower and spire
rising above all at the end, sharply outlined against the intensely
brilliant blue of the sky.
Making way, we reach the gates of the city, which are still its glory,
though so few remain of the twelve that once admitted to the interior.
Some still retain their towers and machicolations. Outside these runs
the famous river with its ancient bridges. Crossing one of them, and
proceeding a distance of three miles down a straight, not very
interesting road, you reach the famous port of Valencia: one of the
finest ports in Spain, one of the largest harbours. After the close
atmosphere of the town, the scene is agreeable and exhilarating.