Compostella, and there received singular favors and graces. Sophia,
Countess of Holland,[38] journeying thither also, fell into the hands of
robbers, and through one whole night found that she had nothing to
expect but spoliation and death. In the morning their resolution was
changed; they threw themselves at her feet and entreated her pardon,
allowing her to proceed unharmed on her way. After visiting the tomb of
St. James the princess went to Jerusalem, there to spend the remainder
of her life.
At the beginning of the thirteenth century pilgrims from all lands had
become so numerous that it was frequently impossible, especially on the
feast of the patron saint, for all to find even standing-room in the
cathedral. The tumult was indescribable, and did not always end outside
the doors. On some occasions there were not only blows but bloodshed, so
that Pope Innocent III. wrote to the archbishop, saying that his church
had need of reconciliation, and the ceremony was performed with water,
wine, and blessed ashes.[39]
Alman-Zour, as we have previously mentioned, had caused the bells of
Compostella to be carried to Cordova on the backs of Christian captives.
In 1229 Ferdinand, who had united under his sway the kingdoms of Castile
and Leon, made the conquest of Cordova, and, finding the bells in the
great mosque, he inflicted retaliation on the infidels by compelling
them to carry them, on their shoulders, back to the place whence they
had been taken two hundred and sixty years before.
After Louis VII. of France had been on pilgrimage to Compostella, we
hear of several other sovereigns from time to time who did the same,
among whom was St. Elizabeth, Queen of Portugal. The Frieslanders, who
had a great devotion to St. James, and attributed to his aid a victory
they had gained over the Saracens, visited his tomb in immense numbers;
the English did the same, and from the time of Edward I.’s marriage with
Eleanor of Castile, having stipulated for the safe-conduct of their
pilgrims, they arrived in such multitudes that the kings of France
became uneasy at so great a concourse, and made an agreement with the
king of England that his subjects should obtain permission of them
before proceeding to Compostella. In 1434 this leave was granted to
about two thousand five hundred persons.
These were the palmy days of pilgrims, who were not only well received
at Santiago, whither they brought activity, riches, and life, but they
were everywhere sheltered and protected. No cottager was too poor to
offer them a resting-place or to share his loaf of hospitality with
them. A pilgrim was not only a brother come from perhaps some far
distant land to do honor to Monseigneur St. James, but he was also, in
those days when postage was unknown, the walking gazette, who brought
the news of other countries, and enlivened with his narratives and
conversation the hearth of the poor as of the rich.
From the time of the Reformation pilgrimages began to decrease. England
and Germany were the first to discontinue them. France showed herself
less fervent as soon as the spirit of rationalistic philosophy had
infected the upper classes of her people, after which the Revolution
carried down the lower ranks into the gulf of irreligion. The wars of
the empire, the spoliations of which Napoleon’s generals were guilty,
and consequently the deadly hatred which they evoked against their
nation in the heart of every Spaniard, struck the last blow at these
pious journeyings. Only the inhabitants of the country continued to
visit the shrine of their apostle, and even they by degrees lost the
habit. Pilgrims are nowadays but few, excepting only on the feast of the
patron, and they have ceased to be popular at Santiago. If they chance
to be poor, the townspeople turn a deaf ear when they ask an alms “for
the love of St. James”; or, should they be rich, seek only to turn them
to account and to lighten their purses.
Although greatly fallen from its ancient splendor, Santiago, formerly
the capital of Galicia, and now the simple chief town of a judicial
circuit, still has importance in the ecclesiastical order. Her
archbishop is, by right, the first chaplain of the crown, and her
cathedral still subsists in its integrity. She has two collegiate and
fifteen parochial churches, though her numerous convents, pillaged in
1807, and subsequently despoiled and suppressed, are at the present time
inhabited dwelling-houses, destined to inevitable ruin, and throwing an
additional shadow into the general air of melancholy which now hangs
over this old city.
There are but few public buildings of antiquity or interest. The
streets, with their dark and narrow archways, all start, like the
threads of a spider’s web, from the one centre occupied by the
cathedral. Everything wears an aspect that is sombre, damp, and cold,
augmented by the hue that the granite, of which most of the edifices are
built, takes under a climate of such humidity that it has given rise to
the disrespectful saying that this city is the sink of Spain. And yet
the site is picturesque. Seen from the neighboring heights, Santiago,
itself also built upon an elevation, with its ancient buildings, walls,
and towers, presents a very striking appearance, and to any one who
mounts the towers of the cathedral the grand girdle of mountains
encircling the horizon affords a spectacle that well repays the trouble
of the ascent.
We are in the great square, and facing the western front, containing the
principal entrance of the building, which occupies the middle of a long
architectural line, having at its left the episcopal palace, melancholy
enough and not in any way remarkable, and at its right the cloister,
with its turrets and pyramidal roofs, and its long row of arched
windows. This is not the cloister of Gemirez, of which nothing remains,
but was built in the sixteenth century by Archbishop Fonseca, who
furnished it with a fine library, and also added the chapter-house and
other dependencies of the cathedral. The cloister is one of the largest
in Spain, half Gothic in style, and half Renaissance.
This western entrance, between the cloister and the palace, is called
_El Mayor_ or _El Real_—the great or royal entrance; not that it merits
the title from any particular artistic beauty, but rather from a certain
effective arrangement. The four flights of steps, two large and two
small, ascend very picturesquely from the square to the doors of the
cathedral, allowing a procession to spread into four lines, while above
rise the lofty towers, curiously adorned with columns, vases,
balustrades, and little cupolas. You see at once that you are not
beholding a work which dates from the construction of the building,
although the towers are ancient up to the height of the church walls,
but the upper portion is much more recent, and the same is evident of
the façade, which occupies the space between the towers.
Proceeding onwards to the left, we follow a vaulted passage of the
twelfth century, bearing the stamp of ancient simplicity, until we reach
the Plaza San Martino, the north side of which is formed by the vast
convent of St. Martin, where, on the centre of the front, are placed,
mounted on their chargers, the two warrior saints of France and Spain.
Here is the market-place, whither those should come who wish to study
favorably the picturesque costumes of the peasants of Galicia, and, it
might be added, to hear cries more shrill and louder vociferations than
it would be supposed possible for ordinary human lungs to send forth.
Before appearing at market the sellers of fruit and vegetables make an
elaborate toilette, which must be not only neat but effective, those who
are unable to comply with its requirements remaining at home. Side by
side with the splendid fruits of Galicia, and fish from river and sea,
rosaries, medals, and the scallop-shells of St. James are offered for
sale.
The building forms a beautiful cross, of which the arms are nearly equal
to the upright, the transepts having a great development. The
arrangement follows that of most of the churches in Spain, the choir
being in the nave and ending where the transept begins. The aspect of
the latter is particularly grand, being less interrupted than the view
along the nave, as the eye easily penetrates the light trellis-work
which makes a passage across it from the choir to the _Capilla Mayor_.
The rounded arches of the three roofs are evidently of the close of the
eleventh or the commencement of the twelfth century. The pillars of the
aisles, with their capitals sculptured in foliage, are light and
graceful, contrasting pleasingly with the heavy mass of the edifice. The
triforium, which runs round the nave, is composed of semi-circular
arches, each containing two smaller ones which spring from a slender
column in the centre. The east end remains as it was, with the chapels
radiating from it, but the pillars and arches of the choir have
undergone great alterations. The _Silleria_, or enclosure of the choir,
is ornamented by a series of religious subjects carved by Gregorio
Español in 1606. Many of the windows of the cathedral are very fine.
Beneath the Capilla Mayor is situated the great object of the
pilgrimage—the subterranean chapel containing the tomb of St. James and
those of two of his first disciples. The famous statue of the apostle is
in the Capilla itself, above the great altar, which remains as it was in
the time of Alman-Zour. This is a monumental altar of richly-wrought
marble, ornamented with incrustations of silver, the working of which
occupied no less than twenty years. It is surrounded by an enclosure of
open metal-work, gilt, adorned with vine-branches and surmounted by an
immense _hojarasco_, or canopy, which has little to recommend it in an
artistic point of view, being carved and gilt in the height of the style
_churrigueresque_. This serves as a dais to the statue, and is supported
by four angels, about whose ponderous forms no remnant of celestial
lightness lingers. Even the statue itself, before which kings and
princes have knelt, is not free from the faults of style inevitable to
the period. The apostle is seated, and holds in his right-hand the
pilgrim’s staff, with a gilded gourd and wallet (_cum baculo perâque_),
and in his left a scroll inscribed with the words, _Hic est corpus Divi
Jacobi Apostoli et Hispaniarum Patroni_. He wears on his shoulders the
_pelerine_, or pilgrim’s mantle, embroidered with gold and precious
stones. This cape has the form of those worn by cardinals, and has
replaced the ancient one of gold, which was carried off by Marshal Ney.
It is a high honor to be allowed to say Mass at the altar of the great
patron. Bishops and canons only have the right. On grand occasions it is
splendidly adorned; the four statues of kings which stand behind that of
St. James then support another small image of the apostle of exceeding
richness, having a nimbus of emeralds and rubies, and which is placed in
a shrine of wrought gold and silver of wonderful delicacy. This
beautiful _custodia_, which is nearly six feet high, was finished in
1544 by Antonio d’Arphe, and is in the style designated by the Spaniards
_Plateresque_.
Pilgrims are admitted to pay their homage to St. James by mounting some
steps behind the altar to kiss the cape or mantle of the apostle, as at
Rome one kisses the foot of St. Peter. There is another resemblance also
to St. Peter’s at Rome in the long range of confessionals, dedicated to
different saints, and served by priests speaking different languages;
for it is not until after confession and communion that the pilgrim can
be allowed any right to the title, or receive his brevet or
_Compostella_, which is a declaration written in Latin, and signed by
the canon-administrator of the cathedral, that he has fulfilled all his
duties. These documents are frequently found among family papers, and in
certain cases constitute a title without which such or such possessions
could not be claimed.
The treasures of St. James of Compostella were formerly renowned
throughout the world; but there seems to have been some exaggeration
respecting their immensity, as, from all the objects of which the French
plundered the cathedral in 1809, they obtained no more than 300,000
francs. There still remain various rare and curious things—reliquaries,
statues, sacred vessels, etc.—some of which are of great value and
antiquity; amongst others a crucifix containing a fragment of the true
cross, and which is of exquisite workmanship, being also one of the most
ancient specimens of chasing known. The cross is wrought in gold
filagree, enriched with jewels, and resembles that of Oviedo, which is
said to be the work of angels. It bears the inscription: “Hoc opus
perfectum est erâ LXOO. et duodecimâ. Hoc signo vincitur inimicus. Hoc
signo tuetur pius. Hoc offerunt famuli Dei Adefonsus princeps et
conjux.”
Among the chapels must be noticed the _Capilla del Pilar_, dedicated to
Our Lady in memory of her apparition to St. James. This, which is behind
the high altar, and rich in precious marbles and jasper, was founded by
Arthur Monroy, a rich Mexican prelate, whose kneeling statue on his tomb
has a fine and attractive expression. Many of the other chapels are also
remarkable; that of the kings of France, of the Conception, of the
Relics, etc.
Let us add to these riches of the old cathedral a large concourse of
worshippers at all the services, a people profoundly religious, a
magnificent ceremonial, the officiating archbishop surrounded by his
clergy, grand and solemn music swelled by the multitudinous voices of
the faithful; let us imagine a vast procession beneath these vaulted
roofs, and the trembling light of the tapers illuminating the sombre
walls as the seemingly interminable train of choristers, clergy, and
people pass along, and we shall have evoked a scene which, though its
like may be witnessed in other lands, still bears in Spain a peculiar
stamp of gravity and fervor, and possesses the earnest features and the
vigorous relief of which the Spanish artists knew the secret, and which
they have reproduced on their canvas in warm shadows and golden lights.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A SWEET REVENGE.
I.
Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte is a dull little town, situated in Cotentin,
that long eastern strip of the coast of Normandy which extends directly
in front of the lovely isles of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark.
Cherbourg lies to the north of it, but we only mention that fact _en
passant_; for the incident related in these pages occurred long before
the Second Empire, long before Cherbourg attracted visitors to admire
its naval displays, long before railways had shortened distances and
brought the Cotentinians within daily hearing of their “ne plus ultra”
of cities—inimitable Paris. The little towns then slumbered peaceably
amidst their corn-fields and apple-orchards; and none slept sounder than
Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, whose very existence was scarcely known beyond
the limits of its native district. It was remarkable, indeed, for
nothing; its church was old and fine, as most French provincial churches
are; the open space around it formed the market-place, deserted and
silent except on market-days; and the Grande Rue contained the one
hostelry of the town—the Hôtel Royale—and various stores.
But there were also a few cross-streets, interspersed with flowery,
bowery gardens, and it is in a house situated in one of these that our
scene is laid. It was a plain, unpretending dwelling, but large and
exquisitely neat. It had the widest local reputation of being the
snuggest in winter, the coolest in summer, and the most hospitable at
all seasons of any in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte—nay, in the whole stretch
of Cotentin! The garden behind it, too, was famous; the owners, M. and
Mme. Dupuis, cultivated it themselves with rare enthusiasm and taste.
Alphonse Karr’s world-celebrated flowers would have been considered pale
and scentless beside Mme. Dupuis’—at least, by the Cotentinians. And the
fruits—the peaches and green-gages, the pears and grapes—it was not
believed possible that the like could be found even in Paris. Let us add
that, when in their first flush of ripeness and bloom, the greater
portion of these carefully-tended flowers and fruits were culled by Mme.
Dupuis’ own hands, and sent forth to carry light and beauty, perfume and
freshness, into every sick-room of the little town.
The Dupuis were a thoroughly worthy couple; they had married young, for
love, and had been blessed with an only child, a daughter, good and
pretty as her mother, and, like her mother, wedded early and happily.
When the episode in their lives which is the subject of this little
story took place, they had passed together thirty years of tranquil,
uneventful felicity. M. Dupuis had shortly before sold his business—he
was a notary—and was now enjoying a well-earned rest. He was a man of
sixty, well-educated, intelligent, and still strong, active, and
enthusiastic. His plump little wife had just completed her fifty-fifth
year—she did not appear to be forty-five. She was of a deeper, more
thoughtful nature than her husband, but nevertheless her sympathy with
him was unbounded—she loved all he loved, the same people and the same
things. She was the type of a true wife and of a true Christian.
Too modest and timid to have any personal pretensions, Mme. Dupuis’
great pride lay in her well-ordered home, her exquisitely clean house,
her nicely-arranged kitchen, and, though last, certainly not least, in
her cook and housemaid, whom she considered absolutely unparalleled in
their several vocations. And it must be allowed that Jeannette and
Marianne had, during twenty years, fully justified their mistress’ good
opinion of them. During all this time the two women had constantly
studied her every wish, and the result was the perfection of domestic
economy.
The family party was completed by a large white Angora cat, promoted
since the marriage of Mlle. Dupuis to the enviable position of “pet of
the household,” and universally considered in Cotentin to be the most
remarkable animal of its species.
II.
One winter’s evening, when the snow lay deep in the streets and the
north wind whistled fiercely around the eaves, M. Dupuis’ dining-room
looked particularly cheerful. The heavy tapestry curtains were drawn
close before the windows, and a flaming wood fire showered sparkles of
reflected light on the crystal and silver placed on the round
dining-table, and lighted up the portraits of some sober-looking
personages in powdered wigs which adorned the walls. The handsome
tortoise-shell and copper clock, a masterpiece of the style Louis
Quinze, standing on a hanging shelf above the sofa, was, perhaps, the
best article of furniture in the room; the chimney-piece was too
encumbered with porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, and china jars
filled with artificial flowers and covered with great glass globes,
for the taste of the present day. Fashion had slumbered in
Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte for many a long year. But there was light and
warmth, and a pervading feeling of comfort, worth all the gilded,
satin-covered chairs and lounges that Parisian taste can devise, all
the Venetian mirrors and Sevres vases that luxury can afford. Mme.
Dupuis’ dining-room was certainly rococo and provincial, incongruous
in some respects, deficient in harmony, but what sincere, cordial
hospitality those four walls had witnessed! what pleasant repasts!
what real good, wholesome eating! what merry toasts had been drunk
there in claret, in sherry, and champagne—wines as bright as Mme.
Dupuis’ eyes, and as pure and unadulterated as her heart!
A second clock, a very ugly one it must be confessed, a representative
of the bad taste of the First Empire, which stood in the centre of the
already too encumbered mantel-shelf, marked five minutes past six, and
Mme. Dupuis was seated at the head of her dining-table. She was neatly
dressed in black silk; her dark brown hair, streaked here and there with
silver threads, was arranged in simple bandeaux on each side of her
temples, and a small lace cap trimmed with a few knots of pink ribbon
concealed the paucity of the “back hair”; for Mme. Dupuis was behind her
time. She had not “marched with her age,” and had not yet learned to
wear a “switch.”
M. Dupuis, somewhat old-fashioned in his attire, but scrupulously neat,
sat opposite to her. At an equal distance from each was placed a
gentleman as old apparently as the ex-notary, but infinitely more
pretentious in his style both of dress and manner. His coat and trowsers
were of Parisian cut; his beard in the latest mode; his voice
dictatorial—a man of the world evidently, and evidently also accustomed
to think more of himself than of any one else. The little party was
busily engaged in the agreeable duty of eating sundry “plats” which
diffused a most appetizing odor. Marianne, madame’s right hand and
faithful aid during many long years, waited at table, while the
beautiful Angora sought its fortune around and under.
“Well, it happened just as I tell you,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she handed
her guest a delicious-looking chop—“it happened just as I tell you, M.
Rouvière. I believed that he had gone crazy—completely crazy; get down,
puss! He came rushing up-stairs, four steps at a time, crying at the top
of his voice, ‘It’s Tom! it’s Tom Rouvière, that fellow Tom!’ Excuse me,
M. Rouvière, but that’s his word, you know. As for me, I followed,
stumbling as I went along, killing myself trying to make him hear that
it was much more likely to be M. du Luc in his new carriage; for I knew
through Mme. le Rendu that M. du Luc was to dine to-day at Semonville,
and, as he never passes through Saint-Sauveur without stopping to wish
us good-day, I had every reason to believe....”
“O my dear Reine!” interrupted M. Dupuis, “what necessity is there for
telling all that to Rouvière? He knows nothing about M. du Luc and Mme.
le Rendu; how can all that interest him? Besides, you know that M. du
Luc never has post-horses to his carriage, so it could not be he.”
“But I believed it was,” replied madame.
“Allons! never mind now, dear,” returned her husband, “but do keep your
cat off; she is teasing Rouvière.”
“Puss! puss!” cried Mme. Dupuis, “come here and behave yourself, do.
Now, George,” she continued, “you must acknowledge that it was much more
natural that I should expect to see M. du Luc, our country neighbor,
than M. Rouvière, whom I did not know, and from whom you had never heard
for more than thirty years—really, now. What do _you_ say, M. Rouvière?
You shall be judge.”
M. Rouvière, who during this dialogue had been silently eating and
drinking with evident appetite, looked up from his plate with an
expression of impatience anything but flattering to the lady.
“Of course you are right, madame,” replied he sharply; “of course you
are right. But, God bless me, madame, I really believe that your chops
are fried with crumbs!”
Poor Mme. Dupuis started at this abrupt interpellation; her
good-tempered smile vanished; one might have fancied there was a tear in
her eye as she answered gently: “I am so sorry! It was I who made
Jeannette crumb them. I thought they would be more delicate.”
“What heresy!” exclaimed Rouvière. “My dear lady, nobody now fries chops
in crumbs, just as nobody now wears leg-of-mutton sleeves! Gracious
heavens! Providence has granted you one of the very best articles of
food that the culinary art is acquainted with—real, genuine, _pré-salé_
mutton, pure Miels mutton—and you fry it in crumbs—you actually _dare_
to fry it in crumbs! _Parbleu!_ I have sailed round the world, but I had
to come to Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte to see Miels mutton fried in
crumbs.”
“How sorry I am!” cried poor Mme. Dupuis humbly. “Let me help you to
some sole, M. Rouvière. We have a market for fish only once a week, but,
as M. Dupuis is very fond of fish, I have made an arrangement with a
fisherman from Porthail, so that we have a little extra ‘plat’ every
Wednesday, and as, most fortunately, to-day happens to be Wednesday....”