Arlanzon, is an irregular city, with narrow, winding streets, with few
noteworthy buildings, and the larger part of its houses not older than
the seventeenth century. But it possesses one particular characteristic
which gives it a curious and genial appearance. It is painted in many
colors, like one of those scenes in a puppet-show by which the painters
are expected to draw cries of admiration from the servants in the pit.
It seems like a city colored on purpose for a Carnival celebration,
with the intention of having it whitewashed afterward. The houses are
red, yellow, blue, gray, and orange, with ornaments and trimmings of a
thousand other colors; and everything is painted--the doorframes, the
railings of the landings, the gratings, cornices, corbels, reliefs,
balconies, and windowsills. All the streets seem to have been prepared
for a festival. At every turn a new effect strikes the eye; in every
direction there is, as it were, a rivalry in displaying the most
conspicuous colors. It almost makes one laugh: they are such colors as
have never before been seen on walls--green, flesh-color, purple, colors
of rare flowers, of sauces, sweets, and stuffs for ball-dresses. If
there were at Burgos an asylum for mad painters, one would say that the
city had been painted one day when its doors had been broken open.
To make the appearance of the houses more pleasing, a great many windows
have in front of them a sort of covered balcony enclosed with an
abundance of glass like a case in a museum. There is, as a rule, one of
these on every floor, the one above resting on the one below, and the
lowest of all on the show-window of a shop, in such a way that from the
ground to the roof they look altogether like the single window of an
immense store. Through the windows on every floor one sees, as though
they were on exhibition, visions of girls and children, flowers,
landscapes, and cardboard figures from France, embroidered curtains,
lace, and Moorish ornaments. If I had not known differently, it would
not have occurred to me that such a city could be the capital of Old
Castile--of a people who have a reputation for gravity and anxiety; I
should have believed it to be a city of Andalusia, where the people are
gayest. I had expected to see a decorous nation where I found a
coquettish masker.
After two or three turns I came out into a vast square called the Plaza
Mayor, or the Square of the Constitution. It was entirely surrounded by
ochre houses with porticoes, and in the middle stood a bronze statue of
Charles III. I had not yet looked around when a boy ran toward me,
enveloped in a long cape torn off at the bottom, and dragging behind him
two old shoes and waving a paper in the air:
“Want the _Imparcial_, caballero?”
“No.”
“Want a Madrid lottery-ticket?”
“No indeed!”
“Want some contraband cigars?”
“No.”
“Want--?”
“Well?”
My friend scratched his chin: “Want to see the remains of the Cid?”
Gracious! what a leap! But no matter; let us go and see the remains of
the Cid.
We went to the municipal palace, and there an old janitress made us
cross three or four narrow passages until she stopped us where all of
them converged. “Behold the remains!” said the woman, pointing to a sort
of coffin resting upon a pedestal in the centre of the room. I
approached and raised the cover and looked in. There were two
compartments, at the bottom of which one could see some bones heaped
together like fragments of broken furniture. “These,” said the old
woman, “are the bones of the Cid, and these others the bones of Ximenes
his wife.”
I took in my hand the shin-bone of one and a rib of the other, looked at
them, felt them, and turned them over, but, as I was unable by their aid
to resurrect the features of husband and wife, I replaced them. The
woman showed me a wooden seat, almost in pieces, propped against the
wall, and bearing an inscription which said that it was the seat upon
which sat the first judges of Castile, Nunnius Rasura and Calvo Lainus,
the great-great-grandfathers of the Cid; which is the same thing as
saying that this precious piece of furniture has stood in the very same
place for the goodly period of nine hundred years. I have it before my
eyes at this moment, sketched in my note-book in serpentine lines, and I
seem to hear the good woman asking, “Are you a painter?” as I stood
leaning my chin on my pencil to admire my masterpiece. In the next room
she showed me a brazier of the same antiquity as the old seat, and two
paintings--one of the Cid and the other of Ferdinand Gonzales, the first
count of Castile, both of which are so dark and faded that they do not
suggest the image of those personages any better than did the shin-bone
and the ribs of the illustrious consorts.
From the municipal palace I was conducted along the bank of the Arlanzon
to an extensive square, with gardens, fountains, and statues, surrounded
by handsome new buildings. Across the river lies the suburb of Bega, and
behind it rise the barren hills which tower above the city. At one end
of the square stands the monumental gate of Santa Maria, erected in
honor of Charles V., and ornamented with statues of the Cid, Ferdinand
Gonzales, and the emperor, while beyond the gate rise the majestic
spires of the cathedral.
It was raining; I was alone in the middle of the square, without an
umbrella. I raised my eyes to a window and saw a woman, who appeared to
be a servant, looking at me and laughing, as if to say, “Who is that
crazy man?” This was so unexpected that I was a little disconcerted, but
I tried my best to appear indifferent, and started toward the cathedral
by the shortest cut.
The cathedral of Burgos is one of the largest, most beautiful, and
richest monuments of Christendom. Ten times I wrote these words at the
top of the page, and ten times I lacked the courage to continue, so
feeble and inadequate are the powers of my mind for the task of
describing it.
The façade runs along a little square from which one is able to see only
a part of the immense structure; on the other sides run crooked, narrow
streets which shut off the view. From all parts of the vast roof spring
graceful spires, rising above the highest buildings of the city, and
richly adorned with ornaments of the color of dark limestone. In front,
to the right and left of the façade, rise two tapering belfries covered
with sculpture from base to summit, ornamented with open-work carving
and stone embroidery of charming grace and delicacy. Farther on, from a
point near the centre of the church, rises a tower equally rich with
bas-reliefs and carvings. On the façade, at the angles of the belfries
and along the different elevations, beneath the arches and on all the
walls, stand an innumerable multitude of statues--angels, martyrs,
warriors, and princes--so close, so various in pose, and brought out in
such strong relief by the light background of the edifice, that they
almost present to the view an appearance of life, like a celestial
legion stationed to guard the monument.
On raising the eyes beyond the façade to the pinnacles of the farthest
spires, comprehending at a glance all that delicate harmony of line and
color, one experiences a feeling of exquisite pleasure, as when one
listens to a strain of music which sweeps gradually upward from the
expression of solemn prayer to an ecstasy of sublime inspiration.
Before one enters the church one’s imagination is far beyond the things
of earth. You enter. The first emotion of which you are conscious is a
sudden strengthening of faith if you have it, and a yearning of the soul
toward faith if you have it not. It does not seem possible that this
measureless mass of stone can be a vain work of man’s superstition. It
seems to affirm, to prove, to command something. It is like a superhuman
voice crying to the earth, “I AM!” It exalts and abases, like a promise
and a threat, like a dazzling burst of sunlight followed by a
thunder-clap. Before you have looked about you feel the need of
rekindling in your heart the dying embers of divine love; you feel
unfamiliar and humiliated before that miracle of aspiration, genius, and
labor. The timid no which whispers in the depths of your soul dies with
a groan beneath the dreadful YES which reverberates in your brain. First
you look vaguely round, trying to discover the limits of the edifice,
which are concealed by the choir and the enormous pilasters. Then you
run your eyes along the columns and the highest arches, your glance
rising and falling, darting rapidly along the endless lines, which
follow each other, interweave, correspond, and are lost, like rockets
crossing in space; up and through the great vaults, and your heart is
lost in boundless admiration, as though all those lines issued from your
own brain, inspired by the act of following them with your eyes. Then
suddenly you are assailed, as it were, by dismay, a feeling of sadness
that you have not time in which to see it all, the genius to comprehend
it, nor the memory to retain the innumerable miracles which you have but
dimly seen on every side, crowded about you, towering above you,
stupefying you--miracles which come, you would say, not by the hands of
men, but by a second creation from the hand of God.
The church belongs to the order of architecture known as Gothic of the
Renaissance period. It is divided into three very long naves, crossed in
the middle by a fourth, which separates the choir from the great altar.
Over the space between the altar and the choir rises a dome formed by
the tower which one sees from the square. You turn your eyes upward and
stand a quarter of an hour gazing with open mouth. You are enraptured by
a vision of bas-reliefs, statues, columns, little windows, arabesques,
flying arches, and airy carvings, all harmonizing in a design at once
grand and delicate, which at the first sight makes you tremble and smile
like the sudden bursting and flashing of an immense display of
fireworks. A thousand vague images of paradise, which hovered round our
childish slumbers, spring together from the ecstatic mind and soar
upward like a cloud of butterflies alighting on the thousand reliefs of
the highest vault, flying about and intermingling, and your eyes follow
them as though you really saw them, and your heart beats faster and a
sigh escapes you.
If you turn from the dome and look around, an even grander spectacle
awaits you. The chapels are like so many other churches in size,
variety, and richness. In each of them lies entombed a prince, a bishop,
or a grandee. The tomb is placed in the centre, and upon it rests a
memorial statue of the dead, the head lying on a pillow and the hands
clasped on the breast; the bishops clothed in their most gorgeous robes,
the princes in their armor, and the women in their gala attire. Each of
the tombs is covered by an ample pall, which falls over the sides and
takes the form of the raised portions of the statue, so that it really
makes them look like the rigid limbs of a human corpse. Whichever way
one turns, one sees in the distance, between the measureless pilasters,
behind the rich gratings, in the uncertain shimmer of light descending
from the high windows, the mausoleums, the funereal hangings, and the
rigid outlines of the dead. On approaching the chapels one is amazed by
the lavish use of sculpture, marbles, and gold in the ornamentation of
the walls, ceilings, and altars. Each chapel contains a host of angels
and saints carved in marble or wood, colored, gilded, and draped.
On whatever part of the pavement one’s glance may fall it is at once led
upward from bas-relief to bas-relief, from niche to niche, from
arabesque to arabesque, from painting to painting, to the very roof, and
then by another chain of carvings and frescoes it is led down from the
roof to the pavement.
On whatever side you turn your eyes you see eyes gazing back into your
own, beckoning hands, the heads of cherubs peeping at you, draperies
which seem instinct with life, floating clouds, crystal spheres
tremulous with light--an infinite variety of forms, colors, and
reflections which dazzle the eyes and confuse the brain.
A volume would not be sufficient for a description of all the
masterpieces of sculpture and painting which are scattered through this
vast cathedral. In the vestry of the chapel of the constables of Castile
hangs a very beautiful Magdalene, attributed to Leonardo da Vinci; in
the chapel of the Presentation, a Virgin attributed to Michelangelo; and
in another chapel, a Holy Family attributed to Andrea del Sarto. It is
not certainly known who the painters of these pictures were, but when I
saw the curtains which concealed them withdrawn and heard those names
reverently spoken, I shivered from head to foot. Then, for the first
time, I experienced in its fulness that sense of gratitude which we owe
to the great artists who have made the name of Italy honored and
precious the world over. I learned for the first time that they are not
only the illustrators, but also the benefactors, of their
country--benefactors not only of those who have the ability to
appreciate and admire them, but of those also who are blind to their
works, and even of those who are careless and ignorant of them. For he
who lacks the sense of beauty does not lack national pride, or, if he
lacks even this, he still has personal pride, and feels his heart deeply
stirred when he hears some one, even though it be only a sacristan, say,
“He was born in Italy,” and the careless man smiles and is happy. But
for his smiles and his enjoyment he is a debtor to those great names,
which inspired no feeling of admiration in him before he passed the
confines of his country. Wherever one goes these great names accompany
and protect one like invisible friends; they make one seem less foreign
among foreigners; they cast upon one’s face the lustre of their own
glory. How many smiles, how many hand-clasps, how many courteous words
from unknown people do we Italians not owe to Raphael, Michelangelo,
Ariosto, and Rossini!
If one wishes to see this cathedral in a day, one must run past the
masterpieces. The carved door which opens into the cloister is said to
be the most beautiful in the world after the doors of the Baptistery of
Florence. Behind the great altar stands a stupendous bas-relief by
Philip of Borgogna, representing the Passion of Christ--a marvellous
composition, for the execution of which one man’s lifetime does not seem
sufficient. The choir is a veritable museum of sculpture of incredible
richness. The cloister is full of tombs surmounted by recumbent statues,
and about them runs a profusion of bas-reliefs. In the chapels, around
the choir, in the passages of the sacristy, everywhere, are paintings by
the greatest Spanish masters, statuettes, columns, and ornaments. The
great altar, the organs, the doors, the staircases, the gratings,
everything, is grand and magnificent, and at the same time arouses and
rebukes one’s admiration. But why add word to word? Could the most
minute description give a living image of it all? And even if I were to
write a page for every painting, for every statue, for every bas-relief,
could I produce in another’s heart, even for a moment, the emotions
which I felt myself?
A sacristan came up to me and whispered in my ear, as though he was
telling me a secret.
“Do you wish to see the Christ?”
“What Christ?”
“Why,” he answered, “the famous one, as every one knows.”
The famous Christ of the cathedral of Burgos, which bleeds every Friday,
is worthy of particular attention. The sacristan leads the way into a
mysterious chapel, closes the window-shutters, lights the candles on
the altar, pulls a cord; the curtain falls back, and--there is the
Christ! If you do not take to your heels at the first sight, you are
brave indeed. A real corpse hanging on a cross could not be more
horrible. It is not a painted wooden statue like other images: it is a
stuffed skin, and they say the skin is that of a man. It has real hair,
real eyebrows and eyelashes, and a real beard. The hair is matted with
blood, and there are streaks of blood on the breast, the legs, and the
hands. The wounds which seem like real wounds, the color of the skin,
the contraction of the face, the attitude, the expression,--each thing
is terribly real. If you touched the body, you would expect to feel the
tremor of the limbs and the warmth of the blood. The lips seem to be
moving and to be opened in a cry of lamentation. You cannot long endure
the sight, and in spite of yourself you avert your face and say to the
sacristan, “I have seen it.”
After the Christ one ought to see the celebrated coffer of the Cid. It
is a battered, worm-eaten coffer, suspended from the wall of one of the
rooms in the sacristy. The story runs that the Cid took this coffer with
him in his wars against the Moors, and that the priests used it for an
altar in the celebration of mass. One day the doughty warrior, finding
his money-bags empty, filled the coffer with stones and scraps of iron,
and had it carried to a Hebrew money-lender, to whom he said, “The Cid
has need of money. He might sell his treasures, but he does not wish to
do so. Give him the money which he stands in need of, and he will
speedily return it with usury of ninety-nine per cent., and he leaves in
your hands as a pledge this precious coffer which contains his fortune.
But upon one condition--that you swear to him not to open it until he
has restored what he owes you. It is a secret that must be known only to
God and me. Make your decision.” Either money-lenders of that day
reposed greater faith in army officers, or else they had an ounce less
of shrewdness, than they now have; at any rate, it is a fact that the
usurer accepted the proposal of the Cid, took the oath, and gave him the
money. Whether or not the Cid lived up to his promise I do not know, nor
can I tell if the Jew brought suit. But the fact remains that the coffer
is still in existence, and that the sacristan tells the story with great
gusto, without the shadow of a suspicion that the transaction was the
act of a hardened villain rather than an ingenious caprice of a
facetious man of honor.
Before leaving the cathedral you should get the sacristan to tell you
the famous legend of Papa-Moscas. Papa-Moscas is an automaton of
life-size placed on the case of a clock above the door inside of the
church. Once upon a time, like the celebrated automatons of the clock of
Venice, he would come forth from his hiding-place at the stroke of the
hour, and at every stroke he would utter a cry and make an odd gesture,
whereupon the faithful were filled with the greatest delight, the boys
laughed, and the religious services were disturbed. To end this
scandalous behavior, a stern bishop had some of Papa-Moscas’ sinews cut,
and from that day he has stood there motionless and silent. But,
nevertheless, they do not stop telling of his deeds in Burgos and
throughout all Spain, and even beyond Spain. Papa-Moscas was a creature
of Henry III., and hence arose his great importance.
The story is exceedingly curious. Henry III., the king of gallant
adventures, who once sold his cloak to buy something to eat, was
accustomed to go to the cathedral every day incognito to pray. One
morning his eyes met those of a young woman who was praying before the
tomb of Ferdinand Gonzales: their glances were bound together, as
Théophile Gautier would say. The young woman arose; the king followed as
she left the church, and walked behind her to her home. For many days,
at the same place and hour, they again saw each other, looked into each
other’s eyes, and told their love and sympathy by their glances and
their smiles. The king always followed the lady as far as her home,
without speaking a word and without her giving a sign that she desired
him to speak. One morning, on leaving the church, the beautiful unknown
dropped her handkerchief; the king picked it up, hid it in his bosom,
and offered her his own. The lady took it with many blushes, and, drying
her tears, she disappeared. From that day Henry saw her no more. A year
later, while hunting in a wood, the king was attacked by six ravenous
wolves. After a long struggle he killed three of them with his sword,
but his strength was already failing and he was on the point of being
devoured by the others. At that moment he heard the report of a gun and
a strange cry, at which the remaining wolves took to flight. He turned
and saw a mysterious woman staring at him with fixed eyes, without the
power to utter a word. The muscles of her face were horribly distorted,
and a shrill cry of lamentation burst from her breast. Recovering from
his first surprise, the king recognized in the woman the lady whom he
had loved in the cathedral. With a cry of joy he rushed to embrace her,
but the lady stopped him by exclaiming with a heavenly smile, “I have
loved the memory of the Cid and of Ferdinand Gonzales because my heart
loves all that is noble and generous; therefore I loved thee also, but
my duty restrains me from fulfilling this love, which would have been
the happiness of my life. Accept the sacrifice.” As she spoke these
words she fell to the ground and died without finishing the sentence,
pressing the king’s handkerchief to her heart. A year afterward
Papa-Moscas stepped out on the case of the clock to announce the hour
for the first time. King Henry had him made to honor the memory of the
woman whom he loved. Papa-Moscas’ cry reminded the king of the cry with
which his deliverer had frightened off the three wolves in the forest.
The story runs that King Henry wanted to hear Papa-Moscas repeat also
the words of love which the woman spoke. But the Moorish artist who
constructed the automaton declared, after many vain efforts, that it was
impossible to satisfy this desire of the tender-hearted monarch.
After hearing this story I took another turn through the cathedral,
thinking with sadness that I should never see it again--that in a little
while all these marvellous works of art would only linger with me as a
memory, and that one day this memory would be obscured or confused with
others, and finally be obliterated. A priest was preaching from the
pulpit in front of the great altar. His voice was scarcely audible. A
crowd of women were kneeling on the pavement with bowed heads and
clasped hands, listening to him. The preacher was an old man of
venerable appearance; he spoke in gentle accents of death, eternal life,
and angels, making a gesture with his head at every period, as though he
were seeking to lift up some fallen one and saying, “Arise!” I could
have given him my hand with the cry, “Raise me!”
The cathedral of Burgos is not so depressing as all the other cathedrals
of Spain. It calmed my spirit and disposed me to quiet religious
thought. I went out, repeating softly, almost unconsciously, “Raise
me!” Turning to look once more at the bold spires and the airy belfries,
I started toward the centre of the city, musing on many things.
Turning a corner, I found myself in front of a shop which made me
shudder. There are others like it in Barcelona and Saragossa, and indeed
in all other Spanish cities, but somehow I had not seen them. It was a
large, clean shop, with show-windows to the right and left of the door.
On the threshold stood a woman knitting a stocking and smiling, and at
the back of the shop a boy was playing. Nevertheless, when he saw that
shop the most phlegmatic man would feel faint at heart and the gayest
would be troubled. I give you a thousand chances to guess what it
contained. In the windows, behind the doors, along the walls, and as
high as they could be placed one above another, in nice rows like crates
of fruit, some covered by a finely embroidered curtain, others figured,
gilded, carved, and painted, were coffins--at the back, coffins for
adults; in front, coffins for children. One of the show-windows adjoined
the window of a butcher-shop in such a way that the coffins almost
touched the eggs and cheese. And one can easily imagine how a flustered
citizen, thinking he was going to buy his breakfast, might miss the door
and stumble in among the caskets--a mistake not likely to increase his
appetite.