Spain seems to have been regarded by the other countries of Western
Europe as the special abode of superstition, sorcery, and magic,
probably because of the notoriety given to the discoveries of
the Moorish alchemists, the first scientists in Europe. But with
the coming of the Inquisition a marked and natural falling off is
noticeable in the prevalence of occult belief, for anything which
in the least tended to heresy was repressed in the most rigid manner
by that illiberal institution. In this way much of the folk-lore and
peasant belief of Spain, many fascinating legends, and many a curious
custom have been lost, never to be recovered. The Brothers, in their
zeal for the purity of their Church, banished not only the witch,
the sorcerer, and the demon from Spain, but also the innocent fairy,
the spirits of wood and wold, and those household familiars which
harm no one, but assist the housewife and the dairymaid.
The first information we receive that the authorities intended a
campaign against the whole demonhood, good and evil, of Spain is
contained in a work by Alfonso de Speria, a Castilian Franciscan, who
wrote, about 1458 or 1460, a work specially directed against heretics
and unbelievers, in which he gives a chapter on those popular beliefs
which were derived from ancient pagan practices. The belief in witches,
whom he calls xurguine (jurguia) or bruxe, seems to have been imported
from Dauphiné or Gascony, where, he tells us, they abounded. They
were, he says, wont to assemble at night in great numbers on a high
tableland, carrying candles with them, for the purpose of worshipping
Satan, who appeared to them in the form of a boar, rather than in
that of the he-goat in which he so frequently manifested himself in
other localities.
Llorente, in his History of the Inquisition in Spain, states that the
first auto-de-fé against sorcery was held at Calabarra in 1507, when
thirty women charged with witchcraft by the Inquisition were burnt. In
the first treatise on Spanish sorcery, that of Martin de Castanaga,
a Franciscan monk (1529), we learn that Navarre was regarded as the
motherland of Spanish witchcraft, and that that province sent many
'missionaries' to Aragon to convert its women to sorcery. But we
find that the Spanish theologians of the sixteenth century were
so much more enlightened than those of other countries that they
admitted that witchcraft was merely a delusion, and the punishment
they meted out to those who believed in it was inflicted in respect
that the belief, erroneous though it was, was contrary to the tenets
of the Church. Pedro de Valentin, in a treatise on the subject (1610),
entirely adopts the opinion that the acts confessed to by the witches
were imaginary. He attributed them partly to the manner in which the
examinations were carried out, and to the desire of the ignorant people
examined to escape by saying what seemed to please their persecutors,
and partly to the effect of the ointments and draughts which they had
been taught to use, which were composed of ingredients that produced
sleep and acted upon the imagination and the mental faculties.
The Religion of Witchcraft
This view is very generally held at the present time as accounting for
the phenomena of witchcraft. But the researches of Charles Godfrey
Leland, Miss M. A. Murray, and others, seem to indicate that the
cult of witchcraft is by no means a thing of the imagination. The
last-named writer, indeed, claims that it is the detritus of an
ancient pagan faith surviving into modern times, having a priesthood
and well-defined ritual of its own, and in a measure conserving the
practice of child-sacrifice.
There can be little doubt that this conception of witchcraft is the
correct one. In the records of the caste there are numerous proofs
that it had a definite ritual and an established priesthood, and
that imagination played but a small part in shaping the belief of
the adherents of the cult. [55]
The Story of Dr Torralva
Spain had not in the sixteenth century ceased to be celebrated for its
magicians, who still retained a modicum of the occult philosophy of
the Moorish doctors of Toledo and Granada. Perhaps the most celebrated
of these comparatively modern masters of magic was Doctor Eugenio
Torralva, physician to the family of the Admiral of Castile. Educated
at Rome, he early became a pronounced sceptic, and formed an intimacy
with a certain Master Alfonso, a man who, after changing his Jewish
faith for Islam, and that again for Christianity, had at last become
a free-thinker. Another evil companion was a Dominican monk called
Brother Pietro, who told Torralva that he had in his service a good
angel called Zequiel, who had no equal in the spiritual world as a
seer, and was besides of such a disinterested temperament that he
served only those who had complete confidence in him and deserved
his attachment.
All this excited Torralva's curiosity to an unbounded degree. He
was one of those people, fortunate or otherwise, in whom the love of
mystery has been deeply implanted, and when Pietro generously proposed
to resign his familiar spirit to his friend's keeping he eagerly
accepted the offer. Nor did Zequiel himself offer any opposition
to this change of master, and, appearing at the summons of Pietro,
assured Torralva that he would follow his service as long as he lived,
and wherever he was obliged to go. There was nothing very startling
in the appearance of the spirit, who was dressed in a flesh-coloured
habit and black cloak, and had the appearance of a young man with an
abundance of fair hair.
From this time onward Zequiel appeared to Torralva at every change
of the moon, and as often as the physician required his services,
which was generally for the purpose of transporting him in a short
space of time to distant places. Sometimes the spirit assumed the
appearance of a hermit, at others that of a traveller, and even
accompanied his master to church, from which circumstance Torralva
concluded that he was a beneficent and Christian-minded spirit. But,
alas! Dr Torralva was to find, like many another, that attendance at
the sacred edifice is not necessarily a guarantee of piety.
For many years Torralva continued to reside in Italy, but in the year
1502 he felt a strong desire to return to the land of his birth. He
did so, but seems to have made Rome his headquarters once more in
the following year, placing himself under the protection of his old
patron, the Bishop of Volterra, now become a cardinal. The influence
this connexion brought him proved of the greatest service to him, and
he soon rose to high repute for his skill in medicine. But neither the
pious cardinal nor any of the other distinguished patients who sought
his aid knew that he drew practically all his medical knowledge from
his unseen famulus, who taught him the secret virtues of young plants,
with which other physicians were not acquainted. Zequiel, however,
was untainted by the love of lucre; for when his master pocketed
those 'thumping' fees to which all good physicians aspire the spirit
rebuked him, telling him that since he had received his knowledge
for nothing he ought to impart it gratuitously. On the other hand,
did the doctor require funds, he never failed to find a supply of
money in his private apartment, which he knew implicitly must have
been placed there by his familiar.
Torralva returned to Spain in 1510, and lived for some time at the
Court of Ferdinand the Catholic. One day Zequiel confided to him that
the King would shortly receive some very disagreeable news. Torralva at
once communicated this piece of intelligence to Ximenes de Cisneros,
Archbishop of Toledo, and to the Grande Capitan, Gonzalvo Hernández
de Cordova. On the same day a courier arrived from Africa bearing
dispatches which informed his Majesty that an expedition against the
Moors had met with disaster, and that its commander, Don Garcia de
Toledo, son of the Duke of Alva, had been slain.
When in Rome it appears that Torralva had been so indiscreet as
to summon Zequiel to appear before his patron, Cardinal Volterra,
who now, hearing of the manner in which his protégé had 'prophesied'
the disaster to the Spanish arms, acquainted the Archbishop of Toledo
with the means by which the doctor had received intelligence of the
defeat. Torralva, ignorant of this, continued in his forecasts of
political and other events, and soon found his reputation as a seer
greatly enhanced. Among others who consulted him was the Cardinal
of Santa Cruz, to whom a certain Donna Rosales had complained that
her nights were disturbed by a frightful phantom, which appeared in
the form of a murdered man. Her physician, Morales, had watched at
night with the lady, but although she had pointed out the precise
spot where the grisly vision took its stand, he could discern nothing.
Torralva accompanied Morales to the lady's house, and, seated in
an ante-chamber, they heard her cry of alarm about an hour after
midnight. Entering her apartment, Morales again confessed his inability
to see the apparition, but Torralva, who was better acquainted with
the spiritual world, perceived a figure resembling a dead man, behind
which appeared a shadowy female form. "What dost thou seek here?" he
inquired, in a firm voice, whereupon the foremost spirit replied:
"I seek a treasure," and immediately vanished. Torralva consulted
Zequiel upon the subject, and upon his advice the cellars of the house
were dug up, whereupon the corpse of a man who had been stabbed to
death with a poignard was discovered, and upon its receiving Christian
burial the visitations ceased.
Among Torralva's intimate friends was one Don Diego de Zuñiga,
a relative of the Duke of Bejar, and brother of Don Antonio, Grand
Prior of the Order of St John in Castile. Zuñiga had consulted the
learned doctor as to how he could gain money at play by magical means,
and Torralva informed him that this could be accomplished by writing
certain characters on paper, using for ink the blood of a bat. This
charm Torralva advised him to wear about his neck, so that he might
experience good luck at the gaming-table.
In 1520 Torralva went once more to Rome. Ere he left Spain he told
Zuñiga that he would be able to travel there astride a broomstick,
the course of which would be guided by a cloud of fire. On his arrival
at Rome he interviewed Cardinal Volterra, and the Grand Prior of the
Order of St John, who earnestly begged him to abandon all commerce with
his familiar spirit. Because of their exhortations, Torralva requested
Zequiel to leave his service, but met with a stern refusal. The spirit,
however, advised him to return to Spain, assuring him that he would
obtain the place of physician to the Infanta Eleanora, Queen-Dowager
of Portugal, and later consort of Francis I of France. Acting upon
this counsel, Torralva sailed once more for the land of his birth,
and obtained the promised appointment.
In 1525 an incident occurred which greatly enhanced Torralva's
celebrity as a seer. On the 5th of May of that year Zequiel assured
him that the troops of the Emperor would take Rome on the following
day. Torralva desired the spirit to carry him to Rome so that he might
witness this great event with his own eyes. Zequiel gave him a stick
full of knots, and commanded him to shut his eyes. Torralva obeyed the
request of the famulus, and when after a space the spirit told him to
open his eyes once more, he found himself in Rome, standing on a high
tower. The hour was midnight, and when day dawned he duly witnessed the
terrible events which followed--the death of the Constable of Bourbon,
the flight of the Pope into the Castle of St Angelo, the slaughter
of the citizens, and the wild riot of the conquerors. Returning to
Valladolid by the same means as that by which he had come, Torralva
immediately made public all he had seen, and when, a week or so later,
news arrived of the capture and sack of Rome, the Court of Spain was
very naturally filled with unbounded surprise.
Many persons of high rank had been accomplices of the gifted doctor
in his practice of the black art, and one of these, in a fit of
remorse, notified the Holy Inquisition of his dealings with the
supernatural. Zuñiga too, who had benefited so greatly by the occult
knowledge of Torralva, now turned against him, and denounced him
to the Holy Office of Cuença, which had him arrested and cast into
prison. The terrified magician immediately confessed all his doings
with Zequiel, whom he persisted in regarding as a beneficent spirit,
and penned no less than eight declarations of his dealings with the
supernatural, some of which contradicted statements made in others
in a most ludicrous manner. In view of their unsatisfactory nature,
the unhappy necromancer was put to the torture, and an admission
of the demonic nature of his familiar was quickly extracted from
him. In March 1529 the Inquisitors suspended his process for a year,
a common practice of the Inquisition, which thus attempted to wear
its victims down. But, to the dismay of Torralva, a new witness made
his appearance, who testified that in his early days at Rome the
imprisoned medico was prone to indulgence in occult arts, so that in
January 1530 Torralva was once more put upon his trial. The Inquisition
appointed two learned theologians to labour for his conversion, to whom
Torralva promised amendment in everything, except the renunciation of
the evil spirit with whom he had been associated for so long, assuring
his mentors that he had not the power to dismiss Zequiel. At length,
on his making a pretence to cast off his familiar and abjure his
heresies, he was released, and entered the service of the Admiral of
Castile, who had employed all his influence to obtain a pardon for
him. Immortalized in the pages of Don Quixote, he remains for all
time the archetype of the Spanish magician of the sixteenth century.
Moorish Magic
By no race was the practice of the occult arts studied with such
perseverance as by the Moors of Spain, and it is strange indeed that
only fragmentary notices of their works in this respect remain to
us. The statement that they were famous for magical and alchemical
studies is reiterated by numerous European historians, but the majority
of these have refrained from any description of their methods, and
the Moors themselves have left so few undoubted memorials of their
labours in this direction that we remain in considerable ignorance of
the trend of their efforts, so that if we desire any knowledge upon
this most recondite subject we must perforce collect it painfully
from the fragmentary notices of it in contemporary European and
Arabic literature.
The first name of importance which we encounter in the broken annals
of Moorish occultism is a great one--that of the famous Geber, who
flourished about 720-750, and who is reported to have penned upward
of five hundred works upon the philosopher's stone and the elixir of
life. In common with his fellow-alchemists, he appears to have failed
signally in his search for those marvellous elements, but if he was
unable to point the way to immortal life and boundless wealth, he is
said to have given mankind the nitrate of silver, corrosive sublimate,
and nitric acid. He believed that a preparation of gold would heal
all diseases in both animals and plants, as well as in human beings,
and that all metals were in a condition of chronic sickness in so
far that they had departed from their natural and original state
of gold. His works, all of which are in Latin, are not considered
authentic, but his Summa Perfectionis, a manual for the alchemical
student, has frequently been translated.
The Moorish alchemists taught that all metals are composed of varying
proportions of mercury and sulphur. They laboured strenuously to
multiply drugs out of the various mixtures and reactions of the
few chemicals at their disposal, but although they believed in the
theory of transmutation of metals they did not strive to effect
it. It belonged to their creed rather than to their practice. They
were a school of scientific artisans and experimentalists, first and
last. They probably owed their alchemical knowledge to Byzantium,
which in turn had received it from Egypt; or it may be that the Arabs
drew their scientific inspiration at first hand from the land of the
Nile, where the 'great art' of alchemy undoubtedly had its birth.
Astrology
Astrology was also an important branch of occult study with the Moors
of Spain, whose consideration of it greatly assisted the science
of mathematics, especially that branch of it which still retains
its Arabic name--algebra (al = the, jabara = to set, compute). It is
probable that the Arabs first received an insight into the practice of
foretelling events by the position of the planets at a given time from
the Chaldeans, who undoubtedly were its earliest students. References
to astrology are plentifully encountered in Spanish story, as the
reader will have observed. But high as it stood in the estimation
of the Moorish sages, it was still subservient to the grander and
more mysterious art of magic, whereby the spirits of the air could
be forced to do the will of the magus, and carry out his behests in
four elements. Most unfortunately, we are almost entirely ignorant of
the tenets of Moorish magic, owing probably to the circumstance that
it was averse to the spirit of Islam. But we know that it was founded
upon Alexandrian magic, and therefore recognized the principles of that
art as laid down by the great Hermes Trismegistus, who was none other
than the Egyptian Thoth, the god of writing, computation, and wisdom.
About the end of the tenth century the learned men of Europe began
to resort to Spain for the purpose of studying the arts, occult
and otherwise. Among the first to do so was Gerbert, afterward Pope
Sylvester II, who spent several years in Cordova, and who introduced
into Christendom the knowledge of the Arabic numerals and the no
less useful art of clock-making. Strange that he did not apply his
knowledge of the one to the other, and that even to-day our timepieces
are burdened with the old and cumbrous Roman numerals! William
of Malmesbury assures us that Gerbert made many discoveries of
treasure through the art of necromancy, and relates how he visited a
magnificent subterranean palace, which, though dazzling to the sight,
would not remain when its splendours were subjected to the test of
human touch. Ignorant Europe took Gerbert's mathematical diagrams
for magical signs, and his occult reputation increased as his moral
character withered. It was said that the Devil had promised him that
he should not die until he had celebrated high mass at Jerusalem. One
day Gerbert celebrated his office in the Church of the Holy Cross
of Jerusalem at Rome, and, feeling ill, asked where he was, observed
the double entendre of the Evil One, and expired. Such was the tale
that benighted ignorance cast round the memory of this single-minded
and enlightened man, much in the same spirit as it bedevilled the
recollections of our own Michael Scot and Roger Bacon.
The Dean of Santiago
In the Conde Lucanor, a Spanish collection of tales and homilies
of the fourteenth century, already alluded to, is a story of the
Dean of Santiago, who went to Illan, a magician of Toledo, to be
instructed in necromancy. The magus raised a difficulty, saying that
as the Dean was a man of influence, and would attain a high position,
he would probably forget all past obligations. The Dean, however,
protested that no matter to what eminence he attained he would not
fail to remember and assist his former friends, and particularly his
tutor in things supernatural. Satisfied with the churchman's promises,
the necromancer led his pupil to a remote apartment, first requesting
his housekeeper to purchase some partridges for supper, but not to
cook them until she had definite orders to do so.
When the Dean and his instructor had settled themselves to the business
before them, they were interrupted in their labours by a messenger,
who came to inform the Dean that his uncle, the Archbishop, had
summoned him to his death-bed. Being unwilling, however, to forgo
the instruction he was about to receive, he excused himself from the
duty. Four days later, another messenger arrived, informing the Dean of
the Archbishop's death, and later he learned that he had been appointed
Archbishop in his uncle's place. On hearing this, Illan requested the
vacant deanery for his son. But the new Archbishop preferred his own
brother, inviting, however, Illan and his son to accompany him to
his see. Later the deanery became vacant once more, and once again
the magician begged that his son might be appointed to it. But the
Archbishop refused his suit, in favour of one of his own uncles. Two
years later the Archbishop became a cardinal, and was summoned to Rome,
with liberty to appoint his successor in the see. Once more Illan was
disappointed. At length the Cardinal was elected Pope, and Illan, who
had accompanied him to Rome, reminded him that he had now no excuse
for not fulfilling the promises he had so often made to him. The
Pope, in anger, threatened to have Illan cast into prison and starved
as a heretic and sorcerer. "Ingrate!" cried the incensed magician,
"since you would thus starve me, I must perforce fall back upon the
partridges I ordered for to-night's supper."
With these words he waved his wand, and called to his housekeeper
to prepare the birds. Instantly the Dean found himself once more in
Toledo, still Dean of Santiago, for, indeed, the years he had spent
as Archbishop, Cardinal, and Pope were illusory, and had existed only
in his imagination at the suggestion of the magus. This was the means
the sage had taken to test his character, before committing himself to
his hands, and so crestfallen was the churchman that he had nothing to
reply to the reproaches of Illan, who sent him off without permitting
him to sup upon the partridges!
It is strange that physicians and priests figure most notably as the
heroes of Spanish magical story--strange, until we reflect upon the
manner in which the learned classes were regarded by an illiterate
and illiberal commonalty. Torquemada tells a story of a youth of his
acquaintance, a young man of great ability, who was afterward physician
to the Emperor Charles V. When he was a student at Guadalupe, and
was travelling to Granada, he was invited by a traveller, dressed
in the garments of a churchman, whom he had obliged in some manner,
to mount behind him on his horse, and he would carry him to his
destination. The horse seemed a sorry jade, unable to carry the
weight of two able-bodied men, and at first the student refused the
mount, but, on pressure, at length accepted a seat behind the seeming
ecclesiastic. The horseman requested his companion not to fall asleep
in the saddle, and they jogged on, without any appearance of their
going at an extraordinary rate. At daybreak, to the student's surprise,
he found himself near the city of Granada, where the horseman left him,
marvelling that the distance between two places so widely separated
could have been covered in a single night.
Spectres and Apparitions
As might be imagined, the strong vein of superstition in the Spanish
character, if subdued to some extent by the harsh dictates of the Holy
Office, yet rose triumphant in other spheres of occult belief. We find,
for example, a widely diffused belief in the power of the dead to
return to the scenes of previous existence, and this superstition is
well illustrated by a weird passage in the thrilling and mysterious
pages of Goulart, who in his Trésor des Histoires admirables [56]
knows well how to mingle shadows with the colours on his palette.
He tells us how Juan Vasquez Ayala and two other young Spaniards,
on their way to a French university, were unable to find suitable
accommodation at a certain village where they had halted for the night,
and were obliged to take shelter in a deserted house, the reputation
of which as a haunted vicinity had flourished for a considerable time
among the villagers.
The young men made the best of matters, borrowed articles of
furniture from several neighbouring houses, and resolved to give a
warm reception to any supernatural visitant who should have a mind
to pay them a call. But on the first night of their occupancy they
had scarcely fallen asleep when they were awakened by a noise as of
clanking chains, which seemed to proceed from the lower regions of
their temporary dwelling.
Absolutely fearless, young Ayala leaped from his bed and, donning his
clothes, sallied downstairs in search of the cause of the clamour which
had awakened himself and his comrades. In one hand he carried his drawn
sword, in the other a lighted candle, and on coming to a door which
led to the courtyard of the house he perceived a dreadful spectre--a
grisly skeleton, standing in the entrance. The grim apparition which
confronted him was loaded with chains, which clanked with a doomful
and melancholy sound on the ears of the gallant young student, who,
however, undismayed by the spectacle before him, advanced the point
of his sword and demanded the intruder's reason for disturbing his
rest. The phantom waved its arms, shook its bony head, and beckoned
with its hand, as if asking Ayala to follow it. The student expressed
his willingness to do so, on which the ghost commenced to descend
a flight of steps, dragging its legs as it went like a man whose
limbs were weighted with iron shackles. Ayala followed fearlessly,
but as he advanced his candle suddenly flickered and went out, a
circumstance which did little to reinforce his courage. "Hold!" he
called to the phantom. "You perceive my candle has gone out. If you
will wait till I relight it, I shall return in a moment."
Rushing to a light which burned in the hall, he relit his candle, and
returned to the spot where he had left the apparition. He entered the
garden, where he saw a well, close by which he perceived the ghost,
which signed to him to continue his progress, and having gone a little
way forward, vanished.
Puzzled, the student returned to his apartment, and told his comrades
to accompany him to the garden, but search as they might, nothing
could they find. Next day they reported what had occurred to the
alcalde of the village, who had the garden examined, with the result
that immediately beneath the spot where the phantom had disappeared
a skeleton was exhumed, loaded with chains. When proper burial had
been given to the remains the noises in the house abruptly ceased,
but the adventure proved too much for the superstitious Spaniards, who
returned home abruptly, without fulfilling the object of their journey.
This tale is a capital example of the typical ghost story in
its earliest phase. I will not descant upon it here, as a book on
Spanish romance and legend is scarcely the place for a disquisition
on the occult. But we are learning, slowly and painfully perhaps,
to regard these matters from another point of view than our Victorian
grandfathers, whose materialism pooh-poohed the supernatural without
trying to account for it. In any case I am one of those who believe
in it and who desire to believe in it, so that the reflections of
such a biased person are perhaps better dispensed with.
Torquemada tells a gruesome story of one Antonio Costilla, a Spanish
gentleman, who one day left his mansion, well mounted, on a matter of
personal business. When he had ridden several leagues, night suddenly
fell, and he resolved to return to his home, but to his dismay he was
overtaken by the darkness, and seeing a light ahead rode his horse
at a walk in its direction. He saw that it proceeded from a small
hermitage, and, dismounting, he entered the little chapel and engaged
in prayer. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw that
he was not alone, for the hermitage was occupied by three persons, who
lay upon the ground, wrapped in black mantles. They did not address
him, but lay regarding him with wild, melancholy eyes. Terrified,
he knew not by what, he leaped into the saddle and rode off. In a
little while the moon shone out, and showed him the three men whom he
thought he had left in the chapel riding a little in front of him on
black horses. In order to avoid them, he turned down a by-path, but
to his horror still observed them riding a few paces ahead. Spurring
madly on, yet always preceded by those whom he desired to avoid, he
came in time to the gate of his own house, where he dismounted, and
led his horse into the courtyard--only to find there the three cloaked
figures awaiting him. He rushed into the house, and entered his wife's
apartment, calling for help. Instantly the entire household came to
his assistance, but although he screamed loudly that the three fiends
or apparitions stood by the couch on which he had thrown himself,
they were invisible to all others. A few days later the wretched
Costilla died, maintaining to the last that three forms with glaring
eyes stood over his bed, menacing him with frightful gestures.
Pity it is that our knowledge of the supernatural as manifested in
Spain is so slight and fragmentary. But the dread of the sorcerer's
fate was heavy upon the people, and the fear of torture by rack or
fire successfully banished witch, wizard, fay, and phantom from the
fields and cities of the Peninsula.