Spain, v. 1 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

As I came out of the cathedral, with my mind occupied with a picture of the solemn sanctuary, I met a long procession of Carnival chariots, led by a band of music, accompanied by a crowd, followed by a great number of carriages, on their way to the Coso. I do not ever remember to have seen faces so grotesque, ridiculous, and preposterous as those worn by the maskers, and, although I was alone and not at all disposed to merriment, I could no more have kept from laughing than I could have done at the close of one of Fucini’s sonnets. The crowd, on the other hand, was decorous and silent and the maskers were as grave as possible. One would have said that both parties were more impressed by the melancholy presentiment of Lent than by the short-lived gaiety of the Carnival. I saw some pretty little faces at the windows, but as yet no type of that proverbial Spanish beauty, of the rich dark complexion, and the fiery black eyes which Martinez de la Rosa, an exile in London, remembered with such passionate sighs among the beauties of the North. I passed between two carriages, pushed my way out of the crowd, thereby drawing down some curses which I promptly entered in my note-book, and turned at random down two or three narrow little streets. I came out at the square of San Salvador in front of the cathedral of the same name, which is also called the Seo—a richer and more splendid edifice than that of Our Lady of the Pillar.

Neither the Græco-Roman façade, although majestic in its proportions, nor the high, light tower, is a preparation for the grand spectacle of the interior. On entering I found myself surrounded by gloomy shadows. For an instant my eyes could not discover the outlines of the building. I saw only a shimmer of broken light resting here and there on column and arch. Then slowly I distinguished five naves, divided by four orders of Gothic pilasters, the walls far in the distance, and the long series of lateral chapels, and I was overwhelmed by the sight. It was the first interior which corresponded with the image I had formed of the Spanish cathedrals, so varied, magnificent, and rich. The principal chapel, surrounded by a great Gothic dome in the form of a tiara, alone contains the riches of a great church. The large altar is of alabaster covered with rosettes, scrolls, and arabesques; the vaulted roof is adorned with statues; on the right and left are tombs and urns of princes; in an angle stands the chair in which the kings of Arragon sat at their coronation. The choir rising in the middle of the great nave is a mountain of treasures. Its exterior, broken by some passages leading to little chapels, presents an incredible variety of statuettes, little columns, bas-reliefs, friezes, and mosaics, and one would have to look all day to see it thoroughly. The pilasters of the two outer naves and the arches which span the chapels are richly adorned from the base to the capital with statues—some so enormous that they seem to be raising the edifice on their shoulders—with pictures, sculpture, and ornament of every style and of every size. In the chapels there is a wealth of statues, rich altars, royal tombs, busts, and paintings, which are so shrouded by the deep gloom that they appear only as a confused mass of colors, reflections, and shadowy forms, among which the eye loses itself and the imagination faints. After much running hither and thither, with my note-book open and pencil in hand, noting this and sketching that, with my brain in a whirl, I tore out the chequered leaves, and, promising myself that I would not write another word, I left the cathedral and began to walk through the city, seeing for at least an hour only long dim aisles and statues gleaming in the deep recesses of mysterious chapels.

There come moments to the gayest and most enamored traveller, as he walks the streets of a strange city, in which he is suddenly overwhelmed by such a strong feeling of utter weariness that if he were able by a word to fly back to his home and his dear ones with the rapidity of the genii of the “Arabian Nights,” he would pronounce that word with a cry of joy. I was seized by such a feeling just as I turned into a narrow street far from the centre of the city, and it almost terrified me. I anxiously rehearsed all the images I had formed of Madrid, Seville, and Granada, hoping in this way to arouse and rekindle my curiosity and enthusiasm; but those images now seemed dull and lifeless. My thoughts carried me back to my home, when on the day before my departure in my feverish impatience I could hardly wait for the hour of starting; but even that did not remove my sadness. The idea of having to see so many more new cities, of having to pass so many nights in hotels, of having to find myself for so long a time in the midst of a strange people, disheartened me. I asked myself how I could have resolved to leave home. It seemed as if I were suddenly separated from my country by a measureless distance—that I was in a wilderness alone, forgotten by all. I looked around; the street was empty, my heart turned cold, tears gathered in my eyes. “I cannot stay here,” I said to myself; “I shall die of melancholy. I will return to Italy.”

I had not made an end of speaking these words before I almost burst into hysterical laughter. In an instant everything regained life and splendor in my eyes. I thought of Castile and of Andalusia with a sort of frantic joy, and, shaking my head with an air of pity for my recent dejection, I lighted a cigar and walked on, happier than I had been at first.

It was the last day of the Carnival: in the evening on the principal streets I saw a procession of maskers, carriages, bands of young men, large family parties with children and nurses and budding girls, walking two by two. But there was no disagreeable shouting, no coarse songs of drunken men, no troublesome crowding and pushing. Now and then one felt a light rub on the elbow, but light enough to seem like the greeting of a friend who would say, “It is I,” rather than the jostling of some thoughtless fellow; and together with the touch at the elbow there were voices, much gentler than of old when the Saragossa women used to scream from the windows of their tottering houses, and much more ardent than the boiling oil which they poured down on the invaders. Oh! those were certainly not the times of which I heard recently at Turin, when an old priest of Saragossa assured me that in seven years he had not received the confession of a mortal sin.

That night I found at the hotel a madcap of a Frenchman whose equal I believe does not exist under the sun. He was a man of forty, with one of those putty-like faces which say “Here I am; come and cheat me”—a wealthy merchant, as it appeared, who had just arrived from Barcelona and expected to leave the next day for St. Sebastian. I found him in the dining-room telling his story to a group of tourists, who were bursting with laughter. I too joined the circle and listened to his story.

The fellow was a native of Bordeaux, and had lived for years at Barcelona. He had left France because his wife had run away from him, without saying good-bye, with the ugliest man in the town, leaving four children on his hands. He had never heard of her since the day of her flight. Some told him she had gone to America, others that she was in Africa or Asia, but those were mere groundless conjectures. For four years he had believed her to be dead. One fine day at Barcelona, as he was dining with a friend from Marseilles, his guest said to him (but you ought to have seen with what comical dignity he described the circumstance):

“My friend, I am going to make a trip to St. Sebastian one of these days.”

“What for?”

“Just a little diversion.”