Spain, v. 1 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

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.