Spain, v. 1 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

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 It is not certainly known who the painters of these pictures were, but when I saw the curtains which concealed them withdrawn and heard those names reverently spoken, I shivered from head to foot.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.