Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

"Is it much farther?" I would ask from time to time, and he would always answer: "It is right here," and yet we never reached it.

At a certain point my uneasiness changed into fear: in a narrow, tortuous street a door opened; two bearded men came out, made a sign to the cuttle-fish, and fell in behind us. I thought it was all over with me. There was only one way of escape—to strike the guide, knock him down, jump over his body, and run. But which way? And on the other side there came into my mind the high praises which Thiers bestows on the "Spanish legs" in his History of the War of Independence; and I thought that flight would only prove an opportunity to plant a dagger in my back instead of my stomach, Alas! to die without seeing Andalusia! To die after taking so many notes, after giving so many tips—to die with pockets full of letters of introduction, with a purse fat with doubloons—to die with a passport covered with seals—to die by treachery! As God willed, the two bearded men disappeared at the first corner and I was saved. Then, overwhelmed by compunction for suspecting that the poor old man could be capable of a crime, I came over to his left side, offered him a cigar, said that Toledo was worth two Romes, and showed him a thousand courtesies. Finally we arrived at San Juan de los Reyes.

It is a church which seems like a royal palace: the highest part is covered by a balcony surrounded with a honeycombed and sculptured breastwork, upon which rises a series of statues of kings, and in the middle stands a graceful hexagonal cupola which completes the beautiful harmony of the edifice. From the walls hang long iron chains which were suspended there by the Christian prisoners released at the conquest of Granada, and which, together with the dark color of the stone, give the church a severe and picturesque appearance. We entered, passed through two or three large, bare rooms, unpaved, cluttered with piles of dirt and heaps of rubbish, climbed a staircase, and came out upon a high gallery inside the church, which is one of the most beautiful and noblest of the monuments of Gothic architecture. It has a single great nave divided into four vaults, whose arches intersect under rich rosettes. The pilasters are covered with festoons and arabesques; the walls ornamented with a profusion of bas-reliefs, with enormous shields bearing the arms of Castile and Arragon, eagles, dragons, heraldic animals, trailing vines, and emblematic inscriptions; the gallery running all around the room is perforated and carved with great elegance; the choir is supported by a bold arch; the color of the stone is light gray, and everything is admirably finished and preserved, as if the church had been built but a few years ago, instead of at the end of the fifteenth century.

From the church we descended to the cloister, which is, in truth, a miracle of architecture and sculpture. Graceful slender columns which could be broken in two by the stroke of a hammer, looking like the trunks of saplings, support capitals richly adorned like curving boughs; arches ornamented with flowers, birds, and grotesque animals in every sort of carving. The walls are covered with inscriptions in Gothic characters in a framework of leaves and very delicate arabesques. Wherever one looks one finds grace mingled with riches in enchanting harmony: it would not be possible to accumulate in an equal space and with more exquisite art a larger number of the most delicate and beautiful objects. It is a luxuriant garden of sculpture, a grand saloon embroidered, quilted, and brocaded in marble, a great monument, majestic as a temple, magnificent as a palace, delicate as a toy, and graceful as a flower.

After the cloisters one goes to see a picture-gallery which contains only some paintings of little value, and then to the convent with its long corridors, its narrow stairs, and empty cells, almost on the point of falling into ruins, and in some parts already in ruins; throughout bare and squalid like a building gutted by fire.

A little way from San Juan de los Reyes there is another monument well worthy of attention, a curious record of the Judaic period—the synagogue now known by the name of Santa Maria la Blanca. One enters an untidy garden and knocks at the door of a wretched-looking house. The door opens. There is a delightful sense of surprise, a vision of the Orient, a sudden revelation of another religion and another world. There are five narrow alleys divided by four long rows of little octagonal pilasters, which support as many Moorish arches with stucco capitals of various forms; the ceiling is of cedar-wood divided into squares, and here and there on the walls are arabesques and Arabic inscriptions. The light falls from above, and everything is white. The synagogue was converted into a mosque by the Arabs, and the mosque into a church by the Christians, so that, properly, it is none of the three, although it still preserves the character of the mosque, and the eye surveys it with delight, and the imagination follows from arch to arch the fleeting images of a sensuous paradise.

When I had seen Santa Maria la Blanca, I had not the strength to see anything else, and, refusing all the tempting propositions of the guide, I told him to lead me back to the hotel. After a long walk through a labyrinth of narrow, deserted streets we arrived there; I put a peseta and a half in the hand of my innocent assassin, who found the fee too small, and asked (how I laughed at the word!) for a little gratificacion.

I went into the dining-room to eat a chop or chuleta (which is pronounced cuileta), as the Spanish call it—a name at which they would turn up their noses in some of the provinces of Italy.

Toward evening I went to see the Alcazar. The name raises expectations of a Moorish palace, but there is nothing Moorish about it except the name. The building which one admires to-day was built in the reign of Charles V. on the ruins of a castle which was in existence as early as the eighth century, although the notices of it in contemporary chronicles are vague. This edifice rises upon a height overlooking the city, so that one sees its walls and towers from every point above the level of the streets, and the foreigner finds it a sure landmark amid the confusion and labyrinths of the city. I climbed the height by a broad winding street, like that one which runs from the plain up to the city, and found myself in front of the Alcazar. It is an immense square palace, at whose corners rise four great towers that give it the formidable appearance of a fortress. A vast square extends in front of the façade, and all around it runs a chain of embattled bulwarks of Oriental design. The entire building is of a decided chalky color, relieved by a thousand varied shades of that powerful painter of monuments, the burning sun of the South, and it appears even lighter against the very clear sky upon which the majestic form of the building is outlined.

The façade is carved in arabesques in a manner at once dignified and elegant. The interior of the palace corresponds with the exterior: it is a vast court surrounded by two orders of graceful arches, one above the other, supported by slender columns, with a monumental marble staircase starting at the centre of the side opposite the door, and a little way above the pavement divides into two parts that lead to the interior of the palace, the one on the right, the other on the left. To enjoy the beauty of the courtyard it is necessary to stand on the landing where the staircase separates: from that point one comprehends at a glance the complete harmony of the edifice, which inspires a sense of cheerfulness and pleasure, like fine music performed by hidden musicians.