Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

A very curious anecdote is related in connection with this ceremony. Two centuries ago an archbishop of Seville, who regarded the dance and tamborines as unworthy instruments of praising God, wished to prohibit the ceremony. Everything was thrown into confusion: the people protested; the canons made themselves heard; the archbishop was obliged to appeal to the Pope. The Pope, whose curiosity was aroused, wished to see this silly dance with his own eyes, that he might decide intelligently in the matter. The boys in their cavalier dress were taken to Rome, received at the Vatican, and made to dance and sing before His Holiness. His Holiness laughed, did not disapprove, and, wishing to give one knock on the hoop and another on the barrel, and so to satisfy the canons without offending the archbishop, decreed that the boys should continue to dance so long as the clothes which they then wore lasted; after that time the ceremony was to be abolished. The archbishop laughed in his beard, if he had one; the canons laughed too, as if they had already found the way to outwit both the Pope and the archbishop. And, in fact, they renew some part of the boys' dress every year, so that the whole garment can never be said to have worn out, and the archbishop, as a scrupulous man, who observed the commands of the Pope to the letter, could not oppose the repetition of the ceremony. So they continued to dance, and they dance and will dance so long as it pleases the canons and the Lord.

As I was leaving the church a sacristan made me a sign, led me behind the choir, and pointed out a tablet in the pavement, upon which I read an inscription which stirred my heart. Under that stone lay the bones of Ferdinand Columbus, the son of Christopher, who was born at Cordova, and died at Seville on the twelfth of July, 1536, in the fiftieth year of his age. Under the inscription run some Latin verses with the following significance:

"Of what avail is it that I have bathed the entire universe with my sweat, that I have three times passed through the New World discovered by my father, that I have adorned the banks of the gentle Beti, and preferred my simple taste to riches, that I might again draw around thee the divinities of the Castalian spring, and offer thee the treasures already gathered by Ptolemy,—if thou, passing this stone in silence, returnest no salute to my father and givest no thought to me?"

The sacristan, who knew more about the inscription than I did, explained it to me. Ferdinand Columbus was in his early youth a page of Isabella the Catholic and of the prince Don Juan; he travelled to the Indies with his father and his brother the admiral Don Diego, followed the emperor Charles V. in his wars, made other voyages to Asia, Africa, and America, and everywhere collected with infinite care and at great expense the most precious books, from which he composed a library which passed after his death into the hands of the chapter of the cathedral, and remains intact under the famous name of the Columbian Library. Before his death he wrote these same Latin verses which are inscribed on the tablet of his tomb, and expressed a desire to be buried in the cathedral. In the last moments of his life he had a vessel full of ashes brought to him and sprinkled his face with them, pronouncing as he did so the words of Holy Writ, Memento homo quia pulvis es, chanted the Te Deum, smiled, and expired with the serenity of a saint. I was at once seized with a desire to visit the library and left the church.

A guide stopped me on the threshold to ask me if I had seen the Patio de los Naranjos—the Court of Oranges—and, as I had not done so, he conducted me thither. The Court of Oranges lies to the north of the cathedral, surrounded by a great embattled wall. In the centre rises a fountain encircled by an orange-grove, and on one side along the wall is a marble pulpit, from which, according to the tradition, Vincenzo Ferrer is said to have preached. In the area of this court, which is very large, rose the ancient mosque, which is thought to have been built toward the end of the twelfth century. There is not the least trace of it now. In the shade of the orange trees around the margins of the basin the good Sevillians come to take the air in the burning noons of summer, and only the delightful verdure and the perfumed air remain as memorials of the voluptuous paradise of Mohammed, while now and then a beautiful girl with great dark eyes darts between the distant trees.

The famous Giralda of the cathedral of Seville is an ancient Moorish tower, built, it is affirmed, in the year one thousand after the design of the architect Geber, the inventor of algebra. The upper part has been changed since Spain was reconquered, and has been rebuilt like a Christian bell-tower, but it will always retain its Moorish appearance, and, after all, is prouder of the banished standards of the vanquished than of the cross recently planted upon it by the victors. It is a monument which produces a strange sensation: it makes one smile; it is measureless and imposing as an Egyptian pyramid, and at the same time light and graceful as a summer-house. It is a square brick tower of a mellow rose-color, unadorned to a certain height, and from that point up ornamented with mullioned Moorish windows, which appear here and there like the windows of a house provided with balconies, and give it a very beautiful appearance. From the platform, which was formerly covered by a variegated roof surmounted by an iron pole which supported four enormous golden balls, now rises the Christian bell-tower in three stories, the first of which is taken up by the bells, the second is encircled by a balcony, and the third consists of a sort of cupola upon which, like a weather-vane, turns a colossal gilded statue which represents Faith, with a palm in one hand and a banner in the other. This statue is visible a long distance from Seville, and flashes when the sun strikes it like an enormous ruby in the crown of a gigantic king, who sweeps with his glance the entire valley of Andalusia.

I climbed all the way to the top, and was there amply rewarded for the fatigue of the ascent. Seville, all white like a city of marble, encircled by a diadem of gardens, groves, and avenues, surrounded by a landscape dotted with villas, lay open to the view in all the wealth of its Oriental beauty. The Guadalquivir, freighted with ships, divides and embraces it in a majestic curve. Here the Torre del Oro casts its graceful shadow on the azure waters of the river; there the Alcazar rears its frowning towers; yonder the gardens of Montpensier raise above the roofs of the building an enormous mass of verdure: one's glance penetrates the bull-ring, the public gardens, the patios of the homes, the cloisters of the churches, and all the streets which converge toward the cathedral; in the distance appear the villages of Santi Ponce, Algaba, and others which whiten the slopes of the hills; to the right of the Guadalquivir the great suburb of Triana; on one side along the horizon the broken peaks of the Sierra Morena; and in the opposite direction other mountains enlivened by infinite azure tints; and over all this marvellous panorama the clearest, most transparent, and entrancing sky which has ever smiled upon the face of man.

I descended from the Giralda and went to see the Columbian Library, located in an old building beside the Court of Oranges. After I had seen a collection of missals, Bibles, and ancient manuscripts, one of which is attributed to Alfonso the Wise, entitled "The Book of the Treasure," written with the most scrupulous care in the ancient Spanish language, I saw—let me repeat it, I saw—I, with my own moist eyes, as I pressed my hand on my beating heart—I saw a book, a treatise on cosmography and astronomy in Latin, with the margins covered with notes written in the hand of Christopher Columbus! He had studied that book while he revolved his great design in his mind, had pored over its pages in the night-watches, had touched it perhaps with his divine forehead in those exhausting vigils when sometimes he bent over the parchments with utter weariness and bathed them with his sweat. It is a tremendous thought! But there is something better. I saw a writing in the hand of Columbus in which are collected all the prophecies of the ancient writers, sacred and profane, in regard to the discovery of the New World, written, it is said, to induce the sovereigns of Spain to provide the means to carry out his enterprise. There is, among others, a passage from the Medea of Seneca, which runs: Venient annis saecula seris, quibus oceanus vincula rerum laxet et ingens pateat tellus. And in the volume of Seneca, which may also be found in the Columbian Library, alongside of this passage there is a note by Ferdinand Columbus, which says: "This prophecy was fulfilled by my father, the admiral Christopher Columbus, in the year 1492." My eyes filled with tears; I wished I were alone, that I might have kissed those books, have tired myself out turning and re-turning their leaves between my hands, have detached a tiny fragment, and carried it with me as a sacred thing. Christopher Columbus! I have seen his characters! I have touched the leaves which he has touched! I have felt him very near me! On leaving the library, I know not why—I could have leaped into the midst of the flames to rescue a child, I could have stripped myself to clothe a beggar, I could joyfully have made any sacrifice—I was so rich!

After the library the Alcazar, but before reaching it, although it is in the same square as the cathedral, I felt for the first time what the Andalusian sun is like. Seville is the hottest city of Spain, it was the hottest hour of the day, and I found myself in the hottest part of the city; there was a flood of light; not a door, not a window, was open, not a soul astir; if I had been told that Seville was uninhabited, I should have believed it. I crossed the square slowly with half-shut eyes and wrinkled face, with the sweat coursing in great drops down my cheeks and breast, while my hands seemed to have been dipped in a bucket of water. On nearing the Alcazar I saw a sort of booth belonging to a water-carrier, and dashed under it headlong, like a man fleeing from a shower of stones. I took a little breathing-spell, and went on toward the Alcazar.

The Alcazar, the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, is one of the best-preserved monuments in Spain. From the outside it looks like a fortress: it is entirely surrounded by high walls, embattled towers, and old houses, which form two spacious courtyards in front of the façade. The façade is bare and severe, like the rest of the exterior; the gate is adorned with gilded and painted arabesques, between which one sees a Gothic inscription which refers to the time when the Alcazar was restored by order of King Don Pedro. The Alcazar, in fact, although a Moorish palace, is the work of Christian rather than of Moorish kings. It is not known exactly in what year it was built: it was reconstructed by King Abdelasio toward the end of the twelfth century, conquered by King Ferdinand toward the middle of the thirteenth century; altered a second time, in the following century, by King Don Pedro; and then occupied for longer or shorter periods by nearly all the kings of Castile; and finally selected by Charles V. as the place for the celebration of his marriage with the infanta of Portugal. The Alcazar has witnessed the loves and crimes of three generations of kings; every stone awakens a memory and guards a secret.