Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

From the height of the terrace one commands a view of all those gardens as they slope downward in platforms and terraces; one peers down into the abyss of vegetation which separates the two mountains; one overlooks the whole enclosure of the Alhambra, with the cupolas of its little temples, its distant towers, and the paths winding among its ruins; the view extends over the city of Granada with its plain and its hills, and runs with a single glance along all the summits of the Sierra Nevada, that appear so near that one imagines they are not an hour's walk distant. And while you contemplate that spectacle your ear is soothed by the murmur of a hundred fountains and the faint sound of the bells of the city, which comes in waves scarcely audible, bearing with it the mysterious fragrance of this earthly paradise which makes you tremble and grow pale with delight.

Court of the Generalife, Granada

Beyond the Generalife, on the summit of a higher mountain, now bleak and bare, there rose in Moorish times other royal palaces, with gardens connected with each other by great avenues lined with myrtle hedges. Now all these marvels of architecture encircled by groves, fountains, and flowers, those fabulous castles in the air, those magnificent and fragrant nests of love and delight, have disappeared, and scarcely a heap of rubbish or a short stretch of wall remains to tell their story to the passer-by. But these ruins, that elsewhere would arouse a feeling of melancholy, do not have such an influence in the presence of that glorious nature whose enchantment not even the most marvellous works of man have ever been able to equal.

On re-entering the city I stopped at one end of the Carrera del Darro, in front of a house richly adorned with bas-reliefs representing heraldic shields, armor, cherubs, and lions, with a little balcony, over one corner of which, partly on one wall and partly on another, I read the following mysterious inscription stamped in great letters:

"Esperando la del Cielo,"

which, literally translated, signifies "Awaiting her in Heaven." Curious to learn the hidden meaning of those words, I made a note of them, so that I might ask the learned father of my friend about them. He gave me two interpretations, the one almost certainly correct, but not at all romantic; the other romantic, but very doubtful. I give the last: The house belonged to Don Fernando de Zafra, the secretary of the Catholic kings. He had a very beautiful daughter. A young hidalgo, of a family hostile or inferior in rank to the house of Zafra, became enamored of the daughter, and, as his love was returned, he asked for her hand in marriage, but was refused. The refusal of her father stirred the love of the two young hearts to flame: the windows of the house were low; the lover one night succeeded in making the ascent and entered the maiden's room. Whether he upset a chair on entering, or coughed, or uttered a low cry of joy on seeing his beautiful love welcoming him with open arms, the tradition does not tell, and no one knows; but certain it is that Don Fernando de Zafra heard a noise, ran in, saw, and, blind with fury, rushed upon the ill-fated young man to put him to death. But he succeeded in making his escape, and Don Fernando in following him ran into one of his own pages, a partisan of the lovers, who had helped the hidalgo to enter the house: in his haste his master mistook him for the betrayer, and, without hearing his protests and prayers, he had him bound and hanged from the balcony. The tradition runs that while the poor victim kept crying, "Pity! pity!" the outraged father responded as he pointed toward the balcony, "Thou shalt stay there esperando la del Cielo!" (awaiting her in heaven)—a reply which he afterward had cut in the stone walls as a perpetual warning to evil-doers.

I devoted the rest of the day to the churches and monasteries.

The cathedral of Granada deserves to be described part by part in an even higher degree than the cathedral of Malaga, although it too is beautiful and magnificent; but I have already described enough churches. Its foundation was laid by the Catholic kings in 1529 upon the ruins of the principal mosque of the city, but it has never been finished. It has a great façade with three doorways, adorned with statues and bas-reliefs, and it consists of five naves, divided by twenty measureless pilasters, each composed of a bundle of slender columns. The chapels contain paintings by Boccanegra, sculptures by Torrigiano, and tombs and other precious ornaments. Admirable above all is the great chapel, supported by twenty Corinthian columns divided into two orders, upon the first of which rise colossal statues of the twelve apostles, and on the second an entablature covered with garlands and heads of cherubs. Overhead runs a circle of magnificent stained-glass windows, which represent the Passion, and from the frieze which crowns them leap ten bold arches forming the vault of the chapel. Within the arches that support the columns are six great paintings by Alonzo Cano, which are said to be his most beautiful and finished work.

And since I have spoken of Alonzo Cano, a native of Granada, one of the strongest Spanish painters of the seventeenth century, although a disciple of the Sevillian school rather than the founder, as some assert, of a school of his own, but less original than his greatest contemporaries,—since I have spoken of him, I wish here to record some traits of his genius and anecdotes of his life little known outside of Spain, although exceedingly remarkable. Alonzo Cano was the most quarrelsome, the most irascible, and the most violent of the Spanish painters. He spent his life in contention. He was a priest. From 1652 to 1658, for six consecutive years, without a day's intermission, he wrangled with the canons of the cathedral of Granada, of which he was steward, because he was not willing to become subdeacon in accordance with the stipulated agreement; before leaving Granada he broke into pieces with his own hands a statue of Saint Anthony of Padua which he had made to the order of an auditor of the chancery, because the man allowed himself to observe that the price demanded seemed a little dear. Chosen master of design to the royal prince, who, as it appears, was not born with a talent for painting, he so exasperated his pupil that the boy was obliged to have recourse to the king that he might be taken out of his hands. Remanded to Granada, to the neighborhood of the chapter of the cathedral, as an especial favor, he bore such a deep rancor from his old litigations with his canons that throughout his life he would not do a stroke of work for them. But this is a small matter. He nursed a blind, bestial, inextinguishable hatred against the Hebrews, and was firmly convinced that in any way to touch a Hebrew or any object that a Hebrew had touched would bring him misfortune. Owing to this conviction he did some of the most extravagant feats in the world. If in walking along the street he ran against a Jew, he would strip off the infected garment and return home in his shirt-sleeves. If by chance he succeeded in discovering that in his absence a servant had admitted a Jew into the house, he discharged the servant, threw away the shoes with which he had touched the pavement profaned by the circumcised, and sometimes even had the pavement torn up and reset. And he found something to find fault with even as he was dying. When he was approaching the end of life the confessor handed him a clumsily-made crucifix that he might kiss it, but he pushed it away with his hand, saying, "Father, give me a naked cross, that I may worship Jesus Christ as He Himself is and as I behold Him in my mind." But, after all, his was a rare, charitable nature which abhorred every vulgar action, and loved with a deep and very pure love the art in which he remains immortal.