Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

The first thing to see, after making a general survey of the city, is the cathedral, which is justly considered one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world. The history of this cathedral, according to popular tradition, dates from the times of the apostle Saint James, first bishop of Toledo, who selected the place where it should be erected; but the construction of the edifice as it appears to-day was begun in 1227, during the reign of San Fernando, and was ended after twenty-five years of almost continuous labor. The exterior of this immense church is neither rich nor beautiful, as is that of the cathedral of Burgos. A little square extends in front of the façade, and is the only place from which one can get a view of any considerable part of the building. It is entirely surrounded by a narrow street, from which, however much you may twist your neck, you can see only the high outer walls which enclose the church like a fortress. The façade has three great doorways, the first of which is named Pardon, the second Inferno, and the third Justice. Over it rises a substantial tower which terminates in a beautiful octagonal cupola. Although in walking around the building one may have remarked its great size, on first entering one is struck by a profound sense of wonder, which quickly gives place to another keen sense of pleasure, the result of the freshness, the repose, the soft shadow, and the mysterious light which steals through the stained glass of innumerable windows and breaks in a thousand rays of blue, golden, and rosy light which glides here and there along the arches and columns like the bands of a rainbow. The church is formed of five great naves divided by eighty-eight enormous pilasters, each of which is composed of sixteen turned columns as close together as a bunch of spears. A sixth nave cuts the other five at right angles, extending from the great altar to the choir, and the vaulted roof of this principal nave rises majestically above the others, which seem to be bowing to it as if in homage. The many-colored light and the clear tone of the stone give the church an air of quiet cheerfulness which tempers the melancholy appearance of the Gothic architecture without depriving it of its austere and serious character. To pass from the streets of the city to the naves of this cathedral seems like coming out of a dungeon into an open square: one looks around, draws a deep breath, and begins to live again.

The high altar, if one wished to examine it minutely, would require as much time as the interior of a church: it is itself a church—a miracle of little columns, statuettes, traceries, and ornaments of endless variety, creeping along the iron frames, rising above the architraves, winding about the niches, supporting one another, climbing and disappearing, presenting on every side a thousand outlines, groups, combinations, effects in gilding and color, every sort of grace that art can devise—giving to the whole an effect of magnificence, dignity, and beauty. Opposite the high altar rises the choir, divided into three orders of stalls, marvellously carved by Philip of Bourgogne and Berruguete, with bas-reliefs representing historical events, allegories, and sacred legends—one of the most famous monuments of art.

In the centre, in the form of a throne, stands the seat of the archbishop surrounded by a circle of enormous jasper columns, with colossal statues of alabaster resting on the architraves; on either side rise enormous bronze pulpits provided with two great missals, and two gigantic organs, one in front of the other, from which it seems that at any moment a flood of melody may burst forth and make the vault tremble.

The pleasure of one's admiration in these great cathedrals is almost always disturbed by importunate guides, who wish at any cost to amuse you after their fashion. And it was my misfortune to become convinced that the Spanish guides are the most persistent of their kind. When one of them has gotten it into his head that you are to spend the day with him, it is all over. You may shrug your shoulders, refuse to notice him, let him talk himself hoarse without so much as turning to look at him, wander about on your own account as though you had not seen him: it is all the same thing. In a moment of enthusiasm before some painting or statue a word escapes you, a gesture, a smile: it is enough. You are caught, you are his, you are the prey of this implacable human cuttle-fish, who, like the cuttle-fish of Victor Hugo, does not leave his victim until he has cut off his head. While I stood contemplating the statuary of the choir I saw one of these cuttle-fish out of the corner of my eye—a miserable old rake, who approached me with slow steps sidewise, like a cutthroat with the air of one who was saying, "Now I have got you!" I continued to look at the statues; the old man came up to my side, and he too began to look; then he suddenly asked me, "Do you wish my company?"

"No," I replied, "I don't need you."

And he continued, without any embarrassment,

"Do you know who Elpidius was?"

The question was so remarkable that I could not keep from asking in my turn,

"Who was he?"

"Elpidius," he replied, "was the second bishop of Toledo."