In the Cathedral the darkness is so intense by contrast with the blinding light outside that it is some considerable time before one’s eyes become sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to perceive the details of the rich interior. The roof of the nave rises 150 feet above the level of the pavement, and is divided from the side aisles by fourteen great columns 70 feet in height, slender and stately as the shafts of forest trees. High overhead—where the delicate ribs of the vaulting cross—are carved the armorial shields of knights, who for this privilege paid heavy sums in bygone days towards the building of the church. Eight chapels, gorgeous with statues and gilding, occupy either side aisle, and above them are Gothic windows—so little suited to this land of fierce light that they have had to be bricked up, with the exception of a few tiny apertures through which the sun shoots golden arrows. The faint light that penetrates the rich rose windows above the choir lies in jewelled stains upon the pavement, and does little to dispel the solemn gloom.
From the dim east end, far away, where wreaths of incense rise and the high altar is outlined in brilliant points of light, comes the distant chanting of priests and the response of choir boys—and suddenly a great rush of harmony fills the cathedral as the voice of the organ sinks and swells like a storm-wind among the columns, and dies trembling away in the uttermost recesses of the great building.
Worshippers move to and fro in constant succession; men spread their handkerchiefs upon the stone floor and remain upon their knees in prayer, wholly oblivious of the coming and going around them. Women, dressed in deepest black, kneel motionless at the grilles of the various chapels, where lamps burn with a dull red spark before the image of saint or Saviour. A stately Suisse in wig and gown paces up and down and receives the visitor desirous of seeing the treasures of the sacristy; here are exhibited heavy silver candelabra, embroidered vestments, jewelled crosses, and reliquaries—and in company with these may be seen, bedizened with tawdry velvet and sham ermine, the mummified body of Majorca’s second king, Don Jaime II., who died in the year 1311.
It was in the old church of Santa Eulalia, not far away, that in 1256 a general assembly was called to proclaim this Don Jaime—the second son of the Conqueror—heir to the crown of Majorca, his elder brother’s inheritance being the throne of Aragon, which carried with it a merely nominal suzerainty over the island kingdom. Before long, however, a dispute arose over the terms of allegiance due to the King of Aragon, and in 1285 Don Jaime was dispossessed of his kingdom by Alfonso III. for thirteen years, after which time it was restored to him by the usurper’s son, and retained till his death.
“The patios of Palma abound in sculpture and wrought-iron work....”
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