The edifices, which are still in good repair, may be described in very few words. They are, generally speaking, large rambling piles, exposing an extensive surface of white-washed wall, surmounted by sloping roofs of red tile, with lofty belfries and small windows. The visitor will admire the vastness of the design, the excellence of the position, and the adaptation of the architecture to the country and climate. But there his praise will cease. With the exception of some remarkable wood-work, the minor decorations of paintings and statues are inferior to those of any Italian village church. As there is no such thing as coloured marble in the country, parts of the walls are painted exactly in the style of a small cabaret in the south of France. The frescoes are of the most grotesque description. Pontius Pilate is accommodated with a huge Turkish turban; and the other saints and sinners appear in costumes equally curious in an historical and pictorial point of view. Some groups, as for instance the Jesuit martyrs upon the walls of Saint Francis, are absolutely ludicrous. Boiled, roasted, grilled and hashed missionaries, looking more like seals than men, gaze upon you with an eternal smile. A semi-decapitated individual stands bolt upright during the painful process which is being performed by a score of grim-looking heathen. And black savages are uselessly endeavouring to stick another dart in the epidermis of some unfortunate, whose body has already become more
“Like an Egyptian porcupig”
than aught human. One may fancy what an exhibition it is, from the following fact. Whenever a picture or fresco fades, the less brilliant parts are immediately supplied with a coating of superior vividness by the hand of a common house-decorator. They reminded us forcibly of the studio of an Anglo-Indian officer, who, being devotedly fond of pictorial pursuits, and rather pinched for time withal, used to teach his black servants to lay the blue, green, and brown on the canvas, and when he could spare a leisure moment, return to scrape, brush, and glaze the colour into sky, trees, and ground.
Very like the paintings is the sculpture: it presents a series of cherubims, angels, and saints, whose very aspect makes one shudder, and think of Frankenstein. Stone is sometimes, wood the material generally used. The latter is almost always painted to make the statue look as unlike life as possible.
Yet in spite of these disenchanting details, a feeling not unallied to awe creeps over one when wandering down the desert aisles, or through the crowdless cloisters. In a cathedral large enough for a first-rate city in Europe, some twenty or thirty native Christians may be seen at their devotions, and in monasteries built for hundreds of monks, a single priest is often the only occupant. The few human beings that meet the eye, increase rather than diminish the dismal effect of the scene; as sepulchral looking as the spectacle around them, their pallid countenances, and emaciated forms seem so many incarnations of the curse of desolation which still hovers over the ruins of Old Goa.
We felt curious to visit the nunnery of Santa Monaca, an order said to be strict in the extreme. The nuns are called madres (mothers) by the natives, in token of respect, and are supposed to lead a very correct life. Most of these ladies are born in the country; they take the veil at any age when favoured with a vocation.
Our curiosity was disappointed. All we saw was a variety of black handmaids, and the portress, an antiquated lay sister, who insisted upon our purchasing many rosaries and sweetmeats. Her garrulity was excessive; nothing would satisfy her desire for mastering the intricacies of modern Portuguese annals but a long historical sketch by us fancifully impromptued. Her heart manifestly warmed towards us when we gave her the information required. Upon the strength of it she led us into a most uninteresting chapel, and pointed out the gallery occupied by the nuns during divine service. As, however, a close grating and a curtain behind it effectually conceal the spot from eyes profane, we derived little advantage from her civility. We hinted and hinted that an introduction to the prioress would be very acceptable—in vain; and when taking heart of grace we openly asked permission to view the cloisters, which are said to be worth seeing, the amiable old soror replied indignantly, that it was utterly impossible. It struck us forcibly that there was some mystery in the case, and accordingly determined to hunt it out.
“Did the Sahib tell them that he is an Englishman?” asked Salvador, after at least an hour’s hesitation, falsification, and prevarication produced by a palpable desire to evade the subject.