Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

By giving a few kicks against the doors, which were either barricaded with worm-eaten planks, or obstructed by rubbish, we succeeded in forcing our way into the church, which is a charming building, and, with the exception of a few places where it had been wantonly mutilated, seemed as if it had only been completed yesterday. Gothic art never produced anything more suave, more elegant, or more fine. All round it runs a gallery pierced and penetrated like a fish-slice, hanging its adventurous balcony on the clusters of pillars, and following exactly their indentations and projections; gigantic scroll-work, eagles, monsters, heraldic animals, coats of arms, banners, and emblematic inscriptions, similar to those in the cloisters, complete the decorations. The choir, which is situated opposite the retablo, at the other extremity of the church, is supported by a very bold and handsome elliptic arch.

The altar, which, without doubt, was a masterpiece of sculpture and painting, has been pitilessly pulled down. These useless acts of destruction sadden the heart, and make you doubt the human understanding: how do old stones impede new ideas? Cannot a revolution be effected without the Past being demolished? It strikes me that the Constitucion would have lost nothing by leaving intact the church of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic—that noble queen, who believed the bare word of Genius, and endowed mankind with a new world.

Venturing up a staircase that was half in ruins, we penetrated into the interior of the convent. The refectory is a tolerably spacious apartment, presenting nothing peculiarly worthy of notice, save a frightful picture placed over the door. This picture, rendered still more hideous by the coat of dust and dirt which covers it, represents a dead body in a state of decomposition, with all those horrible details which are treated so complacently by Spanish artists. A symbolical and funereal inscription, one of those menacing biblical sentences, which warn human nothingness in so terrible a manner, is written at the bottom of this sepulchral painting, which seems a very singular one to select for a refectory. I do not know whether all the stories of monkish gluttony are true, but for my own part I should have but a very delicate appetite in a dining-room decorated in this fashion.

Overhead, on each side of a long corridor, are ranged, like the cells in a beehive, the deserted cells of the monks, who have long since disappeared: they are all exactly similar to one another, and all covered with white stucco. This whiteness diminishes the poetical effect a great deal, by preventing monsters and other bugbears of the imagination from hiding themselves in the dark holes and corners. The interior of the church and cloisters is also whitewashed; this gives them a sort of new and recent appearance, which forms a strong contrast with the style of the architecture and the state of the edifice. The absence of humidity and the great heat have not allowed any plants or weeds to spring up between the interstices of the stones or of the rubbish; and these remains are not enveloped in the green ivy mantle which Time throws over our northern ruins. We wandered about the abandoned edifice for a long time, going up and down a succession of break-neck staircases, exactly like Anne Radcliffe's heroes, except that we saw nothing in the way of phantoms save two poor lizards, that made their escape as quickly as they possibly could, being, doubtless, ignorant, in their character of Spaniards, of the French proverb, "The lizard is the friend of man." A stroll of this kind through the veins and limbs of a large building, from which all life has fled, is one of the most vivid pleasures that can be conceived; you expect, every moment, to meet at the turn of some gallery or other one of the old monks, with his glossy forehead and his eyes sunk in shade, walking gravely along with his arms folded on his breast, as he proceeds to take part in some mysterious service in the desecrated and deserted church.

We now left, for we had seen everything that was worth seeing, even the kitchens, down to which our guide conducted us with a Voltairean smile that a subscriber to the Constitutionnel would not have disowned. The church and cloisters are uncommonly magnificent; the rest of the place displays the strictest simplicity; everything was for the soul, nothing for the body.

At a short distance from San Juan de los Reyes, you observe, or rather, you do not observe, the celebrated mosque-like synagogue; for, unless you have a guide, you might pass by it twenty times without once suspecting that such a building existed. Our keeper knocked at a door cut in a wall formed of reddish clay, and presenting the most insignificant appearance. After waiting some time—for Spaniards are never in a hurry—the door was opened, and we were asked if we came to see the synagogue. On our answering in the affirmative, we were introduced into a kind of courtyard, filled with wild vegetation, in the midst of which stood a mangrove-tree, with its deeply serrated leaves, of a deep green, and as shining as if they had been varnished. At the back was a sort of wretched hovel, without the least pretension to any peculiar character, and looking more like a barn than anything else. We were shown into this hovel. Never was any one more surprised than we were: we found ourselves suddenly transplanted to the East, and beheld slender columns with spreading capitals like turbans, Turkish arches, verses of the Koran, a flat ceiling divided into compartments of cedar-wood, the day streaming in from above—in a word, nothing was wanting to sustain the illusion. The remains of old illuminated subjects, almost effaced, covered the walls with their strange hues, and increased the singular effect of the whole. This synagogue, which the Arabs turned into a mosque, and the Christians into a church, serves, at present, as the residence and workshop of a joiner. The joiner's bench now occupies the place of the altar. This act of profanation is of recent date. Vestiges of the retablo are still remaining, as well as the inscription, in black marble, commemorating the consecration of the edifice for Roman Catholic worship.

Talking of synagogues, I will here relate the following curious anecdote. The Jews of Toledo, probably with a view of diminishing the feeling of horror entertained for them by the Christians, asserted that they had not consented to the death of our Saviour; and made the following statement in support of their assertion:—When our Saviour was brought up for judgment, the council of priests, of which Caiaphas was president, sent round to each of the tribes to know whether our Saviour should be set free or put to death. The question was put to the Jews of Spain, and the synagogue of Toledo pronounced in favour of his acquittal. This particular tribe, therefore, according to them, is not covered with the blood of the Redeemer, and does not deserve the execration incurred by those Jews who voted against the Son of God. The original copy of the answer given by the Jews of Toledo, with a Latin translation of the Hebrew text, is—so says the report—preserved in the archives of the Vatican. In consideration of their conduct, they were allowed to erect this synagogue, which is, I believe, the only one ever tolerated in Spain.

We had heard of the ruins of an ancient Moorish country-house, called Galiana's Palace. On leaving the synagogue, we ordered our guide to conduct us thither, in spite of our fatigue, for our time was precious, as we had to set out again the next day for Madrid.

Galiana's Palace is situated outside the town, in the plain of the Vega; and in order to reach it, you have to cross the bridge of Alcantara. After a quarter of an hour's walk through fields irrigated by a thousand little canals, we came to a cluster of extraordinarily green trees, at the foot of which a water-wheel of the most antique and Egyptian simplicity was at work. Earthen jars, fixed to the spokes of the wheel by means of cords made of reeds, first drew up the water from the stream, and then emptied it into a canal of concave tiles, conducting to a reservoir, whence it was directed without difficulty, through small trenches, to whatever point had to be watered.

The dilapidated outline of a mass of reddish bricks rose up behind the foliage of the trees: this was Galiana's Palace. We made our way, through a low doorway, into this heap of ruins, that was inhabited by a family of peasants. It is impossible to conceive anything more black, more smoky, more sepulchral, or more dirty. The Troglodytes were lodged like princes in comparison; and yet the charming Galiana, the Moorish maiden with her long eyelashes tinged with henna, and her brocade jacket, covered with pearls, had once pressed the uneven floor with her little slippers, and once leant out at that window to look at the Moorish cavaliers who were exercising themselves in throwing the djerrid, at some distance away in the plain of the Vega.