Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

The Cristina is a superb promenade, on the banks of the Guadalquiver, with a saloon paved with large stone flags, and surrounded by an immense white marble sofa with an iron back. It is shaded by Eastern plane-trees, and has a labyrinth, a Chinese pavilion, and plantations of all kinds of northern trees, such as ashes, cypresses, poplars, and willows, of which the Andalusians are as proud as the Parisians would be of aloe-trees and palms.

At the approaches to the Cristina, pieces of rope, dipped in brimstone, and rolled round posts, are always kept burning in order that the smokers may light their cigars, and not be bored by boys with coals, pursuing them with the cry of Fuego; an annoyance which renders the Prado of Madrid insupportable.

But delightful as this promenade was, I preferred the banks of the river itself, where the prospect was always animated and constantly changing. In the middle of the stream, where the water was deepest, were anchored merchant schooners and brigs, their tapering masts and airy rigging standing out in clear black lines from the light background of the sky. In all directions, smaller craft were seen crossing and recrossing each other. Sometimes a boat would bear down the stream a number of young men and women, playing the guitar and singing coplas, whose rhymes were dispersed by the wanton wind, while the promenaders applauded from the banks. The view was beautifully terminated, on this side, by the Torre del Oro, a kind of octagon tower with three receding stories, and Moorish battlements: it laves its base in the waves of the Guadalquiver, near the landing-place, and shoots up into the blue air from the midst of a forest of masts and cordage. This tower, which the learned pretend to have been constructed by the Romans, was formerly connected with the Alcazar by means of walls, which have been pulled down to make room for the Cristina, and, in the time of the Moors, supported one end of the iron chain which defended the passage of the river, while the other end was fastened to stone piers on the opposite side. It is said to derive its name of Torre del Oro from the fact of the gold which was brought in the galleons from America having been kept there.

THE TORRE DEL ORO.

We used to go and walk here every evening, looking at the sun as it set behind the Triana suburbs, which are on the other side of the stream. A most noble-looking palm raised in the air its leafy disk, as if to salute the sinking luminary. I was always exceedingly fond of palms, and I can never see one without feeling transported into a patriarchal and poetical world, in the midst of the fairy scenes of the East, and the magnificent pictures of the Bible.

As if to bring us back to a feeling of reality, one evening, as we were returning to the Calle de la Sierpe, where our host, Don Cæsar Bustamente, whose wife had the most beautiful eyes and the longest hair in the world, resided, we were accosted by some fellows very well dressed, with eye-glasses and watch-chains, who asked us to come and rest ourselves and take some refreshment at the house of some persons muy finas, muy decentes, who had deputed them to invite us. These worthy individuals seemed, at first, very much struck at our refusing, and, imagining that we had not understood them, entered more explicitly into details; but, seeing that they were merely losing their time, they contented themselves with offering us cigarettes and Murillos,—for, you must know, Murillo is the pride and also the curse of Seville. You hear nothing but this one name. The smallest tradesman, the most insignificant abbé, possesses, at least, three hundred specimens of Murillo in his best days. What is that daub there? It is a Murillo, vapoury style. And that one. A Murillo, warm style. And the third, yonder? A Murillo, cold style. Like Raphael, Murillo has three styles; a fact which allows of all kinds of pictures being attributed to him, and gives a most delicious scope to amateurs desirous of forming collections. At the corner of every street, you run against the angle of a picture-frame: it is a Murillo worth thirty francs which some Englishman always buys for thirty thousand. "Look, Señor Caballero, what drawing! what colouring! It is the very perla, the perlita of pictures!" How many pearls, not worth the frames and the ornaments, were shown to me! How many originals that were not even copies! This does not, however, prevent Murillo from being one of the first painters in Spain, and in the whole world. But we have wandered rather far from the banks of the Guadalquiver; let us return to them.

A bridge of boats unites the two banks, and connects the suburbs with the town. You cross it in order to visit, near Santi-Pouce, the remains of Italica, the birthplace of the poet Silius Italicus, and the emperors Trajan, Adrian, and Theodosius: there is a ruined circus, whose form is still tolerably distinct. The cellars where the wild beasts were confined, the dressing-rooms of the gladiators, as well as the lobbies and rows of benches, can be made out with the greatest facility. The whole is built of cement, with flint-stones embedded in it. The stone coating has probably been torn away to serve in more modern edifices, for Italica has long been the quarry of Seville. A few chambers have been cleared out, and afford a shelter during the great heat of the day to herds of blue pigs, who run grunting between the visitors' legs, and are now the only inhabitants of the old Roman city. The most perfect and most interesting vestige of all this splendour that has for ever disappeared, is a large mosaic, which has been surrounded by walls, and represents Muses and Nereids. When it is revived with water, its colours are still very brilliant, although the most valuable stones have been torn out from motives of cupidity. Among the rubbish, some fragments of very tolerable statues have likewise been found, and there is no doubt that skilfully directed excavations would lead to important discoveries. Italica is situated about a league and a half from Seville, and the excursion there and back may be easily made with a calessin in an afternoon, unless you are a furious antiquary, and wish to examine, one by one, all the old stones suspected of an inscription.

The Puerta de Triana, also, has pretensions to Roman origin, and derives its name from the emperor Trajan. Its appearance is very stately; it is of the Doric order, with coupled columns, and is ornamented with the royal arms and surmounted by pyramids. It has its own alcade, and serves as a prison for gentlemen.