I THE BRIDE OF ANDALUS

An impression of colour, heat, and somnolence grows upon the stranger as he rambles through the bright alleys and sunlit plazas of Cordova. He may be neither painter, poet, nor antiquary; yet the opulence of vivid, almost garish tones, the romance that lingers about the Moorish courtyards and the perfumed gardens, and the surviving, pervasive suggestion of age, will stimulate his senses and imagination. For one who is capable of deeper and more subtle impressions, the old city will seem as a consummation of desire and a realisation of fanciful dreams. The spell of Orientalism will hold him; the splendours of The Arabian Nights will be brought before his vision; and he will conjure shapes of sultan, wizard, genii, and sage, and see the lovely retinue of fair women within the palaces of the swarthy potentates.

Music of reed and string will delight his ears; and loitering by the walls, on the banks of the swirling Guadalquivir, he will hear the selfsame song of the bulbul which brought joy and sadness to dark, inscrutable eyes in olden days. He will watch the blue shadows of mosque and tower, and see the sun lavish gold on roof and turret, while his eye will be dazzled by the hues of balconies, by the hot geranium, the gay dabs of drying garments, hanging like flags against the ardent sapphire of the Andalusian sky.

Framed in the arch of a city gateway, he will see a lovely vista of vineyard, olive-crowned hillock, and meditative, grey sierra, rising to the blue.

He will pace the silent square at night, and discourse with Seneca. His ears will drink in the stoic counsels of Lucan, and his brain will grapple with the problems laid down by the sagacious Averroes. He will hear the Moslem call to prayer, and stand to gaze upon the band of the devout filing into the Mezquita.

Clamours of battle will assail him, the clash of sword and shield will startle his slumber, and the night will tremble with the triumphant roar of the fierce, invading Goths. And in hours, fragrant with the scent of flowers—placid in contemplation of the simple happiness of Cordova’s youths and maidens in the Court of Oranges—he will weave romances of the ancient life, when the town was the seat of the cultured, the home of the arts, and the sanctuary of the pious.

Doubtless the Cordova of to-day subsists like other towns upon the industry and the commercial energy of its inhabitants. There are shops and hotels in the streets; there are signs of handicrafts and of common daily employments. But there is no bustle, no indication of a strenuous existence for the people, and the siesta is long and undisturbed. There is a market, but its produce and merchandise do not suggest the wealth and commerce of earlier days. The consumo, or customs officer, levies his tax upon almost everything which the hard-faring peasants bring into the town, and we have seen a conflict between one of these officials and a countryman over a single live pigeon. The peasant questioned the tax, and the officer explained the case with the flat of his sword-blade. This incident is characteristic of Andalusia, and perhaps it may throw a light upon the discontent which is apt, at times, to manifest itself violently among the agricultural population of Spain.

Certainly there are days of markets and ferias when Cordova arouses itself, and trains of mules and asses creep into the place, and flocks may be seen in the streets. Wine, oil, and fruit are produced in the environs, and grain-crops flourish on the plain. In mediæval times Cordova was famed for its mart, where silk and grain were sold. The district still bears repute for its horse-breeding, but the stock has suffered deterioration through injudicious selection. An anonymous American writer, who was here in 1831, speaks of the horses of Cordova as the finest in Spain, and asserts that they are the descendants of the pure Arabian breed. One still notes many good horses. It is said that the water from the Guadalquivir is as nourishing for horses as is the barley of certain districts of Spain.

The banishment of the Moors hastened the decay of Cordova. For a period the region was almost stripped of its population, and grass grew in the plazas and patios of the town. To-day the inhabitants number about fifty thousand, and though Cordova wears an air of lethargy, the grass does not spring up in the streets. There seems to be just enough human activity to keep the town alive, and it is not wholly, as Henry O’Shea described it, ‘a city of the dead.’ A certain measure of prosperity is assured for Cordova by the attraction of its antiquity, which brings strangers from many lands to visit the magnificent Mezquita.

The Spaniard is not a passionate enthusiast of modernity. He is conservative, and zealous and proud of his ancient towns, and it is quite probable that the bulk of the natives of Cordova prefer that the atmosphere of the place shall remain mediæval. And we who resort to Cordova to reflect upon its past grandeur, and to imbue ourselves with the spirit of the Moorish days, are assuredly satisfied that it has not been modernised and marred during the years that have intervened between the great vandalism after the expulsion of the Arabs and the present time. We are glad to think that all which remains of majesty and beauty is now carefully cherished and respected.

Toledo and Avila, both Moorish towns, display an austerity fascinating by reason of its very grimness. Cordova is beautiful by comparison, partly on account of its situation in a fertile district, and partly because its houses are white flower-decked, and cheerful in aspect. It is more voluptuous than these fortified towns of Castile. The climate is southern, the air softer, and the buildings are less stern in colouring and less menacing in appearance. In Cordova, flowery courts invite you with a smile; in Toledo, frowning gates and barred doors forbid your entrance. Toledo reminds us that the Moors were warriors and conquerors, bent upon aggression and the extension of territory; in Cordova one thinks of the race as sages, artists, worshippers, poets, and lovers. The palm-trees planted by Abd-er-Rahman, ‘The Servant of the Merciful God,’ the tropical flowers and fruits, the mosque, and the fountains, give impress of the milder, pacific, quietly joyous life of the Moors. We recall the words of the wise ruler: ‘Beautiful palm-tree! thou art, like me, a stranger in this land; but thy roots find a friendly and a fertile soil, thy head rises into a genial atmosphere, and the balmy west breathes kindly among thy branches.’

By these signs we learn to love Cordova as the sanctuary of learning and devotion rather than as the citadel of the valiant. It is essentially Oriental. Look at the streets—narrow, crooked, and shady, for, having no horse vehicles, the Arabs had no need for wider thoroughfares. The roofs of the houses project and screen the alleys from the sun. Cordova is clean and bright in contrast to Toledo. The streets are free from garbage; the interiors of the houses are frequently cleansed, and flowers are grown by rich and poor. Fruits are cultivated in and around the town, and one may pluck the fig, orange, lemon, date, peach, plum, pomegranate, strawberry, and almond.

Standing on the massive bridge which spans the Guadalquivir, one looks upon the mosque, the city walls, and towers of churches. The Campo de la Verdad forms a broad promontory washed by the river, and we see quaint Morisco water-mills, and the lever nets of fishermen. There are seventeen arches to the bridge, which is of Moorish design, standing upon piles constructed by the Romans. In the distance rises the range of the Sierra Morena, a savage wilderness of rock, ravine, and crag, haunted by the boar, deer, and lynx. Winding through rich meadowland, the Guadalquivir flows, now in swift shallows, and then in slow deeps, which from certain points of view resemble landlocked pools. The river is wide, but not of great depth. Its flood is stained brown from the soil through which it flows, and at times, when the mountains pay their tribute of swollen streams, the Guadalquivir speeds in a turbid current, filling its banks to the brim.

There is a lonely majesty about this tawny river which for many leagues of its course flows through a desolate, deserted plain. It has but few trees upon its banks; but here and there are stretches of brushwood tenanted by nightingales. The stork visits the silent reaches to fish for eels. Upon its brown banks grows the cold grey cactus. The river breeds barbel, tench, and big eels, and in the summer shad ascend from the sea.

In Roman times the Guadalquivir was navigable as far as Cordova, but to-day the channels have silted up. A few salt pools in the plains show that the sea once covered large tracts of this part of Andalusia. The river is now tidal for some miles above Seville, and ships of heavy tonnage can reach that port. In the middle and upper reaches the river is unfrequented; it waters grassy wastes and fertile vegas, and murmurs by groves of olives in its course by Andujar and Cordova.

Antillon, a Spanish writer, accuses the Cordovese of ignorance and coarse manners. We encountered neither of these qualities during our stay in the old town. Cordova has its mendicants, whose eyes are keen for the advent of visitors, and the boys are somewhat troublesome in their voluntary capacity as guides to the sights of the place. But the natives of Cordova are sedate, picturesque folk, showing no discourtesy to the stranger, but rather a disposition to assist him.

There are three principal hostelries—the Suiza and the Oriente are the visitors’ houses; but those who desire a purely Spanish environment may find quarters at the little Victoria, which has a very charming patio, gay with flowers. There are several good cafés. For amusement there is the Grand Teatro, a large house, in which we saw The Barber of Seville performed. There is, of course, a bull-ring, the Plaza de Toros of every town in Spain. The chief fights are held during the ferias of May and September.

But Cordova is the town of dreams, memories, and meditations rather than of exuberant gaiety. It is a Mecca of the artistic and the studious. For garish pleasure, sparkling society, and excitement one must go to Seville, Malaga, or Cadiz. There is a serene solemnity in Cordova, though it is by no means a gloomy city. The mosque is the attraction and the wonder of the city, and sacred temples do not dispose to hilarity. Cordova is eloquent of the gorgeous, heroic past, and its stones contain sermons upon human destiny and the insecurity of empires. It is a garden city, antiquated, improgressive, tenacious of the ancient spirit, and abounding in beauty of form and colour.

Cordova contains only the remnants of its pristine magnificence, but these are marvellous and precious. The city once boasted of fifty thousand resplendent palaces, and a hundred thousand inferior houses. Its mosques numbered seven hundred, and the cleanly Moors built nine hundred public baths. The city stretched for ten miles along the banks of the Guadalquivir, flanked with walls, battlements, and towers, and approached by guarded gates. The common folk spoke in phrases of poetry; there were no illiterates. Art in every branch flourished in the city; there were hosts of craftsmen working in brass, gold, and clay. The libraries were huge, and hither came men of science, philosophers, poets, and students of all subjects to glean from the store of the world’s accumulated thought.

Throughout Europe the mention of Cordova brought yearning to the hearts of the cultured and studious, and men suffered hardship and stress to pay pilgrimages to this source of learning. Many who journeyed hither echoed the words of Ibn Sareh, the poet, which he uttered upon entering the seat of wisdom: ‘God be praised; I am in Cordova, the abode of science, the throne of the Sultans!’ Seville was ‘the gem,’ ‘the pearl’ of Andalusia; Cordova was called ‘the Bride.’ El-Makkari, the Moorish chronicler, rehearses many of the poetical tributes paid by Moslem writers to the splendid city. Setting forth the culture of the city, he adds, in one place: ‘The Cordovans were further celebrated for the elegance and richness of their dress, their attention to religious duties, their strict observance of the hours of prayer, the high respect and veneration in which they held their mosque, their aversion to wine and their destruction of wine-vases wherever they found any, their abhorrence of every illicit practice, their glory in nobility of descent and military enterprise, and their success in every department of the sciences.’

Such were the inhabitants of Cordova at the time when the city was the great capital of the Mohammedan empire. Seville and Toledo yielded pre-eminence to Cordova, and men spoke in veneration of its four great wonders: the immense and gorgeous mosque, the bridge over the Guadalquivir, the city of Ez-Zahra, situated in the suburbs, and the sciences which were studied in the colleges.

When we read the ancient annals and grow absorbed by the story of Cordova’s past, we can scarcely realise that the town and its inmates were real things. The place and the people seem to belong to the realm of fairy romance; the city seems one of dreams, and the natives pass as in a pageant of the imagination. And yet we may enter the sacred mih-rab, commune with the ghosts of warrior and philosopher, and stand where Tarik stood when he wrested the prized capital from the Goths.

Tangible evidence of a superb civilisation surrounds us in Cordova. We see examples of early Moorish architecture brought to its highest artistic manifestation in the mosque. We listen in vain for the voices of teachers, the song of the singers and poets, and the call of the muezzin to devotion; but we tread in the footsteps of the long-vanished Moor, and read his story in the noble lines, chaste embellishments, and gorgeous details which his skilful hands produced.