Lisbon and Cintra/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
IN spite of nature's rough treatment, in spite of the spirit of progress, which, in giving Lisbon its air of modern prosperity and activity, draws obliterating fingers over the past, important relics still remain to evoke ancient memories, certain bits of the old city are still left almost intact.
The Lisboa Antiga, closely connected with sharply contrasting epochs of Portuguese history, is to be found on the steep slopes of the chief hill of the city, the hill of the Castello de S. Jorge—the Castle of St George. Here in bold outlook upon the friendly bay clustered the beginnings of primitive Lisbon. Here settled the Moorish conquerors of long ago, here grew and spread the Lisbon of D. Fernando the Handsome, of D. Manuel the Fortunate. Here was that labyrinth of mysterious streets and narrow alleys that have been sung in verse, and formed the scenic background of many a romantic episode of the days of João V and of tales of the type of a Harrison Ainsworth or Eugene Sue.
Here on a lower slope of the same hill were laid the foundations of the oldest church in Lisbon, the Sé or Cathedral of Santa Maria, so long ago that the true date cannot be fixed. One authority places it in the year 306, others predate the building to the second century when Christianity was spreading through the Peninusula in spite of its suppression by the Romans. According to the legend, S. Vicente, who became the patron saint of Lisbon, was put to death by orders received from Diocletion, and his body, attached to a millstone, flung into the sea. When the boatmen returned to shore, the Saint's body was discovered miraculously on the sands and buried secretly by the Christians. This martyrdom occurred in 336, and in the eighth century Christians of Valencia, the Saint's burial place, flying from the Moors, carried away with them the body of S. Vicente. A tempest drove their galley through the Pillars of Hercules, wrecking it on the west coast of Algarve at the cape which now bears his name. A raven had protected the body from wild beasts after the martyrdom, and ravens guarded the holy relics on Lusitanian soil. At this time the original Christian edifice on the site of the Sé, after being used in all probability for the pagan cult of the Romans, was converted into a mosque by the Moors. When D. Affonso Henriques took the town, the building was already aged and weather-worn. He had the structure rebuilt and enlarged under the name of the first cathedral possessed by Lisbon, and all the rights of the ancient ecclesiastical capital, Merida, were made over to the new diocese. A militant friar, named Gilbert, who had embarked with the squadron which on its way to Terra Santa stopped to help fight the infidels in Lusitania, was made the first Bishop of Lisbon. It is a curious and—to me—most interesting fact, found in an old, and apparently, trustworthy Portuguese book that Bishop Gilbert ordered the Breviary and Missal of the Anglican Church of Salzburg to be admitted for use into his diocese, and to find that this innovation was practised up to 1536—close upon four centuries—when the Latin liturgy was introduced for the first time. These are facts which make one think, for the circumstances fostered frequent interchange of letters on matters ecclesiastical between the two countries and may, indirectly, have strengthened other bonds.
The little praça of the Cathedral is reached by following the electrical lines which cross the Rua da Magdalena from the Rua da Conceicão, popularly Retrozeiros, or silk weavers. In the walls of a house on the left corner of the street ascending to the Sé are several stones with Roman inscriptions. These are relics unearthed with others in excavations made for foundations, when the ruins of a Roman theatre became plainly evident; one inscription discovered gave the name of the founder and the theatre's dedication to Nero.
The Magdalena Church lies to the right of the steep, winding street, and in a few minutes you approach that of S. Antonio, a building of the Renaissance style erected after the earthquake on the site of the fallen church. Nearly every street in Lisbon has a church or two or even more, but in comparison with the number very few have architectural merit. The south wall of the Church of S. Antonio bounds the Largo da Sé on one side while the other, shadowed by a few trees stretches out to an iron railing high above the alley beneath, for the hill drops sharply towards the river, and the top stories of the poverty-stricken tenements opposite are nearly on a level with the Largo.
The Cathedral faces the ascending roadway that opens out upon the square, a tragic souvenir of the disasters of past centuries. The front exterior, formed of two towers connected by a massive portico above the large west door, was rebuilt by D. Fernando at the end of the fourteenth century in the primitive style of its erection. Scarcely a square yard of its surface but seems to have been held together by sheer efforts of the restorers in the various vicissitudes of its existence. Twenty-six years of labour were expended in repairing the havoc caused by the great earthquake. To-day restoration is still in process owing to the active influence of the Queen Dona Amelia, but its progress lacks the enthusiasm of former years, owing, it is said, to lack of funds. When one sees sumptuous new buildings in the town, the result of a greater outlay than would be incurred by a speedier restoration of this venerable relic, one wonders at these evidences of a constructive enterprise that yet fails in appreciative guardianship of its most ancient Cathedral. Like some poor, scarred, suffering Cyclops, the old Sé looks dumbly over the town and the broad bay, a pathetic image of the tragedy of neglected age and a perverse fate. It is a spectacle to draw tears to the eyes.
A broad flight of steps mounts to the principal entrance and the dim solemnity of the old Romanesque nave calms that strained impression caused by the maimed exterior. Since the clustered marble pillars that support the round arches have been stripped of the stucco which covered them for years, much of the primitive grandeur of the old temple has been regained, though in exploring the whole area with its cloisters one finds at every step mutilations of art—the results of bygone restorations—side by side with historical mementoes of interest. The choir is Gothic with pointed arches, but the ceiling is painted. Handsome altars of granite stand on both sides of the choir decorated with pillars, costly in value, of the twisted cable form, which is one of the decorative features of the Manueline architecture. To the Portuguese this style is the ne plus ultra of architecture, and the sight of cable moulding as ornamentation for any piece of sculpture is guarantee to him of the correct taste of the sculpture.
The passion of D. Manuel, the Fortunate, for building was given full scope at a time when the nation was given up to maritime expeditions, when their ardour for discovery of unknown lands was justified by the successful enterprise of Vasco da Gama. The great sea captain and his bold sailors were regarded as men nobly sacrificing their lives for the glory and advantage of Portugal, and honour to navigation found national expression in the sculptured rope ornamentation of the period. The Manueline architecture is an extraordinary development of amalgamated Gothic, Renaissance and Moorish forms, seen in its early purest style in the Cathedral of Belem, in a more elaborate stage in the cloisters at Batalha, and in its ultra-intricate and most exuberant state in the famous Capellas Imperfeitas.
In the ambulatory behind the choir is the Chapel of S. Vicente, whose remains D. Alfonso Henriques had removed from the cliff in the south and brought to Lisbon, the ship which conveyed them being piloted by the martyr's guardian ravens, one at the prow, the other at the stern. This episode with various others in S. Vicente's history are pictorially represented in the blue and white tiles which line the walls of the Cathedral aisles. Through the gilded grating of the chapel gleam the gold and black of the reredos above the altar which conceals the ashes and one hand of the Saint contained in two costly caskets, one of silver and ivory, the other of silver richly embossed with the figures of S. Vicente, the galley and the ravens. The ravens, by the way, multiplied so numerously, says tradition, that a special fund for their support was assigned to the chapter.
The royal tombs of D. Alfonso IV and his wife Rainha D. Brite sare worthy of note. It is that Alfonso who was the "Brave," his device, an eagle with outstretched wings and the words, "Altiera peto," showing his character. Here is also an old seat or throne of stone in which the early kings are said to have administered justice. The arms of Alfonso IV are upon the back; and it bears the date 1629, but this is considered to mark only the date of its removal to the Sé. Through iron grilles we peer at ancient tombs, figures, altars and the blue and white azulejos which to this day show the survival of Moorish art as an integral feature of Portuguese decoration. There is the Capella Sepulchre with sarcophagi on both sides, and one of them showing a memorial inscription to English Gilbert on a background of the same blue and white tiles.
We pass out into the cloisters and observe an ancient painting representing the death of Elijah. There are two others in the side aisles, one of the "Ascension," and the other "The Saviour of the World" by Pedro Alexandrino, an artist whose name is honoured by the Portuguese. In a moment we pause reflectively before a small chapel, for within is seen a life-size image of the Christ with natural hair falling over the shoulders. It is called Senhor Jesus da Boa Sentenca, and is said to possess the virtue of performing miracles. Other chapels open out upon the cloisters, but the chaos within them was painful to look upon. With the restoration in process debris and evidence of workmen's litter were unavoidable, but there seemed a disregard for what was fitting in the way the ancient tiles, remnants of old mosaics and broken capitals were strewing the arcades, and the little courtyard enclosed was a wilderness, only redeemed by glint of gay foliage and flowers blooming at random among the rank herbage.
A Portuguese art critic writes very strongly on the way in which the restoration is being carried on:
"I fear the Sé is being rebuilt without any idea of doing so in the primitive Romanesque design, which may never have been completely carried out, as the work would have been done in pieces, at long intervals, after the fashion of nearly all the religious edifices of the land. Of the part in restoration all is so poor that little would be lost in leaving it as it was. The Capella of Bartholomew Joannes apse and cloisters, are miserable fragments which any college of a Galician town exceeds in structural elegance and graceful architecture."
The chapel he speaks of is near the west door and, from its intensely modern aspect, must have been entirely rebuilt. The ancient sarcophagus of the founder of the original chapel, Bartholomew Joannes, a famous military name of the reign of King Diniz, was lying outside in the aisle when I first visited the Sé; a high-backed, elbow chair, that looked like a relic of early episcopal days, stood near the entrance in a state of neglect that showed no respect for its antiquity. On occasions of high festival, however, when the star-lights of the candles on the throne of the high altar cast their soft illumination over a crowd of kneeling worshippers, melancholy vanishes, and the historic fame resumes the aura of dignity and solemnity that is the prerogative of its immemorial traditions.
The street without mounts by the north side of the Sé. The handsome side porch is Manueline, the massive walls have small grated windows, and in the transept a splendid rose window. Across the narrow street frowns the gloomy building known as the Aljube, once a possession of a bishop of the historic family of the Castros, used as a prison for ecclesiastics and now serving as a prison for women. A few steps further and a large, irregular building, buff-coloured and with heavily-barred windows in every wing and story, stands out to the right higher up the hill. Though the chief prison of to-day, it is really an old palace of which the picturesque name, Limeiro—Lemon Tree—is still retained.
In the days when it was a fidalgo residence it was the scene of a tragedy leading to great events, when D. João I (then Grand Master of Aviz possessing no legitimate right to the royal succession beyond the people's good will) stabbed the Conde de Ourem, who was supporting the claim of the Castilian King to the throne of Portugal after D. Fernando's death. The regency was in the hands of D. Leonore, the dowager Queen, who favoured the succession of the King of Castile. He was her son-in-law, and in every effort to make him acceptable to the people of Lisbon she was aided by her favourite, Andeiro, Conde de Ourem. To get rid of the Grand Master of Aviz she made him governor of Alemtejo, a position he pretended to accept and then left the city. He returned almost directly, appearing unexpectedly in the palace with some of his noble partisans, and a party of armed men. In explanation he told Queen Leonore that the King of Castile was entering Portuguese territory with a large army, and he desired her permission to levy troops in numbers proportionately great. The Queen appeared satisfied with his excuse for return, and D. João withdrew to another salon under pretext of speaking privately with the Conde de Ourem. He struck the first poignard blow in the embrasure of one of the windows, and the second stab by a confederate killed the victim. Meanwhile a frantic multitude had collected in the open place before the Limeiro, threatening to break into the palace, for rumour suggested that their favourite, the Grand Master of Aviz, was being assassinated. They were only appeased when D. João appeared to show that he was safe, but, infuriated with the idea of the Castilian invasion, the mob surged down upon the Cathedral, seized Bishop Martinho, a native of Castile, and threw him headlong from one of the western towers, afterwards dragging his body through the streets. From that day one event followed another up to the famous battle of Aljubarrota, which made the name of D. João I figure prominently in Portuguese history. A century later Dom Manuel established the Court of Appeal in this old palace. After the earthquake the portion destroyed was rebuilt by order of the Marquis de Pombal and converted into the civil prison of to-day.
Beyond the Limeiro the car winds through streets so narrow that pedestrians have to withdraw into the doorways of the small stores (boutequins), cafés, and wine shops lining the way. From the dim, low interiors peer out singly or in groups olive-skinned men and youths with broad-brimmed felt hats flapping over long-locked manes, and reaching to the nape of the neck, or wearing the familiar black or green woollen cap with the jaunty peak dangling over forehead or ear. Urchins in similar varicoloured caps, and girls with gaily-flowered kerchiefs tied round their hair, all black eyed and daring, dart across the track of the car which fills up the narrow street like some invading monster. In a low doorway crouches an aged crone—shrivelled and brown as the rind of a cocoa-nut, her white locks bound round by a black or coloured handkerchief—fanning gently the charcoal embers in a brazier of clay where she is roasting chestnuts for sale as her sole means of subsistence. Through the curious crescent-shaped windows above many of the little shops are seen women here and there, sewing or washing, or simply watching the passers-by. One of them wearing a rose-coloured cotton dress, with her thick waves of jet-black hair forming a halo for her pale, almost classical face, makes a picture that lingers in the mind.
Here a steep cul de sac, there a narrow alley, a broad calçada of curious steps, or little open spaces with lanes and stairways leading from them at grotesque or picturesque angles reveal glimpses of projecting terraces, overhanging balconies, verandahs, all forlornly dilapidated, with touches of greenery, a palm crest, or a neglected pateo glimpsed through a grilled doorway—suggestions of houses once important but now dwelt in by the poorest of the capital's populace.
The names of the streets strike notes reminiscent of the past. The Largo do Contador Mor, or chief treasurer, excites curiosity in its origin. Upward winds the street called Saudade, that tender Portuguese word expressive of regret and longing for the absent as impossible to render in one English word as its German equivalent, sehnsucht. At a tiny square is read the name Portas do Sol; it is the Largo of the Gates of the Sun, a secluded little quadrant on the hill below the gateway of that name in the ancient fortress, or palace of Moorish caliphs, or perhaps going back to the days of those fervent sun worshippers, the Romans.
The Castello of S. Jorge is of no military value to-day, but its history and panoramic view from the height still draw attention to the spot. It was built apparently in the time of Julius Cæsar, and strengthened and greatly enlarged by the Moors who from its high walls offered the chief resistance to the besiegers under D. Affonso Henriques. Tradition has recorded the story that every effort made by the combined forces of Portuguese and Crusaders would have failed had it not been for the heroic self-sacrifice of a soldier named Martim Moniz whose bravery has been recited through the centuries. When the Moors withdrew through a gateway by which they had made a vigorous but bootless sally, this soldier placed himself in the entrance to prevent the total closing of the gate; the opening created by his crushed body was an ingress for the conquering hosts. Over the ancient archway of the closed gate still preserved in the thick walls is a rude bust with inscription and date, 1147, put there in 1646, by a descendant of the hero, Conde de Castel-Melhor. The fortress possessed three towers, of Ulysses, Albarram, and Managem, but every trace of them disappeared in 1755. The Castello was rebuilt and enlarged by Portuguese kings as far down as D. Sebastião, and it was the first Spanish King of Portugal who removed the royal residence from it to the famous Paço do Terreiro. It was D. João I, the Grand Master of Aviz, who made St George its patron saint, and when it is remembered that he married an English princess, Philippa, daughter of John of Gaunt, the question of the name, Castello of S. Jorge is easily solved. The present walls enclose quite a small and very poor population, including the quarters of the soldiers, dwelling houses of their family, a military prison, and the Church of Santa Cruz in which is kept the image of St George which has figured in the annual procession of Corpus Christi from its earliest days.
This festa of Corpo de Deus, as held once in Lisbon, had the reputation of being the most brilliant of the kind in the whole Catholic Church. It is still held to-day, but with small ostentation compared with former celebrations. Preparations were made days in advance by decorating the principal streets with flags, canopies and hangings, all richly decorated with gold fringe and braid. Lanterns innumerable slung across the streets were lighted at night, drawing crowds to see the effect. The windows and verandahs would be filled with donas and senhoras of Lisbon society in gay attire making a brave show of glittering jewels and ear-rings. All the regiments of Lisbon used to march through the streets in gala uniform, with bands playing gaily, and draw up near the Church of S. Domingo by the Rocio. The procession began at ten and lasted for three hours, a time giving some idea of the number of people taking part in it. All the religious orders in their respective robes were embodied in it, the ordinary citizens wore red cloaks, and all carried wax tapers about five feet in height.
The image of S. Jorge, in armour, lance in hand, and helmet garnished with splendid plumes and jewels, was on horseback, and personated for the day by a man robust enough and willing to bear the heavy armour in the blazing sun, for a gratuity of forty-eight milreis. The standard of the Saint was borne before him by another rider. The King himself with other members of the royal household in gala coaches, court functionaries, and superior officers all took part in the procession. Everyone was bare-headed except the prelates who wore their cardinals' hats, purple stockings and shoes, and sumptuous mantles with their trains carried by sons and members of noble families. When the canopy, beneath which walked the Patriarch carrying the Host, approached, the troops all uncovered and knelt, the multitudes of spectators all prostrated themselves, the artillery of the Castello of St George thundered forth a royal salute.
The north gate of the Castello opens into the road circling the upper slope of the hill to the top of the Calçada of S. André. Spanning the street is a plain, deep arch of great antiquity; it is one of the gateways of the old city ramparts dating from the time of D. Fernando, and resisting a rigorous siege in the reign of D. João I. Alfama, the name given to the streets through which we passed on the south and west of the hill, and Mouraria the district on the north side, were both scarcely disturbed by the earthquake, and still show in many places an antique corner, an old arco (arch), old palace, or ancient quadrant, survivals of Joãonine, or Fernindine architecture. Both of these old quarters contain historical records which those who desire to imitate other great cities in the preservation of ancient buildings are trying to rescue from the zeal of another party whose one idea of the embellishment of Lisbon consists in pulling down all that is old. The intense interest demonstrated by recent royal visitors in the types of ancient architecture still extant in Alfama and Mouraria has aided the cause of preservation.
On the other hand sneers are not lacking at the feeble intelligence of "pious archæologists who confuse the respect for artistic things with the idiotic monomania for preserving all that is old," and these same lovers of the intensely modern further support their opinions by virtuous outcries against the anti-hygienic condition of the decrepid, badly planned houses, the tortuous streets, the lack of light and air, the badly made steps and sidewalks, in a word they protest that the quarters of Alfama and Mouraria are veritable mediæval rubbish heaps which in the cause of humanity should be swept out of existence. There is certainly a miserable side of Lisbon to be seen in these districts, a shadowy, sad side, where as in some of the slums of Paris and London, policemen only enter in bands and fully armed. They are considered the danger spots of the city. In the labyrinths of narrow streets, secluded courts, in many a mouldering, senile habitation congregate whole families of the lowest types of the population. Order is wonderfully maintained by the well-organized service of Lisbon police. Regular battues made in the familiar haunts, in the taverns, coffee shops and doss houses by picked officials, well acquainted with every inch of their ground, guarantee an almost absolute tranquillity to the security of the city.
From the Arco of S. André the road climbs to a near hill called Almofale where the big cruciform church once named S. André, but now recognized as the Graça Church, gives its name to the prosperous new quarter on that northern height. The church stands behind the convent buildings (now a barracks), facing the whole vast panorama of the city. From the broad terrace I looked first towards the hill we had just left, and saw the dark grey wall of the ancient fortification with its low tower, and another tower to the left showing its modern annex. The belfry of Santa Cruz was another landmark. Diagonal lines of wall broke up the steep slopes beneath the ramparts where the dull green of olive trees and spring-blossoming foliage were seen in distinct relief. New houses crowded on the lower slopes.
Beyond the outline of the whole hill, and filling the vast area between the many heights and spreading over them north and west, lay the lovely city with its tender greys, pinks and veined-marble hues, an old-world vision of inimitable beauty, or as a Portuguese writer of to-day puts it, "an immense city of hills, a queen in repose, lacking only the fitting crown of some great palace on one of her classic hills."
There is an image in the church representing the Christ drooping under the burden of the Cross in so life-like a manner that the superstitious have asserted that the figure is of real flesh and blood. Every Friday this image, celebrated under the name of Senhor dos Passos da Graça is exhibited, that the faithful may make their pilgrimage to the hill summit, for there is strong belief in the power of the image to perform miracles of healing and answer to prayer. The rich visit it as often as the poor.
Reluctantly one withdraws from that broad terrace overlooking the beautiful city. We pass by the pretty little garden with its palm trees and fountain, cross the road and a raised open space, and dip into the broad, well-made road descending from Graça to the Largo of S. Vicente, where stands perhaps the most imposing church of the city. The original building was founded by D. Affonso Henriques during the famous siege in honour of the German knights who fell fighting for his cause. From being erected outside the city wall it has always been known as the Sé S. Vicente da Fora (without). Phillip II greatly enlarged and beautified the church; though gravely injured by the earthquake the original character has been preserved. The vaulted roof of marble strikes attention, also the artistic baldachino over the high altar, the work of Machado de Castro, the same sculptor whose name is attached to the statue of D. José and many other objects of art in the country. Annexed to the church is the old monastery once belonging to the Augustinians, but now the residence of the Cardinal Patriarch Archbishop of Mytilene.
The walls of the cloisters are lined with azulejos representing, curiously enough, the fables of La Fontaine. The entrance to a dim, low chapel stands at the further end, and here the kings of the House of Bragança, from the time of D. João IV have found a last resting-place. The bier of D. Luiz, the latest defunct monarch of Portugal, occupies the chief position in this Royal Pantheon, and until recently the silent faces of the embalmed bodies were visible to visitors through glass apertures in the coffins. The spirit of meditation and retrospection seems to hover over those solemn effigies resting in their eternal sleep, guarding in inimitable and awful silence secrets of the historic past that can never be solved. Here rest also the ashes of the great Constable, D. Nuno Alvares Pereira, to whom reference will be made more fully in his close connexion with the building of the Carmo.
Out on the Largo before the church and cloisters the Judas trees are in bloom, the purple-pink flowers standing out a blaze of colour against the blue of the river and sky seen through the steep descending streets. We pass in front of S. Vicente, and turn beneath an archway at the side into a lane which opens on the quadrangular square of Santa Clara. Here every Tuesday morning is held that market of ancient origin called the Feira da Ladra, or woman-thief's fair, from the old popular idea that stolen goods were often offered for sale. It is a market that was first held in the lower town when the open space near the present Railway Terminus was called Campo de Valverde; it was then removed to the Campo de Santa Anna on the north side of the city, and finally set up its stalls on the present happy hunting grounds for searchers of old curiosities. Anything of value certainly needs some finding in the heterogeneous masses of old furniture, old clothes, old iron, old books, pottery, china and a thousand and one oddments that make up this characteristic ragfair. From a curiosity view point it is certainly worth a visit if only to see the sharp bargaining between buyers and vendors, or on the chance of picking up a rare book, or a valuable bit of old china, pottery or brass.
