Part 2

Shut in between the barren range of the Sierra Molina on the north, and the arid plains of Murcia to the south, the ancient Kingdom of Valencia is one of the regions of Spain least visited by the tourist. And yet, a flowering and fruitful Eden, it lies beneath a burning sun, its waters trained in obedience to the hand of man. It puts forth a vegetation of tropical luxuriance. Demeter has blessed the land. Under the soft caressing winds that sweep up from the Mediterranean the soil yields four or five crops in the year to the industry of the peasant. And if at times the dreaded sirocco, charged with poisonous vapours from the Albufera, lays the country prostrate--well, for every Paradise was devised a snake!

The people of the province, with the exception of those of Orihuela, speak that variety of the Romance which I may call Catalan, and which, with local modification, is common all along the eastern coast of Spain from the mouth of the Segura to the frontier of Rousillon. Limousin, as it is sometimes called, is not a mere dialect, but a quite distinct language, a survival of the old _Langue d’oc_. Probably it was spoken by those Romanised Spaniards who were driven north of the Pyrenees by the Arabic invasion. It would be restored by them when they reconquered this portion of their old territory. The Christian population, before Valencia was recovered by Jaime el Conqueridor of Aragon, spoke Castilian or a tongue akin to it. But the Catalan of the new rulers was stronger, and soon swept aside the common speech of the people. Curiously enough, this same Catalan was not the language used in Aragon itself, a fact which no doubt had a strong determining influence in the choice of Castilian at the time of the unification of the two kingdoms. Why Orihuela alone clung to its old Castilian tongue in despite of the Conqueror is not clear, unless it was owing merely to the proximity of Murcia.

In character the Valencians are superstitious, revengeful, relentless in hate. “Ni olvido ni perdono” is their motto. They love the colour and joy of life. Dancing and love-making are their chief delights. And yet they are a laborious race. But their white, rather flabby appearance proclaims them lacking in backbone and initiative. “Flesh is grass, and grass is water. The men are women, the women--nothing!” says their own proverb.

The fertile huerta has found its novelist in Blasco Ibañez, a native of Valencia, who has beautifully described the languid life of the province. A translation must necessarily lack the force and elegance of the master’s style, but the following passages will at least enable the reader to picture a summer in the south:

“When the vast plain awakes in the bluish light of dawn, the last of the nightingales that have sung through the night breaks off abruptly in his final trill, as though he had been stricken by the steely shaft of day. Sparrows in whole coveys burst forth from the thatched roofs, and beneath this aerial rabble preening their wings the trees shake and nod.

“One by one the murmurs of the night subside; the trickling of the water-courses, the sighing of the reeds, the barking of the watchful dogs, other sounds belonging to the day, grow louder and fill the huerta, the crow of the cock is heard from every farm, and the village bells proclaim the call to prayer borne across from the towers of Valencia, which are yet misty in the distance. From the farmyards arises a discordant animal concert--the neighing of horses, the bellowing of oxen, the clucking of hens, the bleating of lambs, the grunting of swine--the sounds produced by beasts that scent the keen odour of vegetation in the morning breeze and are hungry for the fields.

“The sky is suffused with light, and with light life inundates the plain and penetrates to the interior of human and animal abodes. Doors open creaking. In the porches white figures appear, their hands clasped behind their necks, scanning the horizon. From the stables issue towards the city milch cows, herds of goats, manure-carts. Bells tinkle between the dwarf trees bordering the high road, and every now and again is heard the sharp “Arre, Aca” of the drivers.

“On the thresholds of the cottages those bound for the town exchange greetings with those who stay in the fields. ‘Bon dia nos done Deu!’ [May God give us a good day!] ‘Bon Dia.’

“Immense is the energy, the explosion of life at midsummer, the best season of the year, the time of harvest and abundance. Space throbs with light and heat. The African sun rains torrents of fire on the land already crackled and wrinkled by its burning caresses, and its golden beams pierce the dense foliage, beneath which are hidden the canals and trenches to save them from the all-powerful vivifying heat.

“The branches of the trees are heavy with fruit. They bend beneath the weight of yellow grapes covered with glazed leaves. Like the pink cheeks of a child grow the apricots amid the verdure. Children greedily eye the luxurious burden of the fig-trees. From the gardens is wafted the scent of jasmin, and the magnolias dispense their incense in the burning air, laden with the perfume of cereals.

“The gleaming scythe has already sheared the land, levelling the golden fields of wheat and the tall corn-stalks which bowed beneath their heavy load of life. The hay forms yellow hills which reflect the colour of the sun. The wheat is winnowed in a whirlwind of dust; in the naked fields among the stubble sparrows hop from spot to spot in search of stray gleanings. Everywhere are happiness and joyous labour. Waggons go groaning down the road; children frolic in the fields and among the sheaves, thinking of the wheaten cakes in prospect, and of the lazy pleasant life which begins for the farmer when his barn is filled. Even the old horses stride along more gaily, cheered by the smell of the golden grain which will flow steadily into their mangers as the year rolls on.

“When the harvest has levelled the panorama and cleared the great stretches of wheat sprinkled with poppies, the plain seems vast, almost illimitable. Farther than the eye can reach stretch its great squares of red soil, marked off by paths and trenches. The Sunday’s rest is rigorously observed over the whole countryside. Not a man is seen toiling in the fields, not a beast at work on the road. Down the paths pass old women with their mantillas drawn over their eyes, and their little chairs hanging to their arms. In the distance resound, like the tearing of linen, the shots fired at the swallows, which fly hither and thither in circles. A noise seems to be produced by their wings ruffling the crystal firmament. From the canals rises the murmur of clouds of almost invisible flies. In a farm all painted blue, under an ancient arbour, there is a whirlwind of gaily-coloured shawls and petticoats, while the guitars with their drowsy rhythm and the strident cornets accompany the measures of the Valencian ‘Jota.’

“In the village the little plaza is thronged with the field-folk. The men are in their shirt-sleeves with black sashes and gorgeous handkerchiefs arranged mitre-like on their heads. The old men lean on their big Liria sticks. The young men, with sleeves turned up, display their red nervous arms and carry mere sprigs of ash between their huge knotted fingers.

“In the afternoon, towards the fountain along the road, bordered with poplars which shake their silvered foliage, go groups of girls with their pitchers on their heads. Their rhythmical movements and their grace recall the Athenian Canephori. This procession to the well lends to the huerta something of a Biblical character. The Fontana de la Reina is the pride of the huerta, condemned to drink the water of wells, and the red and dirty liquid of the canals. It is esteemed as an ancient and valuable work. It has a square basin with walls of reddish stone. The water is below the soil. You reach the bottom by means of six green and slippery steps. Opposite the steps is a defaced bas-relief, probably a Virgin attended by angels--no doubt an ex-voto of the time of the Conquest. Laughter and chatter are not wanting round the well. The girls cluster round, eager to fill their pitchers but in no hurry to depart. They jostle each other on the steps, with their petticoats gathered in between their legs, the better to lean forward and to plunge their vessels into the basin. The surface of the water is unceasingly troubled by the bubbles rising from the sandy bed, which is covered with weeds waving in the current.”

The exuberant natural life pictured in these passages is not altogether due to the bounty of nature. The scorching sun would have brought death instead of life to Valencia without the co-operation of man. The whole province is a triumph of irrigation. The Moors were masters of hydraulic science. They tapped the Jucar and the Guadalaviar and drew their waters through the Moncada and seven smaller but magnificent canals into every corner of the land. This was the legacy they left behind when they were so suicidally expelled. Their successors, as Mr. Richard Ford so eloquently puts it, exercise “a magic control over water, wielding it at their bidding”--presumably as Gilbert’s hero Ferdinando brandished the turtle soup!

Bequeathed also directly by the Moors, the Tribunal of the Waters is the most interesting sight of Valencia. It is independent of all law; no Government has ever touched it; it has no written records. The court meets every Thursday morning at eleven o’clock at the Apostles’ Gate of the Cathedral in the capital, to try all cases and disputes in regard to the precious water that is the life-blood of the province. There are seven judges, one for each canal, elected by the peasantry of the districts, and each is known by the name of his canal--Mislata, Cuarte, and so forth. They are grave, stoutly-built men, with tanned faces and close-cropped hair. They wear black, the colour beloved by the comfortably situated working man all the world over; but they have not degenerated quite so far as to discard the native handkerchief round their polished brows, or the espadrilla, the Valencian shoe.

Except that the turban has given place to the sombrero and the divan to an ancient sofa, the proceedings of the tribunal are as patriarchal as of old. In the plaza a crowd of litigants are collected, chattering, gesticulating, arguing their wrongs according to the manner of their kind all the world over. With an air of importance befitting the occasion the Alguazil of the tribunal places the magisterial bench in the shadow of the great Gothic portal. A light rail will keep the vulgar at a distance. Then the peasant magistrates take their seats, and the oldest pronounces the words, “Se abri el tribunal” (The tribunal is open). A portentous silence falls, for any one who speaks before his turn must pay a fine. One by one the litigants are introduced within the railing and plead their cause bareheaded before the court. Woe to the insolent wight that dare stand covered in its presence. The Alguazil will tear the handkerchief from off his head, and he will also be mulcted in a fine. Each must await the tapping of the presidential foot before he ventures into the presence. But the severity of the discipline does not suffice to make the fiery Valencians restrain their feelings. At every moment there is an explosion of wrath or indignation, a heated expostulation from one or other of the parties. The fines collected must be a considerable sum. Out of their own wisdom the judges give their decisions, which are almost invariably received without discontent. The Valencians are anxious to preserve their unique tribunal from criticism and interference, for they know that in Spain, as in other countries, royal justice is a costly matter.

The history of Valencia for all practical purposes is that of its capital and namesake. “Its name,” says Mr. Ford, “is fondly derived from, or considered equivalent to, Roman, because Ρὡμη in Greek signifies power, as Valencia does in Latin.” The principle is doubtless excellent, but seems to be that of _lucus a non lucendo_.

When the warriors of Viriathus surrendered to Rome on the death of their chief, Valencia was granted to them by the Consul D. Junius Brutus. Destroyed by Pompey, it became a _colonia_ when rebuilt and the capital of the Edetani. But the history of few Roman colonies, as it has reached us, is of interest. The province had the usual martyrs under the persecution of Diocletian and Decius, and was the place of banishment of the zealot Ermengild. Proud of its haughty name, Valencia has yet allowed itself to be taken and retaken oftener than any other city in the world. In 413 it yielded to the Goths, and three hundred years later with great nonchalance transferred its allegiance to the Moor. It formed at one time part of the Khalifate; and again, one or more petty kingdoms in itself.

Don Feodoro Lleorente speaks of “the slave kings” of Valencia. It is certain that many of its rulers were slave adventurers from the palace of the Khalifa, who, like the janizaries of Turkey had literally carved their fortunes with their swords. One of these princes added the Balearic Isles to his realms and unsuccessfully attempted the conquest of Sardinia.

The kingdom thus founded by military adventurers was overthrown by the most famous of that warlike brood.

The Moors had made the desert blossom like the rose. Wealth and prosperity had been secured to the province. The Moslem paradise was located here. Medinat-u-Tarab was its capital--the City of Mirth. The greedy eyes of Christian neighbours were inevitably drawn to such a region, and the break-up of the Ummeyah dynasty offered an excellent opportunity for interference.

Valencia was split up into factions, and the King or Amir Kadir was merely the puppet of the two opposing parties, who alternately supported him on his tottering throne. But the Moors were a proud race and felt themselves dishonoured in yielding homage to so weak a ruler. Headed by Ibn Jahhaf, the people rose in revolt. Kadir fled, but was detected under his woman’s disguise, was taken and beheaded. That strange anomaly a Mohammedan republic was formed. A council of the leaders was constituted with Ibn Jahhaf as President.

A people which arrogates the right to choose its ruler has ever been considered a sort of pirate among the nations, and fair game for more powerful States. Kadir, at the time of his deposition, had been under the hardly disinterested protection of the Cid, who, under pretence of avenging his _protégé’s_ death, immediately advanced on Valencia. For some time Ibn Jahhaf, who seems to have had some of the qualities of a great general, amused the Campeador with negotiations, while he pushed hastily forward preparations for defence. Discovering that he was being played with, the Cid swept through the country and threw his army round Valencia, which for twenty months made a stubborn resistance. The city falling at length, Jahhaf, who had become a special object of hatred to the Conqueror, was burnt alive in the plaza. Until his death in 1097, the Cid ruled the kingdom as absolute lord and despot. The legend runs that Ximena, his wife, defended the city for two years after her husband’s death. And so great was the reputation and the terror of the Campeador that she finally won a victory over the Mussulmans and carried him to his last resting-place at Cardeña by the stratagem of placing his corpse fully armed upon his war-horse with his celebrated sword in his hand.

But for two centuries longer Valencia followed the law of the Prophet. It was finally wrested from the yoke of Islam on the memorable 28th of September 1238, when the standard of the victorious Jaime I. of Aragon was hoisted over the tower of Ali Bufat, and the Crescent bowed before the Cross. The conquest in the history of Aragon ranks with the taking of Seville in the history of Castile. Granada was the joint conquest of both kingdoms. The way in which the Moors in these old days surrendered their whole kingdom to the Christians, sometimes after only one battle had been fought, stands out in dark contrast with the tenacious resistance offered by their descendants in Algeria in modern times. Enervated by the climate of Spain the Mussulmans of that country were absolutely incapable of maintaining a prolonged guerilla warfare. If a fortified capital was taken they at once handed over the whole kingdom to the conqueror. They were not of course peculiar in this respect. The sentiments of nationality and physical courage are characteristic far more of the modern than of the ancient world. We have only to compare the resistance of the Anglo-Saxons to the Normans with that of the Boers to the British, of the French in the Hundred Years War with that of their descendants in 1871, to realise how much more of manliness and endurance we possess than did our ancestors. We must go back to the days of Leonidas and Regulus to find parallels for the exploits of our own Indian Army; to Numantia and Seguntum for parallels to Saragossa and Gerona. National and individual self-respect withered under feudalism, and revived only on the introduction of free institutions.

The commerce and wealth of the country now fell into the hands of the Jews, who came over in great numbers from Aragon. For a long time the industrious people lived, hated it is true, but unmolested, in their own quarter of the city. But one ill-fated day a band of children, urged on probably by some fanatic, marched against the Jewry crying that they had come to baptize the unbelieving dogs, and that the Archdeacon of Seville was close upon their heels. In terror the wretched people retreated to their homes, firmly barricading themselves. Some of the Christian children got shut up in the quarter. Like wildfire the rumour spread through the streets that the Jews were submitting them to untold tortures behind their barred doors. The whole populace went mad with the rage for blood, attacked the wholly unprepared Jews, and the most horrible scenes of massacre ensued. This was in 1391. The prosperity of Valencia suffered its first severe blow with the barbarous expulsion of the Moors at the command of Philip III. Another fell some time later when, on account of its strenuous opposition to the French claim to the Crown, Philip V. confiscated the liberties of the province and imposed an enormous fine.

But Valencia, though fallen from its old estate, is nevertheless to-day a thriving prosperous province; its capital is handsome and progressive. Busy life pulsates through the streets; the _cafés_ are alive with the hum of voices. There is little to recall the days of its allegiance to the Prophet, and it has not retained more monuments of the past than most other cities. From the sightseer’s point of view it is not intensely interesting; from the stranger’s, even less convenient, since indications of the names of the streets are few and far between. New and splendid avenues are arising, which, in pleasant contrast to the dull uniformity of most Continental town perspectives, contain houses original and individual in style. You enter the town by one of two massive castellated gates, which give a note of the mediæval picturesque to their respective quarters. The fourteenth century Torres de Serranos form a narrow archway flanked by two fine octagonal towers. Above, are windows with elaborate panelling, and heavy machicolations crown the whole building. The Torres de Cuartes, of a century later, are very similar, but the parapet is itself borne on corbels and machicolated. Unfortunately the walls of the city have perished.

The Cathedral, the Lonja, and the Picture Gallery exhaust the sights of Valencia. The Cathedral was founded in 1262 on the ruins of the Great Mosque, which in its turn had replaced the Temple of Diana. It is far inferior to most of the great Spanish churches in beauty and interest. Originally Gothic, it was considerably enlarged in the fifteenth century, the height, however, being left unaltered. The principal entrance, in the receding circular form, is an outrage, but the north door, called the Puerta de los Apostoles, richly sculptured and delicately moulded, exhibits the skill and industry of the fourteenth century at its best.

Above the semicircular Puerta de Palau is an interesting series of medallions. These represent the heads of fourteen men and women. These are the seven knights of the Conquest and the seven fair ladies they sought in the surrounding provinces, from whom the whole Valencian nobility is said to be sprung. This doorway is evidently by the same hand as the Puerta de los Infantes at Lerida. But the most striking part of the Cathedral is the imposing Miguelete Tower. Its sculpture is indifferent, but seen from a distance the effect is fine. It is the great landmark of the district, and the Valencians speak of exile as “losing sight of the Miguelete.”

The plan of the Cathedral, like most Spanish churches, is cruciform. In 1760 the interior was modernised in a manner that makes the beauty-loving traveller long to tear his hair--or that of the perpetrator of the “restoration.” Over-decoration is its chief defect. The walls have been encrusted with marbles, the Gothic columns almost concealed by Corinthian pilasters, the pointed arches rounded off. The church may merit its surname of “La Rica,” but it has lost that atmosphere of remote beauty that calls forth the instincts of religion in the worshipper. During the French occupation of 1809 the magnificent silver altar was melted down, but fortunately its protecting door panels were uninjured. These are painted with six pictures by Francisco Pagano and Pablo de San Leocadio, disciples of Leonardo da Vinci, and ascribed by some to the master himself. The spurs and bridle of Jaime el Conqueridor, presented by him on the day he took the city to his Master of the Horse, are preserved on one of the pillars on the Gospel side.

The choir is for the most part modern, with plain and classical walnut stalls. The rear portion, or _trascoro_, dates from the fifteenth century, and is decorated with a fine series of Biblical scenes in alabaster. The chapels have little of interest, except the tomb of Tomás de Villanueva, the holy Archbishop of Valencia, in the one dedicated to him. Over the crossing rises the fine octagonal lantern, which was built in 1404 and restored in 1731. It was once adorned by many trophies, among them the flags taken from the Genoese by Ramon Corveran, a famous sea-dog of Valencia. These, however, have long since vanished.

After the Cathedral the Lonja de la Seda, or Silk Exchange, is the most interesting sight of Valencia. Built in the Gothic style (though not of the purest) it is one of the best specimens of civil architecture of the Middle Ages that we have remaining. Its square tower, crenellated chimneys, open galleries and high windows give an extremely fine effect. The hall has spirally fluted pillars that branch out into graceful clusters of palm-leaves. The ceiling is painted with stars and round the walls runs the legend, “He only that shall not have deceived nor done usury shall be worthy of eternal life,” which (let us hope) has guided generations of merchants into the paths of commercial integrity. The Audiencia, in good Renaissance style, is well worth a visit, where in the Salon de Cortes the old provincial States assembled till the middle of the eighteenth century. As a building the University is beautiful, if it is a little backward in thought. Here Fernando VII. raised the noble sport of _Tauromachy_, or Bull-fighting, to the dignity of a Faculty!