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Founding the Fatimid State The Rise of an Early Islamic
Empire Institute of Ismaili Studies Ismaili Texts and
Translations Hamid Haji Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Hamid Haji
ISBN(s): 1850438854
Edition: annotated edition
File Details: PDF, 1.44 MB
Year: 2006
Language: english
Founding the Fatimid State
The Institute of Ismaili Studies
Ismaili Texts and Translations Series, 6

Editorial Board: Farhad Daftary (general editor), Wilferd Madelung

(consulting editor), Heinz Halm, Abbas Hamdani, Hermann
Landolt, Mehdi Mohaghegh, Roy Mottahedeh, Azim Nanji, Ismail
K. Poonawala, Paul E. Walker.

Previously published titles:

1. Ibn al-Haytham, The Advent of the Fatimids: A Contemporary

Shiʿi Witness. An Edition and English Translation of Ibn al-Hay-
tham’s Kitāb al-Munāẓarāt, by Wilferd Madelung and Paul E.
Walker (2000).
2. al-Shahrastānī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Karīm. Struggling with
the Philosopher: A Refutation of Avicenna’s Metaphysics. A New
Arabic Edition and English Translation of al-Shahrastānī’s Kitāb
al-Muṣāraʿa, by Wilferd Madelung and Toby Mayer (2001).
3. Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman, The Master and the Disciple: An Early
Islamic Spiritual Dialogue. Arabic Edition and English Transla-
tion of Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman’s Kitāb al-ʿĀlim waʼl-ghulām,
by James W. Morris (2001).
4. Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, The Fatimids and their Successors in Yaman:
The History of an Islamic Community. Arabic Edition and Eng-
lish Summary of Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn’s ʿUyūn al-akhbār, vol. 7, by
Ayman Fuʼād Sayyid, in collaboration with Paul E. Walker and
Maurice A. Pomerantz (2002).
5. Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī, Paradise of Submission: A Medieval Treatise
on Ismaili Thought. A New Persian Edition and English Transla-
tion of Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī’s Rawḍa-yi taslīm, by S. J. Badakhchani
with an introduction by Hermann Landolt and a philosophical
commentary by Christian Jambet (2005).
Founding the Fatimid State:
The Rise of an Early Islamic Empire

An annotated English translation of

al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’s
Iftitāḥ al-Daʿwa

by
Hamid Haji

I.B.Tauris Publishers
london • new york
in association with
The Institute of Ismaili Studies
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 The Institute of Ismaili Studies

The Institute of Ismaili Studies was established in 1977 with the object
of promoting scholarship and learning on Islam, in the historical
as well as contemporary contexts, and a better understanding of its
relationship with other societies and faiths.
The Institute’s programmes encourage a perspective which is not
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vi Founding the Fatimid State

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To the memory of
Aliya
 Table of Contents

Maps and Tables xii

Acknowledgements xiii
Chronology xv

Introduction 1
Translation of Iftitāḥ al-daʿwa: Commencement of the Mission 17

1 The account of the beginning of the mission (daʿwa) in

the Yemen, the [dāʿī] in charge of it, and the factors which
allowed him to accomplish his mission. 20
2 Anecdotes about Abū al-Qāsim, head of the daʿwa in the
Yemen. 34
3 Forerunners sent to the Maghrib before the dāʿī’s arrival
there. 41
4 The arrival of Abū ʿAbd Allāh, dāʿī of the Maghrib, to the
head of the daʿwa in the Yemen and his departure from
there on his behalf. 45
5 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s meeting with Kutāma tribesmen in
Makka and his arrival with them in Kutāma territory. 48
6 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s arrival in Kutāma territory and the be-
ginning of his mission there. 55
7 Ibrāhīm b. Aḥmad’s reply to Mūsā b. ʿAbbās conveyed by
an envoy from him and his message to Abū ʿAbd Allāh. 61
 8 The uprising of the coalition of Kutāma against Abū ʿAbd
Allāh to seize him in Īkjān. 77
9 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s departure from Īkjān and his journey to
Tāzrūt. 81
10 Meeting of the coalition to find a way to resolve the case
of Abū ʿAbd Allāh. 84
11 Offensive by all the tribes against Abū ʿAbd Allāh and his
victory over them. 89
12 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s founding at Tāzrūt a place of refuge and
a base from which to wage war against the tribes. 96
13 Measures adopted by Abū ʿAbd Allāh among the Kutāma
to reign over them and for which they submitted to him. 100
14 The conquest of the town of Mīla. 110
15 Abū Ḥawāl’s military expedition to Kutāma territory and
his retreat from there. 112
16 Abū Ḥawāl’s second military expedition and his defeat. 116
17 Al-Mahdī’s emigration from his residence in the east, and
his arrival in Sijilmāsa. 121
18 The conquest of the town of Saṭīf. 126
19 Ziyādat Allāh’s dispatching Ibrāhīm b. Ḥabashī to Kutāma
territory to fight Abū ʿAbd Allāh and his defeat. 128
20 The conquest of the town of Ṭubna. 131
21 The conquest of the town of Billizma. 134
22 The battle of Dār Maluwwal. 136
23 The conquest of the town of Tījis. 137
24 Ziyādat Allāh’s proclamation addressed to the provinces
to pacify them and calm down the fright which he learnt
had spread therein. 140
25 Ziyādat Allāh’s setting out at the head of troops for al-
Urbus and his withdrawal from there. 147
26 The conquest of the town of Bāghāya. 150
27 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s battles at Majjāna and in its region adja-
cent to al-Urbus. 153
28 The battle of Dār Madyan. 157
29 The conquest of Qasṭīliya and Qafṣa. 161
30 The conquest of the town of al-Urbus and Ibn Abī al-Agh-
lab’s defeat. 165
31 Ziyādat Allāh’s flight from Raqqāda. 168
32 Ibrāhīm b. Abī al-Aghlab’s arrival in al-Qayrawān and his
designs over the city. 171
33 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s arrival in Ifrīqiya, his stay in Raqqāda
and the consolidation of his position there. 174
34 Safety granted by Abū ʿAbd Allāh to the populace and his
administrative and political measures. 176
35 Ziyādat Allāh’s journey, his arrival in the east, and events
relating to him until his death. 183
36 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s march to Sijilmāsa, his conquest of that
town and al-Mahdī’s departure from there. 192
37 Al-Mahdī’s coming from Sijilmāsa and his arrival in
Ifrīqiya. 202
38 Political measures taken by al-Mahdī as imam and applied
publicly amongst the people. 205
39 Events relating to the hypocrites against al-Mahdī and the
outcome of their affair. 213
40 Inhabitants of Ifrīqiya who betrayed the clemency granted
to them and their punishment for treason and hostility. 223
41 General events relating to al-Mahdī until his death. 226
42 Summary account of the period from the death of al-
Mahdī, peace be upon him, until the time this book was
composed. 230

Bibliography 237
Index 248
 Maps and Tables

Maps

1 The Maghrib xix

2 The Eastern Maghrib xx

Tables

1 Kutāma Clans and their Lineage xxi

2 The Aghlabids xxii
 Acknowledgements

I would like to express my profound gratitude to Dr Farhad Daftary,

Head of Department of Academic Research and Publications at The
Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, for inviting me to undertake
this project as well as for his support during the course of my work.
I am grateful to the staff of the library of the Institute for providing
access to its rich collections of manuscripts and printed materials
indispensable for my project.
I am particularly indebted to Professor Wilferd Madelung for
going meticulously through the entire manuscript of my work. His
corrections and invaluable comments have ameliorated the quality
of my translation. I am also most thankful to Marzuki Haji of the
Cartographic Resources Unit at the University of Plymouth for his
invaluable assistance in drawing a master map of the area studied.
Finally, I would like to thank Kutub Kassam for his painstaking edito-
rial review of my manuscript.

xiii
 Chronology

145/762 The Shīʿī dāʿīs Abū Sufyān and al-Ḥulwānī arrive in

the Maghrib.
184/800 The Aghlabid residence al-Qaṣr al-Qadīm (al-
ʿAbbāsiyya) founded by Ibrāhīm b. al-Aghlab,
founder of the Aghlabid dynasty.
263/876 Raqqāda founded by the Aghlabid emir Ibrāhīm b.
Aḥmad.
266/880 ʿAlī b. al-Faḍl’s pilgrimage and conversion to the
Ismaili cause.
268/881 The dāʿīs Ibn Ḥawshab and ʿAlī b. al-Faḍl arrive in
the Yemen.
270/883 Their mission becomes manifest in the Yemen.
279/892 Abū ʿAbd Allāh meets Kutāma pilgrims in Makka.
280/893 Abū ʿAbd Allāh arrives in Kutāma territory on 14
Rabīʿ I/4 June.
289/902 Rajab/June–July: al-Mahdī departs from Salamiya.
289/902 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s conquest of Mīla.
289/902 Dhū al-Qaʿda/October: First Aghlabid expedition
under Abū Ḥawāl sets out to Kutāma territory.
290/903 Second Aghlabid expedition commanded by Abū
Ḥawāl sets out against Abū ʿAbd Allāh.
290/903 28 Shaʿbān/27 July: The Aghlabid emir Abū al-
ʿAbbās ʿAbd Allāh is murdered.
290/903 Ramaḍān/July–August: The Aghlabid emir Ziyādat
Allāh executes his brother Abū Ḥawāl, his paternal
uncles and his brothers.
291/904 Abū ʿAbd Allāh’s conquest of Saṭīf.

xv
xvi Founding the Fatimid State

291/904 Aghlabid counter-offensive under the command of

Ibn Ḥabashī.
293–296/ Abū ʿAbd Allāh conquers Ṭubna, Billizma, Tījis
906–909 and Bāghāya. He defeats the Aghlabid army near
Dār Madyan, and takes Qasṭīliya and Qafṣa.
295/907 Ziyādat Allāh leaves for al-Urbus, gathers his troops
there and entrusts the command of the army to
Ibrāhīm b. Abī al-Aghlab.
296/909 1 Jumādā II/25 February: Abū ʿAbd Allāh begins
his march from Īkjān against Ibn Abī al-Aghlab in
al-Urbus.
296/909 21 Jumādā II/17 March: Abū ʿAbd Allāh sends a
detachment of horsemen to Manyūla, and the fol-
lowing day to Shaqbanāriya.
296/909 23 Jumādā II/19 March: Abū ʿAbd Allāh disposes his
troops for battle, and takes al-Urbus. Ziyādat Allāh
escapes from Raqqāda. End of Aghlabid rule.
296/909 1 Rajab/25 March: Abū ʿAbd Allāh enters Raqqāda.
296/909 1 Ramaḍān/24 May: Abū ʿAbd Allāh appoints al-
Marwadhī qaḍī.
296/909 Ramaḍān/June: Abū ʿAbd Allāh leaves for Sijilmāsa,
leaving his brother Abū al-ʿAbbās and Abū Zākī in
charge of government.
297/910 20 Rabīʿ II/6 January: al-Mahdī arrives in Ifrīqiya;
he enters Raqqāda triumphantly and confers high
honours on Abū ʿAbd Allāh and Abū al-ʿAbbās.
297/910 21 Rabīʿ II/7 January: al-Mahdī is proclaimed caliph
at Raqqāda, al-Qayrawān and al-Qaṣr al-Qadīm.
298/911 15 Jumādā II/18 February: Abū ʿAbd Allāh, Abū al-
ʿAbbās and Abū Zākī are executed.
301–302/ First Fatimid expedition against Egypt commanded
913–914 by Ḥubāsa b. Yūsuf.
303/916 al-Mahdī lays the foundations of the city of ­­­al-Mah-
diyya.
306/918 Second Fatimid expedition against Egypt ­commanded
by the future al-Qāʾim.
 Chronology xvii

306/918–19 The construction of al-Mahdiyya is completed.

308/921 Shawwāl/February–March: al-Mahdī moves to al-
Mahdiyya.
312/924 al-Nuʿmān enters the service of al-Mahdī.
322/934 14 Rabīʿ I/4 March: Death of al-Mahdī.
322/934 On 10 Jumādā II/28 May, al-Mahdī’s death is an-
nounced.
332/943 The Kharijite Abū Yazīd begins his rebellion.
334/946 13 Shawwāl/18 May: Death of al-Qāʾim.
336/947 Abū Yazīd is defeated by al-Manṣūr.
337/948 al-Manṣūr invests al-Nuʿmān with the highest judi-
cial office of the Fatimid state.
341/953 29 Shawwāl/19 March: Death of al-Manṣūr. Begin-
ning of the reign of al-Muʿizz.
344/955 Fatimid fleet raids Almeria in Andalusia.
346/957 al-Muḥarram/April: al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān completes
the Iftitāḥ al-daʿwa.
347/958 Jawhar’s campaign in the Maghrib to re-establish
Fatimid authority.
358/969 Jawhar’s conquest of Egypt for the Fatimids.
362/973 al-Muʿizz moves to Egypt accompanied by al-Qāḍī
al-Nuʿmān.
363/974 End of Jumāda II/27 March: Death of al-Qāḍī al-
Nuʿmān in Cairo.
 A N D A L U S I A
Almeria Bizerte
Algiers Jījil Búna
Tunis
Bijāya
Ceuta Ténès Saṭíf Constantine
Tangier
Sousse
Oran al-Qayrawān
Tāhart al-Masīla
Melilla al-Mahdiyya
Tlemcen
Biskra Sfax
Fās Qafṣa
Rabat Miknāsa Tūzar Gabès

Tripoli
Marrākush

Sijilmāsa

Map 1: The Maghrib

Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Picturesque Spain:
Architecture, landscape, life of the people.
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
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eBook.

Title: Picturesque Spain: Architecture, landscape, life of the

people.

Author: Kurt Hielscher

Release date: March 30, 2021 [eBook #64959]

Language: English

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTURESQUE

SPAIN: ARCHITECTURE, LANDSCAPE, LIFE OF THE PEOPLE. ***
 Alphabetical List of Names and
Places
Illustrations
(In certain versions of this etext [in
certain browsers] clicking on the
image will bring up a larger
version.)
Some typographical errors have
been corrected.
(etext transcriber's note)

PICTURESQUE SPAIN

PICTURESQUE SPAIN
ARCHITECTURE * LANDSCAPE
LIFE OF THE PEOPLE

BY

K U R T H I E L S C H E R

T. FISHER UNWIN LTD

LONDON : : ADELPHI TERRACE

MOST HUMBLY DEDICATED

 TO
HIS MAJESTY KING ALFONSO XIII.
OF
SPAIN

S pain is one great open-air museum containing the cultural wealth of the
most varied epochs and peoples. On the walls of the Altamira cave is
blazoned that much admired steer painted thousands of years ago by men
of the Ice Age. In Barcelona stand the fantastic buildings of neo-Castilian
present-day art. Celts, Iberians, Romans, Carthaginians, Moors and Goths
have fought and struggled for supremacy in Spain. Of all this the stones tell
us to-day. They are the chronicles. They relate of bitter strife; of the culture
and art aspirations belonging to times gone by. Much has vanished into dust
and ruin. That which has survived time’s fretting tooth serves as a giant
bridge to lead us back to the past.
Fate was kind enough to let me spend five years in Spain. Caught there
by the war while engaged in studies, I was cut off from home. I made use of
my involuntary stay to become acquainted with the country in its
furthermost corners. I roved to and fro from the pinnacles of the Pyrenees to
the shores of Tarifa, from the palm forest of Elché to the forgotten Hurdes
inhabitants of Estremadura.
On all my lonely wanderings I was accompanied by my faithful camera:
we covered over 45000 kilometres together in Spain. We kept our eyes open
diligently. I say we, for in addition to mine was a precious glass eye in the
shape of the Zeiss lens. Whereas my eyes only made me the intellectual
recipient of what we saw, that of my travelling companion made it a pictorial
permanency. I took over 2000 photographs during our peregrinations. This
volume only presents a small selection. It was not easy to make the final
choice. Many a picture had to be omitted to which I was attached, either for
its peculiarity or its character.
I went at no one’s instigation through Spain but that of my own in search
of the beautiful. I was not guided by any constraining professional
principles. Beautiful art treasures, geographical peculiarities, enchanting
landscapes, interesting customs that attracted my attention were retained by
my camera. I followed the same lines in making my selections for
publication.
I entitle this volume “Picturesque Spain”. Much will be unknown to
many. I begin however with a spot famous throughout the world.—And yet I
was bound to. Like the pilgrim who is drawn to the fabled Fontana Trevi
once he has drunk of its waters, so too was I drawn again and again to
Granada in my wanderings. I believe too that I have succeeded in presenting
the Alhambra from one or two different points of view. Who indeed could
exhaust this well of beauty?
Nor could I pass heedlessly by Cordoba, Seville and Toledo, for these
towns are starting points.—Finger-posts to unknown Spain. Without these
monuments of ancient times, those parts of Spain situate far from the high-
roads remain an almost insolvable riddle.
My pictures must speak for me. Those who know how to ask them will
find that they tell much. For this reason I shall limit myself to but a few
initiatory words. They serve to connect the known with the unknown; to
throw light on the paths along which I journeyed in Spain.
⚪
G r a n a d a ! Thy name is music; a joyous chord of beauty! To pass the
spring within thy gateways is to walk the heights of life.
Spring has cast a shower of blossoms over the town and woven a delicate
green carpet around the Alhambra. How many many centuries has it not
worshipped thus yearly at the feet of the castle? Long ago passionate
Moorish women decorated their raven hair there with rosy almond blossoms.
—It is long since that the glory of those days has departed. Perhaps this is
why the castle walls look down so sadly at the beauty of this blissful vernal
soil.
Bidding defiance in the grandeur of their strength the towers of the
Alhambra arise. Their fiery red lights skywards like the flames on giant
altars.[A]
Is it possible that these massive cyclopean walls should hide a fairy-land?
Impatiently we climb the castle mount. Reaching an old stone gateway
ornamented with pomegranates, the noise of the streets is left behind as we
enter a yew grove whose ancient giant stems are ivy-grown; blue myrtle
covers the ground, the lights gleam golden through the foliage, the wind
murmurs among the branches, nightingales sing in the boscage, swallows
dart twittering over the tree tops, water hurries babbling down the hilly
slope.
All this seems like a miracle in Spain so poor in forests. It is as though
another world had opened its gates.
The great Gate of Judgment is passed, and an inconspicuous door leads to
the Court of the Myrtles. Here one feels surrounded by the spirit of the
Orient. Delicate jasper and alabaster columns support the airy arches which
are swung like lace veils from arcade to arcade. The emerald-green waters of
the fountain gaze dreamily skywards and at all the bright beauty of the
scene.
Then there is the Court of the Lions, subject of so many songs, with the
filigreed architecture of its covered walks. Enchanting in its delicate tracery
and beauty, it is a fairy-tale, a poem in stone, infinitely rhythmic with music.
And indeed, music is the only language that can render such beauty.
The magnificent halls are full of a wealth of ornamentation. The walls are
rainbow-like with the colours of Persian carpets and Cashmere shawls.
Arabic inscriptions are scrolled along these labyrynths of colour, praising in
exalted words the mystic beauty of the halls. One runs joyously: “God has
filled me with such a plentitude of beauty that even the stars stay in their
course enchanted to gaze on me.”
Once beautiful sultanas looked out from the “Seat of Admiration” (as the
Arabs called that jewel of the Alhambra, the Mirador de Daraca,) into the
pretty garden filled with the heavy scent of roses, jasmines and oleanders. A
swaying mass of tangled climbing plants are festooned from laurel to
cypress, and from cypress to orange-tree. In the middle there is a
marvellously delicate fountain basin from the edges of which the water
slides and drips with tuneful sound as if it fain would tell of long forgotten
beauteous days.
We leave the glittering fairy-palace full of memories of the Arabian
Nights, and our lips whisper the wish of the Arabic poem writ over a little
niche:

“May Heaven’s blessings rest upon these castle halls

As long as pilgrims wend their way to Mecca’s walls!”

Nay, as long as clouds sail the skies, and seekers after beauty rove on
earth!
 This is the mood one is in when climbing further up the mountain to the
Moorish summer palace, the Generalife.
We are met, as it were, and shown the way by a double row of slim black-
green cypress—dark trees of silence.
The Generalife is enthroned far up on the heights, and embedded in
terrace-shaped gardens.
The gardens! In them nature has enfolded all her abounding wealth of
colour. Crimson-ramblers, wistarias, vines and ivy smother the walls.
Mangolias, oleanders, almond trees, laurels, cypresses, araucarias, olive
trees, agaves, palms and mimosa vie with one another for precedence.
Flaming pomegranate blossoms, blood-red roses, violet mallows, blue
fleurs-de-lis, white jasmine, yellow narcissi, and golden oranges in dark
green foliage are a riot of colour. Ball shaped myrtles surround the little
fountain, listening to the babbling of its silver waters, and in the twigs the
song of birds greeting nature in her holiday garments.
Wondrous peace broods o’er this land. Through trees and halls and wall
arches there is a magnificent view of the Alhambra and the multi-coloured
houses of the town at its feet, and further on to the picturesque Albaicin, and
over cactus-grown Sacromonte with its gypsy cave-dwellings, and still
further to the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Another glance shows the fertile
plains of the Vega through which the clear waters of the Genil flow.
However full of radiant happiness the day may have been, it is outshone
by the sinking sun casting a golden halo over the country-side. The walls of
the Alhambra, once so fiercely fought for, stand forth as though dipped in
blood. The distant mountains glitter golden-bronze, and the snowy sides of
the Sierra Nevada scintillate in flames. Slowly the fair fires die down, and a
chill spectral white falls upon the snow summits. The eventide is there and
with it the stars.
The Spaniards have coined a proud sentence: “Quien no ha visto
Granada, no ha visto nada!” He who has not seen Granada has seen nought!
And I should like to add: He who has seen Granada and the Alhambra on
sunny spring days, bears with him a talisman to ward off sorrows in dull
days, and can never be completely unhappy again in life.
⚪
The M o s q u e , C o r d o v a . A nation set forth to convert the world to
its faith. Its battle-cry in this holy war was Allah! Victory after victory was
gained, till finally the triumphal march of fanaticism was stopped by the
opposing faith of its religious adversaries. The waves receded, and the Cross
triumphed over the Crescent. This struggle of two faiths and two continents
left indelible marks on the fields of battle.
These wars had been carried on in the name of God. Sacred edifices were
erected to the victor. On the ruins of the mosque arose the most beautiful
cathedral in the world as token of victory. Spain never would have received
the impress she bears to-day without those bitter religious wars.
Cordova was the jewel among Moorish occidental towns, destined to
outshine the sister cities Damascus and Bagdad in the far Orient. It was here
that all the wealth and pomp of Moorish domination was displayed.
Cordova’s population exceeded a million souls. It was the seat of Arabic art
and profound learning; the centre of religious life. The muezzin called the
faithful to prayers from 3000 minarets. Cordova became a new Mecca which
drew crowds of pilgrims from the East to the West.
What has now become of this metropolis? A shadow! Wandering through
narrow streets of the town one seems to be in Cordova of a thousand years
ago. The old cobbled pavements are probably the same, the houses too,
behind whose trellised windows the harem was hidden. The old crooked,
narrow and confused mass of streets are still there. Once in a while a palm is
seen leaning over white walls across the street; open doors offer views into
pleasant court-yards.
The Mezquita, the Mosque, stands like a dark rock surrounded by the
white trembling light of the sea of houses.
A wonderful gateway leads to the Orange Court. The fruit and flowers of
these trees perfume the air with incense. High up, backed by the blue sky,
the palm trees are waving in the wind. Fountains are plashing. Once they
served to refresh burnoosed dusty and foot-sore pilgrims come from afar to
serve their God here. The faithful bathed in these fountains before purifying
their souls in Allah’s house.—Now the fountains are perpetually surrounded
by the town maidens who come to fetch a cooling draught in their finely
curved earthenware jugs.
The impression on entering the forest of columns that support the mosque
is both unexpected and overpowering. Is this not a petrified palm wood? And
does not this stony grove incorporate the conception of infinity? There is a
mystic dusk among these columns that lends to them an endless space of
silence and eternity: the symbol of belief.
It is to the credit of the victorious Christians that they did not cool their
religious ardour by destroying this Islamitic place of worship. It is extremely
regrettable that their descendants have treated this monument of
Mohammedan culture with such carelessness.
The mosque became a Christian church. Where once the cry of “Allah
illah Allah!” echoed thousandfold, “Praise be the Lord!” is now sung. The
first deed was to erect altars in the door-niches. Then seventy pillars were
laid low, and a choir with the High-Altar erected in their stead: a church
within a church. Charles V. was reluctant to give his permission for these
alterations. When he came to Cordova and saw what had been done, he
exclaimed in perturbation: “What you are building can be seen anywhere.
You have destroyed what was unique in the world.”[B]
Untouched in its pristine beauty, hidden in semi-darkness, not far from
the Holy of Holies of the Christian church, stands the Holy of Holies of the
mosque, the Mihrab or prayer-niche in which the Koran was kept. It is a
jewel of Moorish art. Whereas the rest of the mosque columns are connected
by double horse-shoe arches, banded in red and white, here the beautifully
chased dentated arches rise straight to the lovely curved dome. The niche
socle is white marble of lace-like texture above which a profusion of colours
glow: blood-red, rust brown, dark blue violet interwoven with a sublime
sheen of gold. Perhaps the mosaic walls and lettered scrolls upon them have
in some mystical manner caught the light of the thousand swinging lamps
that once had cast their soft rays through the dim shades of space. For six
long centuries all these glowing colours were hidden. Before Cordova was
surrendered to the Christians the sanctuary was walled up. It was only
discovered in 1815.
We pass entranced along the colonnaded aisles, enthraled by the
wondrous beauty of this miracle in stone. It is like awakening from a
fantastic dream to set foot again in the blinding sun of the silent town that
has become the shrine of one of the most precious jewels in the world (50-
60).
O
M o o r i s h s c e n e s f a r f r o m t h e b e a t e n t r a c k : A burning
hot day in August.—The air trembles in the heat over the olive trees. The
day hangs heavy in the blue vault of heaven. I had been wandering for long
long hours, when all of a sudden my eyes were caught by a fata morgana:
wafted perhaps from the coast of Morocco? No, it was no mirage.
Impossible! Yet it did not disappear as I approached. Strange indeed was the
scene: houses scattered like dice over a mountain (91).
A timid lad of whom I asked the name of the spot, slunk shyly past me.
My map was of no assistance to me. At last I was informed that I had arrived
at “la muy noble y bel ciudad Mochagar, llave y amparo del reino de
Granada”. “What,” I asked “this hamlet still calls itself the key and guardian
of the kingdom of Granada? But that kingdom was destroyed half a thousand
years ago when the Moors were driven from Granada.”
A miracle must have happened here that time should have remained
stationary. Here was the pure Moorish impress. Most of the houses are
windowless. The flat roofs are sometimes the road to the higher houses, and
always their foot-stool. And although the water of baptism has wetted the
women’s hair, they pass veiled in the Moorish fashion along the streets. With
tucked up skirts and naked legs they step lightly along the steep alleys,
returning from the fountains with water amphorae. They eye the foreign
trespasser suspiciously and curiously. And when I requested the veiled
women to let me take their photographs they stared at me, for they had never
even seen a camera. I showed them a picture, and explained that I wanted to
have theirs too. They refused. Finally one girl agreed. But an old scold
hurried up and beat her for her frowardness: throwing herself away like that!
In this Christian country I found shamefacedness and adherence to the laws
of Mohammed. Let no mortal body serve as an image!
An old man with whom I spoke about this incident told me that if a girl
no longer veiled her face, but hid her legs, there was not much left to spoil
about her.
But I was determined that I would not leave without a picture of one of
the veiled beauties. At last I succeeded, with the consent of the mother of
one of the girls. The eye of my camera winked slyly when I took my snap-
shot. In thanking the girl, I held out my hand, but she seemed quite taken
aback, and hid her hands behind her. I pressed her to shake hands. I should
not do her any harm. But her mother apologized for her saying: “No, she
doesn’t mean to be rude, but it is not the custom in our country for a girl to
let a man touch her hand before marriage.” Perhaps this little incident
explains the once much-used expression employed by wooers “will you give
me your daughter’s hand?” (90)
O
T h e P a l m F o r e s t o f E l c h é (100-103). The only palm forest in
Europe. It numbers more than 115000 trees, and is also a Moorish heritage.
They caused the water to flow to this spot from a distance of 5 kilometres in
order to create an oasis here in the desert—for the district is to-day little else.
Palms must grow with their roots in the water and their crowns in the glaring
sun. For years no rain has fallen on this spot.
The view is strange from the church-tower down on white houses over
which the palm tops are spread like a canopy. Beyond the palm forest the
grey-yellow desert plain surrounds this isle of peace. In the far distance the
blue ocean sleeps in proud majesty. Death and life are here in close
juxtaposition.
O
E a s t e r i n S e v i l l e . The train is rushing southwards over the arid
Castillian high plateaux, which in summer are as empty as a beggar’s palm.
The bare treeless Mancha has put on its modest spring garment which now
shows in the distance like delicate green velvet. A short-lived joy! In but a
few weeks the scorched ground will again be covered with a yellowish-gray
pall.
At present the fresh breeze comes down from the mountains of the Sierra
de Guadarrama. Scarcely, however, has the train wound its way through the
wild cañons of the Sierra Modena, when spring opens wide her gate. A warm
damp hot-house atmosphere is wafted into the carriage windows.
We are soon surrounded by meadows that are like a great flower-garden
in which the blood-red poppy and golden-yellow primrose struggle for
supremacy. Once in a while a village is seen dreaming like Sleeping Beauty
among the flower groves. For a long stretch agaves and cacti fringe the
track. Finally Seville sends forth her messengers in the shape of blossoming
rose-gardens and orange groves laden with their ripe golden fruit. An ancient
mangolia stretches a rosy blossom branch towards us, lingering on in its old
age in this scene so full of yearning life. Tall slim palms nod to us, and yet
new children of Flora crowd upon us to bring us Seville and spring’s friendly
welcome.
 Heedlessly the train clatters past all this beauty towards the white maze of
Seville’s houses, above which towers that beautiful emblem of the town, the
Giralda. At last the engine snorts noisily into the station.
But how different is everything to-day in front of the station. No yelling
hotel porters, no carriages awaiting the passengers, no electric-car with
clanging bell, no hooting of motor-cars.—The square is lifeless at this early
afternoon hour. It is the “Semana santa”, Passion-week, that has cast this
almost oppressive spell of silence over the great city. Even the brazen voices
of the church-bells are muffled, as though that had gone into sacred
mourning. The wooden banging of the Matraca calls hoarsely to prayers with
dry and unmelodious voice.
The further you penetrate into the town, the more the sacred holiday
stillness is ousted. All Seville is crowding, chattering and laughing to the
Cathedral to see the procession. At last you have to stop. There is no getting
through the impenetrable human wall. It is a strange procession that is
passing by, as though conjured up from the Middle Ages. Huddled figures
stalk past slowly and stiffly. They appear like spectres. Old pictures of
witches and inquisitionary trials are recalled to my mind, for nowhere else
have I ever seen such terrifying apparitions; never in life. Black cowls are
wrapped around their bodies, and on their head are huge black conical hats a
yard high. Long sable cloths, in which only two eyelets are pierced, are
suspended over their faces down to their waists. A corded rope is wound
round the penitential garments. The hands of the apparitions clasp rough
wooden crosses, or metal staves, as tall as themselves. These figures march
in front of a portable dais on which a life-like statue of the Virgin Mary is
enthroned clad in magnificent garments thickly encrusted with gold.—The
procession stops. The dais is lowered. A young woman steps from the crowd,
turns her eyes to the Queen of Heaven and sings her praise.
When the twenty or thirty bearers who carry the heavy dais on their
shoulders, and who are hidden by drapery suspended round the frame, have
rested enough, the signal to start is given by knocking on the front of the
dais. A jerk, and the procession moves on a few paces. One religious body of
brethren follows on the heels of the other. Each of them wear their own
distinctive multi-coloured badges. Some have a blue pointed hat, others
white, brown, violet or other coloured garments. Next to a father his ten-year
old son in the same vestments is often seen, as well as the miniature penitent
of fifteen in the procession.
 The various brotherhoods are filled with an ardent ambition to outdo the
others in the magnificence of their Pasos as the daises are called. The whole
story of the Passion from Gethsemane to the burial of our Lord, is shown on
them as they pass before our eyes.—Of course the clergy in full canonicals,
as well as the town and state officials are also represented in the procession.
At intervals, groups of Roman legionaries of Christ’s day appear, then
angels, and St. Veronica carrying the kerchief. Interspersed bands bray and
flourish the same march without cess.
Each brotherhood in the procession is cerimoniously received by the
chief authority of the town in Constitution Square which looks like a huge
theatre auditorium. It is filled with rows of chairs of which not a single one
is empty. The surrounding balconies are a sea of heads.
Hour by hour passes. Night falls. And now hundreds of wax-candles
blaze forth on the daises, and each penitent carries a gigantic taper in his
hand. Thus this endless and mysterious procession of lights moves on to the
cathedral, passes through its magnificent nave, and out again through the
other doors into the streets.
The cathedral has opened its treasure-house for the “Semana santa” and
displayed all its pomp. The candles of the gigantic bronze candelabrum (the
renowned Tenebrario) as well as on the altar the sacred wax-candle weighing
several hundredweight. A huge sepulchre has been erected to the glory of
Christ, in which the Holy of Holies is kept during Passion week. Hundreds
of lamps and candles illuminate the golden-white four-storey edifice, which
is over 30 metres high, and flooded with a wondrous glowing halo.
The celebrated miserere of Eslava is performed in the cathedral on the
night of Good Friday. But, alas! it is impossible to enjoy the sacred tunes
owing to the general noisy inattention around. Weary forms are sitting on the
steps of the chapels and around the grave of Columbus. Here a mother is
suckling her infant, there an animate heap of rags is wrapt in sleep, and all
the while there is a continual pushing and elbowing to get to the front.
However we must not judge of all this in the light of serious northern
church festivals. This would only lead us to drawing both severe and wrong
conclusions. Perhaps this manner may be an historical development. Has not
our Teutonic Christianity also wedded itself to much that is ancient
heathenism? For instance Christmas and the winter solstice festival. Much
that is Moorish obtains in Spain to this day. Perhaps even—unconsciously—
the conception of the purpose of a place of worship. Was not the mosque
often enough a secular place of meeting for the Moslems, and at the same
time a university? However, enough of conjectures. It is a fact that the
worship of the Lord and the Virgin Mary is for the Spaniard a service of
love. Whether the occasion be Trinity or Passion week, it is one of joyful
praise of Heaven.
I shall always remember one quiet hour permeated with the holy spirit of
Easter among these joyful and yet pious Easter days.—I had mounted the
Giralda, that jewel of erstwhile Moorish minaret architecture, the cathedral
tower. At my feet lay the white sea of houses. The town was bathed in
sunshine. The beautiful blue dome of heaven spread its mighty arch over the
holiday-making land as though protecting and blessing it. The faint music of
the mass far below was wafted up to me, when suddenly a booming
vibration filled the air, and all the tower bells, which had been silent so long,
peeled out across the sunlit country: Christ is arisen! The sister bells of all
the other towers echoed the message across the spring clad country.
O
T h e P a t i o (40, 42-49). It is a favourite expression to call Seville the
town of bright court-yards. Those court-yards which light and fill the house
with sunshine. The Sevillian house, or rather the Andalusian house, is not a
building such as our houses, fronting on the street, but one that fronts to an
inner court, turning its back on the street. The outsides of the houses are bare
of ornament, almost windowless; a secret to the passer-by. All their beauty is
displayed yardwards. There wealth obtains in all its pomp, and poverty
unfolds its modest ornaments. The narrow passage—the Zaguan—leading
from the street to the court is closed by a railed gate. The gallery—to which
access is gained by steps leading from the court—is supported by columns.
The rooms of the upper stories lead to the gallery. To cool the air there is a
fountain in the middle of the court surrounded by palms, araucarias, laurels,
orange-trees, oleanders and flowers in pots. The walls are covered with
multi-coloured tiles. Against them brightly up-holstered furniture, chairs,
and sometimes even a piano; the inevitable guitar is in a corner. Climbing
plants festoon the court.
Practically this is the centre of the whole family life. Friends are received
here, hours passed in argument, singing, music and dancing—whether in
company or alone, dreaming away the hours, listening to the plashing of the
fountain, it is in the court—the soul of the house—that most time is spent.
O
 There is nothing commonplace about Spanish houses. They still retain
their peculiarity impressed on them by the patina of age. Many have tumbled
down under the burden of years. Many are dead; but they “died in beauty”.
The period of their prosperity still lingers on in the churches and ornate
façades of deserted squares.
Toledo is the most Spanish of towns. It was once the heart of the country,
pulsating with the great rhythm of epic history. But its heart no longer beats.
Resting on steep granite hills above the deep Tajo valley stands the
yellow-grey heap of houses as though rooted in the rocks. Two gigantic
bridges span the river. Narrow alleys lead up hill and down dale; many-
cornered and dark. The whole town seems in a fighting mood. Huge
gateways and towers, the houses fort-like, the doors studded with heavy
nails. Indeed, there is hardly a town that has seen so many battles rounds its
walls. Spain’s history has passed over it with heavy steps. And to-day? Rent
walls, ruin and silence: the town the accumulated wreckage of a thousand
years (139-148).
Segovia, Toledo’s sister city is situated similarly on rocks arising abruptly
from the plain. It is dominated by a great cathedral tower, and guarded by
the well-proportioned Alcazar which stands forth like a fairy castle. A
miraculous building, erected one would say to brave eternity in the days
when Christ was born. But otherwise Segovia is different to Toledo. It is the
Nuremberg of Spain, gay in its leafy setting (157-164).
There are other brave old companions-in-arms of these two veterans,
dating from ancient war days: circumvallated Avila (165-169), Cuenca and
Albarracin with their swallow-nest houses clinging to lofty crags (120, 121,
192-194), Daroca protected by two mountains over which the whole of the
battlemented walls have climbed (195-197), Alquezar in the Pyrenees, the
northern outpost of the Moors in Spain (210-212), Sigüenza, Jerica, Trujillo,
Caceres, Niebla, Carmona, Martos, Antequera, and many bold castillos.
Ronda is the most boldly situated town lying on a high plateau encircled
by a wide mountain arena (62, 63). Running through the rocky plateau is a
huge crevice which looks as though it had been split in rage by the mighty
fists of giants.
The streams thunder down in all their wild force over the boulders,
hammer threateningly against the rocky walls, break into scintillating spray,
rush round in whirlpools, and hurry on their course. And in close proximity
to all this turmoil, the rocky walls stand unshaken in their immobility against
the sky-line, an emblem of eternity cast in stone by the hand of God. The
rainbow in the spray has been copied by man in the shape of a bridge high
over the abyss joining the rocky heights upon which the town stands.
Let us pass from these stubborn old battle towns to a more smiling scene:
San Sebastian (286-290) known throughout the world for its incomparably
beautiful situation on the sea. The view from Monte Ulia, a mountain
guarding the entrance to this paradise, is wonderful beyond words. Here
nature has modelled and painted a masterpiece. The sea hugs the land in two
gracefully curved bays and catches the beauties of the town in the reflection
of its waters.
O
C a v e - d w e l l i n g s a n d t h e s i m p l e l i f e . —This time I
decided to leave the destination of my wanderings to chance. I could have
chosen no better guide. I set out long before the dew was dry, or the sun had
risen. The palm trees were just beginning to shake themselves in the early
breeze when I approached a strange rocky landscape. Dark holes in the rock
stared at me like dead eyes. But nevertheless life was hidden there. Human
forms stepped out of the holes to greet the morn.
What I saw was a towering rock wall with hundreds of cave-dwellings
next to each other and over each other. Some of them were even five storeys
high and approached from the outside (92). Where the rocks were too steep,
the approaches had been dug from the inside, and upper storeys created with
outlook holes and loggias high up in the rocks. Tunnels had been cut in the
soft stone to get from one rock valley to the other.
The children were running about in the costume God had given them. But
it is not to be supposed that they were troglodytes, and as unaware of culture
as those who lived in the ice period. High on the rocks you can read in large
black letters on a white background “El Retiro”.
Every Spaniard knows, at least by name, Madrid’s beautiful park the
Retiro. For this reason it seems somewhat of a joke to suddenly come across
the name in such a spot far up on the rocks. El Retiro, like Sanssouci, means
solitude, retreat, place of rest. An enterprising hotel-keeper has levelled his
portion of rocks into roof-terraces where the favourite gossip hour (tertulla)
is spent, skittles played, and merry dances performed. Hence the alluring
words on the wall for the benefit of passers-by. On another rock is graven
the brief significant inscription: “Dios, Pan y Cultura” (God, Bread, and
Culture. 92-95.
During the course of another stroll I was again equally surprised. I saw
smoke arising in the distance from ground that looked like fantastic
mountain erosions. Surely this was not the site of volcanic activity? Indeed
this was out of the question. And on drawing nigh I discerned human figures
moving among the columns of smoke. I then saw to my astonishment that
little smoking towers—not unlike champagne corks in shape—were
chimneys projecting out of the ground. I had again strayed among cave-
dwellers. What Homeric primitiveness was there! The valleys are the streets,
the mountain sides the fronts of the houses, the pinnacles villas. Front
gardens are once and a while supplied by giant cacti and spiky agaves. My
wanderings in this interesting world-forgotten primitive spot lasted for hours
as I passed up and down the so-called streets (96-99).
My greetings were met with a cheerful response, and I was invited to
enter a cool cave, provided with a drink of fresh water, and shown the
treasures of the modest household: the bed on the ground, the hearth with a
copper kettle, the earthenware pitcher, the stool, the oil-lamp and the image
of the patron saint.
“Now as to work?” I asked. “Well we don’t do too much in that way. We
cultivate what we need over there where the river runs. We make bricks for
the towns where the people live in houses.”—Truly a picture of an enviable
state of modest requirements. There are still those who are satisfied with the
tub of Diogenes. Indeed you may find many such all over Spain. I remember
when at a little railway station finding only a lad deep in his after-dinner
nap. For the rest, there was no one else to take my luggage, so I woke him up
and asked him to help me. He stretched himself in all the bliss of laziness,
took a couple of coppers out of his pocket, and showing them to me said:
“I’ve earned 25 centimos to-day already; that’s all I need,” turned over, and
went to sleep again. I continued on my way recalling the words of the Indian
philosopher: “He who is without wants is nearest to God.”
There is no cause to shrug one’s shoulders. Diligence and happiness are
but relative conceptions. And just the poorest in Spain understand the art of
doing nothing combined with extracting joy from next to nothing. They need
a little shade in summer, and the sunshine in winter; a piece of bread, a
tomato, a drop of wine. The whole earth with the sky for a roof is their bed-
room; the highroad their field of labour. There is no master they would
exchange positions with; they are their own masters; masters of their own
time—verily a great possession this. Why then should they not spend it
generously? “He whom God helps will go further than he who rises betimes”
runs a Spanish proverb. And the Bible tells us: “Behold the fowls of the air:
for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your
heavenly Father feedeth them.”
O
F e r i a i n S e p ú l v e d a . —A bull-fight. There is high holiday in
Sepúlveda, (172, 173) an ancient little town far from the turmoil of the great
world, and far even from the railroad, which indeed is nearly 100 kilometres
away. The feria is the greatest day of the whole year. Men and women crowd
into the place on horses and donkeys. Old friends meet again. Once more
they see ‘life’. Above all it is the bull-fight that is the greatest attraction. It
has been for weeks already the only topic worth speaking about. As however
our little town has no arena, the market-place is used instead. All day the
lively rat-tat of hammers is heard there. The windows of the picturesque
dignified old town-hall gaze smilingly down on the lively scene. At last there
is really something worth looking at again. Another long tedious sleepy year
has gone by.
There is hardly any one who does not go the hour’s walk outside the town
to admire the bulls which have come from a long way off, and for the
present are being kept at pasture.
When the great day has come, every one is up with the sun. The arrival of
the savage animals is feverishly expected. The bravest show their courage by
going forth to meet the procession.
A cloud of dust on the highway announces its approach. And finally
forms emerge from it. At the head a picador on horseback with a lance,
behind him the black bodies of the bulls surrounded by tame steers, and
followed by a second picador. As they rush through the narrow streets to the
market-square a mighty cry goes up: “Los toros! Los toros!” Shouting,
whistling, howling, yelling, and a general pandemonium rends the welkin.
Finally the bulls are secured, and it is only in the afternoon that the
longed-for hour arrives.
The forenoon has its own pleasures. Young men demonstrate their daring
by teasing a young bull specially selected for the purpose, and earn
acclamation or mocking laughter as the case may be. These young heroes try
to put into practice what they have seen at the Torero; only it is less
dangerous. No blood is shed, only torn trousers and bruises are the honorific
mementoes of the great day (174, 175).
My thoughts naturally harked back to the first bull-fight I had seen—in
Madrid. The impression was stupendous: fifteen thousand gay spectators in
the great sweep of the arena all impatient for the nerve-racking fight to
begin. The arena was filled with the babble of voices. It was a chaos of
colours, cloudy lace mantillas, flower-embroidered shawls, fans swaying
nervously, jet-black glowing eyes.—Shouts of applause greeted the bull-
fighters. Yells saluted the great bull as he rushed in. The game was a risky
one for life or death. Deeds of audacity were met with idolatrous cheers, the
timid with desolating laughter. All of a sudden a coloured form is tossed into
the air. A single scream from a thousand throats.—“Is he dead?” “No!” A
sigh of relief.—“Go on!”—The condemned bull is mad with rage, his
opponent cold as steel. He wields the mortal instrument, the sword flashes,
and a hurricane of applause bursts forth for the victor and his tottering
victim. White handkerchiefs flutter from every seat like pigeons. Hats are
waved, a shower of flowers descends, and the fêted hero returns thanks,
nonchalant and proud.—The trumpets blare and a new fight begins (125,
126).
O
C r o s s i n g t h e P i c o s d e E u r o p a . —Masses of high mountains
with peaks about 2700 metres high rise among the Asturian Cantabrian coast
range. They bear the proud name of Picos de Europa (The Peaks of Europe).
They are the Dolomites of Spain. But they exceed these considerably in
inaccessibility.
Tourist facilities in Spain are of a very primitive nature. For this reason
there are no shelter huts for mountaineers in the Picos de Europa, and there
are likewise no trained guides. There are it is true some game-keepers.
Shepherds and miners acquainted with individual parts of the mountains act
once in a while as guides.
I had been at the gateway of the Picos de Europa when at Covadongo the
celebrated place of pilgrimage. Since then the desire had never left me to
become acquainted with this demure mountain beauty so alluring and yet so
stand-offish in her loneliness. Thus I started for the mountains.
My path led me from Unquera through the Deva valley to Potes at the
foot of the Picos. I very soon noticed that my task would be no easy one, for
shortly after leaving Panes the track winds through a mighty and deep valley
known as the Desfiladero de la Hermida. My reception was not a friendly
one. The rocky guardian of the valley looked down and frowned at me, and
the sky treated me at intervals to a cold shower-bath.
In Potes the clouds were low down on the mountain sides on which I was
going to test my prowess the next day. But I was so enchanted with the spot,
that I willingly renounced the view for that day.
The little town is a very ancient spot. It must once have been the seat of
many a knightly family. This is attested to by the various Spanish coats of
arms on the houses. But those times are now no more. Where once Spanish
grandees strutted by with buckled shoes and sword, clodhopping peasants
plod along. And the present generation is hardly aware of the plentitude of
beauty surrounding it. Bold bridges span the glen. Narrow colonades with
overhanging balconies cling to the steep river bank. A multitude of archways
offer innumerable enchanting glimpses. A high watch-tower guards the
houses clustering at its base.
Before the sun had risen on the morrow I had set out. Dark and dismal-
looking clouds hung low over the landscape. But the Picos pinnacles had
rent them asunder, and suddenly they stood forth in the glory of the rising
sun. Dark night lay behind me as I marched towards the sunlight.
My guide met me by arrangement at Espinama. He was a grey-headed
man with weather-beaten face and smiling eyes. His feet were clad in leather
sandals, and under his arm was an ancient umbrella. We soon discussed the
itinerary, filled our rucksacks and started for the Puerto de Aliva. The old
song came back to me:—

The sun on my way

In his golden array
Is my fellow and guide.
He casts my shadow
O’er flowery meadow.
I wander world-wide.

As we passed on our way, the houses of the village became smaller and
smaller. We soon left the last tree behind, and our path led over sweet green
slopes, till they too were lost under the stony debris of rocky giants. There
was a hunting-lodge close to the foot of the Peña vieja cliff which the king
of Spain visits nearly every year when chamois hunting.
 The day drew slowly to its end. Great streamers curled round the Peña
vieja, pale shadows floated by like silver grey cobwebs, and the mist rose
and fell with every breath of wind. The billowing fog had already wrapped
us in its mighty veil when we reached the miners’ inn at Lloroza. An
overseer invited us to spend the night there. And we were right glad to find
shelter, in spite of the fact that both the hut and its furniture looked like the
first attempts of primitive man to scale the ladder of civilization. The night
we spent on the hard ground was not a very restful one, and we were glad
when the approach of day called us from our layer.
When we left the hut a surprising spectacle met our eyes. The fog which
had deprived us of any possibility of obtaining a view the evening before
now lay at our feet in the valley. The summits of the mountain rose like
islands in the sea of mist.
The moment had arrived when day struggled with night for
predominance. The full-moon’s silver disc hung in the deep blue of the
western sky, and the morning star held its own for a while against the rising
light in the east. At last both moon and star turned to pale glass when the sun
sent forth his herald rays. The horizon was tinged with pink; long red
streamers fluttered from the windows of heaven to greet us, and then the sun
rose above the misty expanse, gilded the crests, flooded the eastern pinnacles
with the glory of his light, and glowed on the rocky wall to which our hut
clung. O wonderful silence of that hour!
“A new day beckons us to other shores.”
For yet a short distance the beaten path used by the king when stalking
showed us the way. Then we bent our steps over pathless boulders, sharp
edged rocks, mounds of debris, snow-fields strewn among the stony desert
with its jagged rock walls and towers.
Whole herds of chamois stared in astonishment at the strange intruders in
their paradise. For the rest, they showed little inclination to run away. The
mountain fastness became progressively more barren and wild in its aspect.
An infinitely dismal mood seemed to brood o’er the scene. Yet the
magnificence of these mountains augmented from minute to minute.
Grotesque stone giants—cast in burning ore by the furnace of high heaven—
stood guarding this great grave of nature.
Woe to the wanderer whose ignorant footsteps err here! Death lies in
ambush in the deep crevices and chasms.
 At last we halted in front of the monarch of the magnificent mountain
empire. His throne stands high in everlasting snow; a golden crown is on his
head. His picture is known to all from the most distant mountain valley to
the shores of the restless ocean. All admire his beauty, all know his name:
Naranjo de Balnes.
This huge rock colossus rises 600 metres over its surroundings. Its
perpendicular walls show hardly a crevice. And it seems incredible that
nevertheless that bold mountaineer the Marqués de Villaviciosa de Asturia
climbed to its summit.
On our wanderings round this mighty and stubborn rock tower we
seemed to be lightened of all earthly burdens high up there in the solitude
above the depths of humanity.
We climbed up to the Ceredo tower. The rocks were as sharp as knives.
Again the ghostly mist rose from the valleys and whirled spectrally around
us.
It was 5 o’clock and the Cares valley with Cain to where our steps were
directed were not yet in sight.—I asked my companion: “How far yet?” “A
few hours more” was the not very consoling reply.—The mist, that enemy of
mountaineers was getting thicker. And ere long we could not see twenty
paces ahead. The feeling of insecurity grew apace. And the sensation of
climbing with mist-bound eyes was terrible. Again I questioned my guide.
“Severo, is there no hut or shelter on the way?”—“I don’t think so.” Once
more long minutes of silent groping. At last we were, at any rate for a while,
rid of the stony region. Here and there a rocky projection, but it was quite
impossible to tell if we were not suspended on it hundreds of meters over a
yawning abyss. It was impossible to see anything through that fog. And at a
quarter past six it was pitch dark.
Suddenly we came across a few low rough huts of unhewn stone huts
sheltered by a rock-wall. There at last we could spend the night. But my
guide wanted to go on. “Stop!” I cried. “Can we get to Cain to night?”—“I
don’t know.” “Well then we’ll stay here!” Suiting the action to the word, we
crept into one of the huts, crouched down, and slept fitfully through ten
endless hours of night. But even they passed. The morning meant a
dangerous and nasty descent. We waded knee-deep in wet grass, clambered
over ledges with fog all around us. Woe to us had we slipped! Then we got
lost and had to stop and climb back with the greatest care. Then we slid
down a stony gully in which nearly every step set rocks thundering to the
depths below.
At last the moist grey mist began to lift. A rift showed the bed of the
valley far beneath us, and, as we thought, houses. But no, we were mistaken.
They were huge boulders, the wreckage of some avalanche that filled the
upper hollow. Down and down we scrambled till finally we broke through
the foggy screen. Our goal was at our feet. Cain, strangely walled in by
precipitous rocky cliffs rising sheer 1500 metres high. We were there! And
we could rest. Some bread and butter was all we could find in the whole
village to appease our hunger. We would gladly have rested there a day, but
the place was too inhospitable. We had therefore to shoulder our rucksacks
again. The distance we had climbed down the day before, we had to climb
up again on the opposite rocks of the Peña santa. Hours and hours of
strenuous efforts passed till we reached the ridge. We re-descended
valleywards in a drizzling rain. Lake Enol was the last spot of beauty to be
hidden from our view. It was there we struck the main road, and then
marched another 10 kilometres down to Covadonga which we reached as
tired as dogs.
Night had already cast her shadow over the valley, and the stars were
beginning to shine forth. Welcoming lights were seen burning in Covadonga.
But it seemed as though we should never reach them. However the prospect
of a bed lent us strength, and at half past eight we stumbled painfully over
the threshold of a clean hospitable house. I went to bed exhausted, and my
restless dreams were haunted with the beautiful and terrible wanderings in
the Picos de Europa (266-274).
O
M y p i l g r i m a g e t o t h e Yu s t e C o n v e n t ( 1 5 3 ) . —I left
soon after midnight, for marching is delightful in southern nights when the
glittering stars shed their soft light from the great vault of heaven. In the
south the cool night is succeeded by summer days that are the misery of the
pedestrian.—The hours melted by but slowly in the furnace heat of the day. I
was beset with all possible ills: infernal heat, thirst, and no water. Not a tree
or a shrub was to be seen for miles; no shade; hours without passing a house;
not a soul abroad; the melancholy mood that comes in the train of solitude.
My path was obstructed by a river—at any rate, water—but nary a bridge!
So I had to wade, and continue my journey. At last I spied a shepherd. What
joy to feel that I was no longer alone!
 “Is this the right road to Yuste?” I enquired of him.—“Yes, but where
doest thou come from, and what countryman art thou?” The good fellow
addressed me with the fraternal tutoyer, as though we were brothers.
When he heard that I was a German he was quite surprised. He willingly
agreed to accompany me to the next village, and was quite curious to hear
something about my country. The news of the war had penetrated to this
remote part of the world. It was charming to listen to the questions of this
child of nature. He knew nothing of the three Rs; had never seen a railway,
had never left the neighbourhood of his village. We soon met another
shepherd on the mountain-side who was just as pleased and interested as the
other. And I must say, that wherever I was in Spain, all classes of the
population were friendly towards Germans.
It was not long before we encountered other wayfarers who joined us, for
Sunday enticed them into the village. My entrance was therefore almost a
triumphal procession. We entered the inn, ordered some wine, and sat down
to a well-earned rest. When I wanted to pay the landlord, he refused, telling
me that Pepa had settled the bill. However, this wouldn’t do. And at last he
agreed to my paying on condition that the next time I returned I should be
his guest. They all shook hands with me most-heartily and I continued
joyfully on my way.
At last I stood in front of the monastery gates. They were opened, and the
white haired abbot rode out on a little donkey, holding a green parasol over
his head. I saluted the venerable Father and enquired of him whether I could
stay at the monastery for the night. “No”, he replied, “impossible.”—
Discomfitted I exclaimed: “But where am I to go to-day? I have travelled
fifty kilometres and have come from Navalmoral.”—“What, on foot?
Impossible!” “Yes, but I have. I am a German and want to see the spot which
the emperor Charles V. exchanged for all the crowns in the world, and where
he closed his eyes.”—“You are a German? Of course you can’t continue
your journey.”
I was most kindly and touchingly taken care of.
I was shown the monastery which had once been destroyed by the
French. Decay and mould have continued the work of destruction. But
nature’s eternal youth triumphs victoriously amongst the ruins and beautifies
the decay of age. And yet this is a place to think about the everlastingness of
all things, of the end of all terrestrial happiness.—Once that great monarch
who had fled from the turmoil of the world had paced these halls.
 At supper, I, the infidel sat at the monks’ board and was treated like a
brother.
The next morning I was awakened long hours before sunrise. A lay
brother lit me with a lantern through the dark and ancient park. The
monastery gate swung on its hinges, the latch fell heavily, and I was again
out in the world all silvery with the moonlight. For a moment I stood
entranced.—I heard the mass bell calling the monks to prayers. And the
gates of Paradise were closed behind me.
O
T h e l a s t e c h o e s . —My wanderings through Spain filled me with
the joy of life. She had become my second home. It was with a heavy heart
that I left.

“O follow me ye southern days

’Neath colder skies and paler stars.
And fill my thoughts with golden rays!”

The hour of departure had arrived.—It was a wonderful moonlight night

in which the little Spanish steamer which was to bear me homewards sailed
slowly out of Ferrol harbour. The moon cast a silver bridge over the water,
and along it my thoughts fled back to other moonlight nights when she had
often shown me the way in picturesque Spain.
The lights along the coast shone like the eyes of anxious friends looking a
last farewell before darkness closed their lids. And then the little ship
ploughed homeward through the eternal waters with the eternal sky above
us, and the old old song of the waves accompanied me back to my familiar
home.

And now that days and weeks of cloudy skies hang heavily over my
country where the sun is not so generous as in southern climes, my heart is
filled with yearning for Spain, with nostalgia for the sun.—Then I look at
my pictures, and we hold converse together, and re-live those unfettered
days spent in wanderings in sun-kissed Spain.
In this volume I send forth my sun harvest. May it cast its light in the
hearts of many! May it tell of my love of Spain, and of my heartfelt thanks
to her chivalrous people for all their kind hospitality!
 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF NAMES AND PLACES
Albarracin 192-194
Albufera 116
Alcala de Guadaira 71
Aldeanueva de la Vera 154
Algatocin 76
Alhambra 1-16, 22
Almazan 227
Alquezar 210-212
Andújar 44, 115
Antequera 64-66
Aranjuez 136-138
Arcos de la Frontera 48, 49, 72
Arranda de Duero 240
Autol 224, 225
Avila 165-169

Barcelona 200
Batuecas 260, 261, 263
Bielsa 213
Bilbao 284
Burgo de Osma 226
Burgos 234-238
Butron 277
Brachimañasee 216

Caceres 83, 84
Candelario 252, 253
Cangas de Onis 274
Carmona 43, 70
Castellbó 208
Castellfullit 204
Cave Dwellings 92-99
Cenaruza 282
Cepeda 155
Chorro 73
Ciudad Rodrigo 250, 251
Coca 184-187
Cordoba 50-60
Cuenca 120, 121

Daroca 195-197
Debotes Valley 207
Durango 279, 283

Ecija 68, 69
Elché 101-103
Elorrio 285
Escorial 129-135

Fuenterabia 298

Gerona 202, 203

Granada 1-25
Guadalajara 178-181
Guadalest 118
Guadix 100
Güejar-Sierra 77

Hermida 266
Hurdes 259

Jativa 111-113
Javea 108
Jerez de la Frontera 67
Jerica 191

La Alberca 254, 256, 257

Lagartera 150, 151

Madrid 126-128
Maladeta 219
Mañaria 278
Manzanera 42
Martos 74, 75
Medinaceli 176, 177
Mochagar 91
Mogarraz 258
Mombeltran 183
Monte Agudo 119
Montserrat 201

Niebla 80, 81
Nuria 206

Ondarroa 276
Orihuela 104-107
Oviedo 264, 265

Pancorbo 231-233
Pasages 291-296, 304
Peñafiel 182
Peña Montañesa 214
Pic de Aneto 217, 218
Pic du midi 216
Picos de Europa 266-274
Pontevedra 301
Potes 270-273
Pyrenees 205-219

Ronda 62, 63

Sagunt 109, 110

Salamanca 246-249
San Esteban de Gormaz 229, 230
San Juan de Plan 209
San Sebastian 286-290
Santander 275
Santiago de Campostela 300
Sarragoza 220, 221
Segovia 157-164
Segretal 205
Sepulveda 172-175
Seville 28-41
Sierra Nevada 79
Sigüenza 188-190
Soria 228

Tarifa 45, 46
Tarazona 223
Tarragona 198, 199
Toledo 139-148
Toro 244
Trujillo 85-87
Turrégano 170, 171

Valencia 114, 117

Valladolid 241-243
Vigo 303

Yuste 153

Zafra 82
Zamora 245

Towns: 2, 4, 16, 21, 28, 62-64, 72, 74, 80, 91-99, 120, 128, 139, 157, 166,
172, 191, 192, 195, 202, 204, 210, 223, 226, 227, 232, 246, 276, 286, 287,
290, 293.
Gateways, Towers, Fortified Walls: 5, 29, 75, 80, 81, 85-87, 143, 167-169,
186-188, 193, 196.
Streets, Squares: 24, 25, 31, 60, 65, 66, 75-77, 83, 85, 86, 147, 148, 154,
155, 163, 170, 173, 174, 175, 176, 189, 190, 193, 197, 198, 203, 208, 209,
211-213, 231-233, 247, 251, 253, 270-273, 278, 295, 296.
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