Оглавление
Theophile Gautier. Wanderings in Spain
Wanderings in Spain
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. FROM PARIS TO BORDEAUX
CHAPTER II. FROM BORDEAUX TO VERGARA
CHAPTER III. FROM VERGARA TO BURGOS
CHAPTER IV. BURGOS—continued
CHAPTER V. FROM BURGOS TO MADRID
CHAPTER VI. MADRID
CHAPTER VII. MADRID—continued
CHAPTER VIII. VISIT TO THE ESCURIAL
CHAPTER IX. EXCURSION TO TOLEDO
CHAPTER X. MADRID TO GRANADA
CHAPTER XI. FROM GRANADA TO MALAGA
CHAPTER XII. FROM MALAGA TO SEVILLE
CHAPTER XIII. SEVILLE
CHAPTER XIV. FROM CADIZ TO BARCELONA—AND HOME
INDEX
Footnote
Отрывок из книги
Théophile Gautier
Published by Good Press, 2021
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The Cathedral, built by the English, is rather fine; the portal contains statues of bishops as large as life, executed in a much more natural and careful style than the ordinary Gothic statues, which are handled like arabesques, and completely sacrificed to the exigencies of the architect. On visiting the church, I saw, placed against the wall, the magnificent copy of Christ Scourged, by Riesener, after Titian: it is waiting for a frame.
From the Cathedral, my companion and myself proceeded to the Tower of St. Michael, where there is a vault which possesses the power of mummifying the bodies placed there. The lowest story of the tower is inhabited by the keeper and his family, who cook their victuals at the entrance of the cavern, and live on a footing of the most intimate familiarity with their frightful neighbours. The man took a lantern, and we descended by the worn steps of a winding staircase into the funeral vault. The corpses, about forty in number, are placed around the vault, with their backs against the wall. This upright position, so different from the general horizontal posture of the dead, gives them a horribly phantom-like appearance of life, especially in the yellow and flickering light of the lantern, which oscillates in the hand of the guide, and causes the shadows to change their place every instant. The imagination of poets and painters has never produced a more horrible nightmare; the most monstrous caprices of Goya, the raving productions of Louis Boulanger, the diabolical creations of Callot and of Teniers, are nothing in comparison, and all the most fantastic writers of ballads are here surpassed. Never did more abominable spectres rise from out the night of a German mind. They are worthy of figuring at the midnight orgies of the Brocken with the witches of Faust. Their faces are distorted and grinning; their skulls have half the flesh peeled off; their sides gape open, exposing, through the grating of their ribs, their lungs, dried and shrivelled up like sponge. In one instance the flesh has crumbled into dust, and the bones protrude; in another, the parchment skin, no longer sustained by the fibres of the cellular tissue, floats round the corpse like a second windingsheet. Not one of the heads possesses that impassible calmness which death imparts, as a last seal, to those whom it touches. Their mouths gape frightfully, as if drawn asunder by the immeasurable weariness of eternity, or grin with the sardonic grin of Nothingness which laughs life to scorn. Their jaws are dislocated, and the muscles of the neck swollen. Their fists are furiously clenched, and their spines writhe in the contortions of despair. They appear enraged at being moved from their tombs, and troubled in their sleep by the curiosity of the profane.
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