University of Virginia Library

DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH.

Every body has heard of the fate of Don Juan, the famous libertine
of Seville, who for his sins against the fair sex, and other
minor peccadilloes, was hurried away to the infernal regions.
His story has been illustrated in play, in pantomime, and farce,
on every stage in Christendom, until at length it has been rendered
the theme of the opera of operas, and embalmed to endless
duration in the glorious music of Mozart. I well recollect the
effect of this story upon my feelings in my boyish days, though
represented in grotesque pantomime; the awe with which I contemplated
the monumental statue on horseback of the murdered
commander, gleaming by pale moonlight in the convent cemetery:
how my heart quaked as he bowed his marble head, and accepted
the impious invitation of Don Juan: how each foot-fall of the
statue smote upon my heart, as I heard it approach, step by step,
through the echoing corridor, and beheld it enter, and advance,
a moving figure of stone, to the supper table! But then the convivial
scene in the charnel house, where Don Juan returned the
visit of the statue; was offered a banquet of sculls and bones,

and on refusing to partake, was hurled into a yawning gulf, under
a tremendous shower of fire! These were accumulated horrors
enough to shake the nerves of the most pantomime-loving school-boy.
Many have supposed the story of Don Juan a mere fable.
I myself thought so once; but “seeing is believing.” I have
since beheld the very scene where it took place, and now to indulge
any doubt on the subject, would be preposterous.

I was one night perambulating the streets of Seville, in company
with a Spanish friend, a curious investigator of the popular
traditions and other good-for-nothing lore of the city, and who
was kind enough to imagine he had met, in me, with a congenial
spirit. In the course of our rambles, we were passing by a heavy
dark gateway, opening into the court-yard of a convent, when he
laid his hand upon my arm: “Stop!” said he; “this is the convent
of San Francisco; there is a story connected with it, which
I am sure must be known to you. You cannot but have heard
of Don Juan and the marble statue.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied I; “it has been familiar to me from
childhood.”

“Well, then, it was in the cemetery of this very convent that
the events took place.”

“Why, you do not mean to say that the story is founded on
fact?”

“Undoubtedly it is. The circumstances of the case are said
to have occurred during the reign of Alfonso XI. Don Juan
was of the noble family of Tenorio, one of the most illustrious
houses of Andalusia. His father, Don Diégo Tenorio, was a
favorite of the king, and his family ranked among the veintecuatros,
or magistrates, of the city. Presuming on his high descent

and powerful connections, Don Juan set no bounds to his excesses:
no female, high or low, was sacred from his pursuit; and he
soon became the scandal of Seville. One of his most daring outrages
was, to penetrate by night into the palace of Don Gonzalo
de Ulloa, Commander of the Order of Calatrava, and attempt to carry
off his daughter. The household was alarmed; a scuffle in the
dark took place; Don Juan escaped, but the unfortunate commander
was found weltering in his blood, and expired without being able
to name his murderer. Suspicions attached to Don Juan; he
did not stop to meet the investigations of justice and the vengeance
of the powerful family of Ulloa, but fled from Seville, and
took refuge with his uncle, Don Pedro Tenorio, at that time ambassador
at the court of Naples. Here he remained until the
agitation occasioned by the murder of Don Gonzalo had time to
subside; and the scandal which the affair might cause to both
the families of Ulloa and Tenorio had induced them to hush it
up. Don Juan, however, continued his libertine career at Naples,
until at length his excesses forfeited the protection of his uncle
the ambassador, and obliged him again to flee. He had made
his way back to Seville, trusting that his past misdeeds were forgotten,
or rather trusting to his dare-devil spirit and the power
of his family, to carry him through all difficulties.

“It was shortly after his return, and while in the height of
his arrogance, that on visiting this very convent of Francisco, he
beheld on a monument the equestrian statue of the murdered
commander, who had been buried within the walls of this sacred
edifice, where the family of Ulloa had a chapel. It was on this
occasion that Don Juan, in a moment of impious levity, invited
the statue to the banquet, the awful catastrophe of which has
given such celebrity to his story.”

“And pray how much of this story,” said I, “is believed in
Seville?”

“The whole of it by the populace; with whom it has been
a favorite tradition since time immemorial, and who crowd to the
theatres to see it represented in dramas written long since by
Tyrso de Molina, and another of our popular writers. Many in
our higher ranks also, accustomed from childhood to this story,
would feel somewhat indignant at hearing it treated with contempt.
An attempt has been made to explain the whole, by asserting
that, to put an end to the extravagances of Don Juan,
and to pacify the family of Ulloa, without exposing the delinquent
to the degrading penalties of justice, he was decoyed into
this convent under false pretext, and either plunged into a perpetual
dungeon, or privately hurried out of existence; while the
story of the statue was circulated by the monks, to account for
his sudden disappearance. The populace, however, are not to be
cajoled out of a ghost story by any of these plausible explanations;
and the marble statue still strides the stage, and Don
Juan is still plunged into the infernal regions, as an awful warning
to all rake-helly youngsters, in like case offending.”

While my companion was relating these anecdotes, we
had traversed the exterior court-yard of the convent, and
made our way into a great interior court; partly surrounded
by cloisters and dormitories, partly by chapels, and having a
large fountain in the centre. The pile had evidently once been
extensive and magnificent; but it was for the greater part in
ruins. By the light of the stars, and of twinkling lamps placed
here and there in the chapels and corridors, I could see that
many of the columns and arches were broken; the walls were

rent and riven; while burnt beams and rafters showed the destructive
effects of fire. The whole place had a desolate air; the
night breeze rustled through grass and weeds flaunting out of the
crevices of the walls, or from the shattered columns; the bat
flitted about the vaulted passages, and the owl hooted from the
ruined belfry. Never was any scene more completely fitted
for a ghost story.

While I was indulging in picturings of the fancy, proper to
such a place, the deep chant of the monks from the convent
church came swelling upon the ear. “It is the vesper service,”
said my companion; “follow me.”

Leading the way across the court of the cloisters, and
through one or two ruined passages, he reached the portal of the
church, and pushing open a wicket, cut in the folding-doors, we
found ourselves in the deep arched vestibule of the sacred edifice.
To our left was the choir, forming one end of the church, and
having a low vaulted ceiling, which gave it the look of a cavern.
About this were ranged the monks, seated on stools, and chanting
from immense books placed on music stands, and having the notes
scored in such gigantic characters as to be legible from every part
of the choir. A few lights on these music stands dimly illumined
the choir, gleamed on the shaven heads of the monks, and threw
their shadows on the walls. They were gross, blue-bearded, bullet-headed
men, with bass voices, of deep metallic tone, that reverberated
out of the cavernous choir.

To our right extended the great body of the church. It was
spacious and lofty; some of the side chapels had gilded grates,
and were decorated with images and paintings, representing the
sufferings of our Saviour. Aloft was a great painting by Murillo,

but too much in the dark to be distinguished. The gloom of the
whole church was but faintly relieved by the reflected light from
the choir, and the glimmering here and there of a votive lamp
before the shrine of the saint.

As my eye roamed about the shadowy pile, it was struck with
the dimly seen figure of a man on horseback, near a distant altar.
I touched my companion, and pointed to it: “The spectre statue!”
said I.

“No,” replied he; “it is the statue of the blessed St. Iago;
the statue of the commander was in the cemetery of the convent,
and was destroyed at the time of the conflagration. But,” added
he, “as I see you take a proper interest in these kind of stories,
come with me to the other end of the church, where our whisperings
will not disturb these holy fathers at their devotions, and I
will tell you another story, that has been current for some generations
in our city, by which you will find that Don Juan is not
the only libertine that has been the object of supernatural castigation
in Seville.”

I accordingly followed him with noiseless tread to the farther
part of the church, where we took our seats on the steps of an
altar opposite to the suspicious-looking figure on horseback, and
there, in a low mysterious voice, he related to me the following
narrative:—

“There was once in Seville a gay young fellow, Don Manuel
de Manara by name, who having come to a great estate by the
death of his father, gave the reins to his passions, and plunged into
all kinds of dissipation. Like Don Juan, whom he seemed to
have taken for a model, he became famous for his enterprises

among the fair sex, and was the cause of doors being barred and
windows grated with more than usual strictness. All in vain.
No balcony was too high for him to scale: no bolt nor bar was
proof against his efforts: and his very name was a word of terror
to all the jealous husbands and cautious fathers of Seville. His
exploits extended to country as well as city; and in the village
dependent on his castle, scarce a rural beauty was safe from his
arts and enterprises.

“As he was one day ranging the streets of Seville, with several
of his dissolute companions, he beheld a procession, about to
enter the gate of a convent. In the centre was a young female,
arrayed in the dress of a bride; it was a novice, who, having accomplished
her year of probation, was about to take the black veil,
and consecrate herself to heaven. The companions of Don Manuel
drew back, out of respect to the sacred pageant; but he pressed
forward, with his usual impetuosity, to gain a near view of the
novice. He almost jostled her, in passing through the portal of
the church, when, on her turning round, he beheld the countenance
of a beautiful village girl, who had been the object of his
ardent pursuit, but who had been spirited secretly out of his reach
by her relatives. She recognized him at the same moment, and
fainted: but was borne within the grate of the chapel. It was
supposed the agitation of the ceremony and the heat of the throng
had overcome her. After some time, the curtain which hung
within the grate was drawn up: there stood the novice, pale and
trembling, surrounded by the abbess and the nuns. The ceremony
proceeded; the crown of flowers was taken from her head; she
was shorn of her silken tresses, received the black veil, and went
passively through the remainder of the ceremony.

“Don Manuel de Manara, on the contrary, was roused to fury
at the sight of this sacrifice. His passion, which had almost faded
away in the absence of the object, now glowed with tenfold ardor,
being inflamed by the difficulties placed in his way, and piqued by
the measures which had been taken to defeat him. Never had the
object of his pursuit appeared so lovely and desirable as when
within the grate of the convent; and he swore to have her, in defiance
of heaven and earth. By dint of bribing a female servant
of the convent, he contrived to convey letters to her, pleading his
passion in the most eloquent and seductive terms. How successful
they were, is only matter of conjecture; certain it is, he undertook
one night to scale the garden wall of the convent, either to
carry off the nun, or gain admission to her cell. Just as he was
mounting the wall, he was suddenly plucked back, and a stranger,
muffled in a cloak, stood before him.

“`Rash man, forbear!' cried he: `is it not enough to have
violated all human ties? Wouldst thou steal a bride from
heaven!'

“The sword of Don Manuel had been drawn on the instant,
and furious at this interruption, he passed it through the body of
the stranger, who fell dead at his feet. Hearing approaching footsteps,
he fled the fatal spot, and mounting his horse, which was at
hand, retreated to his estate in the country, at no great distance
from Seville. Here he remained throughout the next day, full
of horror and remorse; dreading lest he should be known as the
murderer of the deceased, and fearing each moment the arrival of
the officers of justice.

“The day passed, however, without molestation; and, as the
evening advanced, unable any longer to endure this state of uncertainty

and apprehension, he ventured back to Seville. Irresistibly
his footsteps took the direction of the convent; but he paused
and hovered at a distance from the scene of blood. Several persons
were gathered round the place, one of whom was busy nailing
something against the convent wall. After a while they dispersed,
and one passed near to Don Manuel. The latter addressed
him, with hesitating voice.

“`Señor,' said he, `may I ask the reason of yonder throng?'

“`A cavalier,' replied the other, `has been murdered.'

“`Murdered!' echoed Don Manuel; `and can you tell me
his name?'

“`Don Manuel de Manara,' replied the stranger, and passed on.

“Don Manuel was startled at this mention of his own name;
especially when applied to the murdered man. He ventured, when
it was entirely deserted, to approach the fatal spot. A small cross
had been nailed against the wall, as is customary in Spain, to mark
the place where a murder has been committed; and just below it
he read, by the twinkling light of a lamp; `Here was murdered
Don Manuel de Manara. Pray to God for his soul!'

“Still more confounded and perplexed by this inscription, he
wandered about the streets until the night was far advanced, and
all was still and lonely. As he entered the principal square, the
light of torches suddenly broke on him, and he beheld a grand
funeral procession moving across it. There was a great train of
priests, and many persons of dignified appearance, in ancient
Spanish dresses, attending as mourners, none of whom he knew.
Accosting a servant who followed in the train, he demanded the
name of the defunct.

“`Don Manuel de Manara,' was the reply; and it went cold

to his heart. He looked, and indeed beheld the armorial bearings
of his family emblazoned on the funeral escutcheons. Yet not one
of his family was to be seen among the mourners. The mystery
was more and more incomprehensible.

“He followed the procession as it moved on to the cathedral.
The bier was deposited before the high altar; the funeral service
was commenced, and the grand organ began to peal through the
vaulted aisles.

“Again the youth ventured to question this awful pageant.
`Father,' said he, with trembling voice, to one of the priests,
`who is this you are about to inter?'

“`Don Manuel de Manara!' replied the priest.

“`Father,' cried Don Manuel, impatiently, `you are deceived.
This is some imposture. Know that Don Manuel de Manara is alive
and well, and now stands before you I am Don Manuel de Manara!'

“`Avaunt, rash youth!' cried the priest; `know that Don
Manuel de Manara is dead!—is dead!—is dead! — and we are
all souls from purgatory, his deceased relatives and ancestors,
and others that have been aided by masses from his family, who
are permitted to come here and pray for the repose of his soul!'

“Don Manuel cast round a fearful glance upon the assemblage,
in antiquated Spanish garbs, and recognized in their pale and
ghastly countenances the portraits of many an ancestor that hung
in the family picture-gallery. He now lost all self-command,
rushed up to the bier, and beheld the counterpart of himself, but
in the fixed and livid lineaments of death. Just at that moment
the whole choir burst forth with a `Requiescat in pace,' that
shook the vaults of the cathedral. Don Manuel sank senseless on
the pavement. He was found there early the next morning by the

sacristan, and conveyed to his home. When sufficiently recovered,
he sent for a friar, and made a full confession of all that had
happened.

“`My son,' said the friar, `all this is a miracle and a mystery,
intended for thy conversion and salvation. The corpse thou hast
seen was a token that thou hadst died to sin and the world; take
warning by it, and henceforth live to righteousness and heaven!'

“Don Manuel did take warning by it. Guided by the councils
of the worthy friar, he disposed of all his temporal affairs; dedicated
the greater part of his wealth to pious uses, especially to the
performance of masses for souls in purgatory; and finally, entering
a convent, became one of the most zealous and exemplary
monks in Seville.

While my companion was relating this story, my eyes wandered,
from time to time, about the dusky church. Methought the
burly countenances of the monks in the distant choir assumed a
pallid, ghastly hue, and their deep metallic voices a sepulchral
sound. By the time the story was ended, they had ended their
chant; and, extinguishing their lights, glided one by one, like
shadows, through a small door in the side of the choir. A deeper
gloom prevailed over the church; the figure opposite me on horse-back
grew more and more spectral; and I almost expected to see
it bow its head.

“It is time to be off,” said my companion, “unless we intend
to sup with the statue.”

“I have no relish for such fare nor such company,” replied I;
and following my companion, we groped our way through the
mouldering cloisters. As we passed by the ruined cemetary,

keeping up a casual conversation, by way of dispelling the loneliness
of the scene, I called to mind the words of the poet:
There wanted nothing but the marble statue of the commander,
striding along the echoing cloisters, to complete the haunted scene.

Since that time, I never fail to attend the theatre whenever
the story of Don Juan is represented, whether in pantomime or
opera. In the sepulchral scene, I feel myself quite at home; and
when the statue makes his appearance, I greet him as an old
acquaintance. When the audience applaud, I look round upon
them with a degree of compassion; “Poor souls!” I say to myself,
“they think they are pleased; they think they enjoy this piece,
and yet they consider the whole as a fiction! How much more
would they enjoy it, if, like me, they knew it to be true—and
had seen the very place!”