The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

barefoot and full of festering sores: those who have been frozen and starved and have died of thirst and despair. It is they who swell the hosts of Paradise. What has the poet or the artist to clo with them; Hell is his chosen destiny, for thither go plump clerics and such as die on the tented fields and in great wars. Let such good soldiers and good men be the companions of the poets or artist on the journey, aye, and such fair and beauteous damsels as take two and three lovers as well, besides their husbands.’
    The profane, dynamic joys of the earth, alas, inspire the artists more than the calm, contemplative and ageless bliss of the angels. For this reason the craftsmen here have revelled riotously in portraying grotesque figures whom they must have jostled on the Road of St. James: the little bearded fellow, for instance, with sharp eyes like gimlets, the portly cooper with the barrel, and his neighbour holding two objects like glasses: he is surely a juglar whose repertoire was by no means confined to music, or reciting epic poems and ballads, for as we know from an ancient gloss, he would stop after a bout of reciting and fiddling and shout to his audience: “Now watch me do a hop, skip and a jump. There’s not a piebald or a chestnut horse could do the same”.
    The minstrel appears again and again on this portal: in one place we see him turn a somersault: in another he has an attractive doxy sitting on his shoulders. She has her hands folded on her lap and she wears bracelets on her arms; her hair is done in plaits and divided down the middle and she wears an attractive low-necked bodice. Above her a man is swimming in the water; his trousers have come off and he displays his naked buttocks. Above him again we see our friend the juglar always in close proximity to the tempting Eve or Lilith: she is naked, but this time she has a big serpent between her legs and another is biting her neck. Such is the fate of the fiddler’s moll, but she shows no sign of terror, anguish or remorse; indeed, both she and the minstrel are strangely serene and impassive, amid these devilish heads with gaping jaws that bob up, one above the other, in close proximity to the angel, who is weighing souls. According to Miss King, the ‘weighing of souls is a French motive’ * but we shall find it repeated several times along our road at Estella, and at Burgos and León on the cathedrals. After gazing at these individual figures for a long time and letting my imagination run riot on the heels of the mediaeval craftsman, I began gradually to grasp the whole artistic plan of the portal which is as follows:
    Above, under the cornice which is upheld by animal heads, there are two rows of double-shafted arches and there are six figures in the upper arcade with Christ enthroned in the middle, between the four living things. At His feet are the ox and the lion; two angels flank this and in the outer arches are St. Peter and another figure. On the next row beneath there are eight saints, among whom we can recognize St. James, for he leans upon his staff. On the tympanum below there is another arcade. We see Our Lady crowned and seated on a throne, holding the Child upon her left knee, a very touching, maternal figure, with her right arm holding the Infant and her head slightly inclined. Above is an imposing Christ with mitre, blessing with two fingers. He is seated in judgment, for on his right are two rows, upper and lower, of blessed souls, looking towards Him beatifically, and on his left above, the damned are marshalled in a long chain-gang, and below, the angel who weighs the souls. The ruler of Hell is represented by the artist as a monster like the jabberwock, with horns, teeth and sinister tongue. On the Paradise side, in contrast, are three beautiful women like the three Graces, who personify salvation.
    The figures on the jambs on the left side of the door represent three queens, and according to Miss King they have come from Chartres. I, however, recognized them immediately as the Three Sea-borne Marys—Mary Jacobé, Mary Salomé and Mary Magdalen—and my thoughts travelled back to my former pilgrimage, to Les Saintes Maries and the Gypsy Saint Sara. The Sea-borne Marys, alas, have travelled far and the centuries have made them haggard and dishevelled, but St. Mary Jacobé the nearest to the door has still preserved her dignity and majesty. Opposite to them, the three old saints have not weathered the storm as well as the