The Portuguese were the masters of world trade, though briefly. They almost established a monopoly over this marvel. Nevertheless, the Dutch and the English, equally seafaring peoples, soon challenged them and their system. In any case, wealth flowed into Portugal to a degree it had never known before, and this concentration of riches gave birth to the particular tone late florid Gothic and Renaissance styles possesses in this country. This is naturally very visible in Lisbon.
This distinct tone is what is called the Manuelline style — because it coincided with the reign of Dom Manuel — and consists in exuberant, decorative motifs in the styles we have just mentioned. This exuberance generally runs out of control and is excessive for my taste. Characteristic features are the abundant detail, coils, twirls, and filigree imitating the marine world, and not only that world in the strict sense (fish, shellfish, snails, crustaceans, and multiple shapes of marine fauna and flora), but also imitations of the world of navigation at the time: rigging, barrels, navigational instruments, ships’ wheels, not to forget the full pomp of wet sails billowing in the wind. The Manuelline style, a reflection of the Portuguese expertise at sea, is the artistic consecration of Portugal as a seafaring land. Its forms penetrated the interior of the country along its rivers and reached the eastern lands of Spain, where they took root, perhaps not so much because they came from Portugal as from the renown brought to the Peninsula by the discovery of America and the hopes raised by the birth of that life from the sea. This explains why decorative detail so abounds in the Manuelline style in towns of the interior.
The expressions of this style in Lisbon are usually over-flowery and far too heavy, even if they are a clear indication of the wealth that flowed into the country from across the sea. Lisbon has two monuments that are typical of the Manuelline style: the monastery of the Order of St. Jerome and the Torre de Belém.
This desire to embellish a model, perfect form with decorative over-elaboration, showy, intricate exuberance, a generally inert baroque — and I say “inert” because the Manuelline style doesn’t come with the meravigliosi gesto di muoversi described byVasari in his life of Michelangelo — isn’t a feature exclusive to sculpture and architecture. The style imbued many aspects of life and can be found, naturally, in furniture. In Lisbon I have seen beds that display huge mussel shells and mirrors framed within giant oysters … Perhaps it’s all too much.
Then I headed towards Estoril.
Social life in Lisbon at the time wasn’t particularly appealing. One choked on a surfeit of politics. Everybody was conspiring. Six or seven conspiracies were inextricably on the boil, each with its own particular version of redemption. People had no time to do anything. Cafés were forever seething. As the Portuguese are so attached to this kind of establishment and cafés closed late, one formed the impression that conspiracies worked night and day from the first of January to the thirty-first of December. It was completely mad. The far right and far left were conspiring, and so were the right and the left, the center right and center left, not to mention the centercenter. I always imagined the Government must be conspiring too. At every hour of the day strings of men propped up walls in the Baixa district, hands in pockets and smoking cigarettes. There were a good number of glassy, yellow-eyed negritos in white trousers and black jackets with carnations in their lapels. The backs of the heads of those idle, unpleasant fellows who seemed rooted to the spot left what appeared to be a grimy line on the wall, the same line left by flood waters, the one that brings to people’s lips the ritual phrase: “The water reached thus far.”
Apparently those long strings of gentlemen spent their time watching ladies young and old walk by. In fact, they were waiting with an impatience they subdued for the cannon salvoes that would redeem them. They were cannon-salvo experts and could distinguish perfectly their movement’s salvoes from those of any other. If theirs finally resounded, they ran to say goodbye to their families and went off to make the revolution. The others went to bed and waited for the inevitable moment when their cannons would fire.
An important Catalan lived in Lisbon at the time: Don Plató Peig. Sr Peig was in charge of the Souza-Figueiredo trade name — the Comillas of Portugal — that encompassed a lot of companies. A member of the entourage of Sr Peig introduced me to the Barcelona architect, Sr Ferrés, an excellent individual, tireless worker and highly productive man. Sr Ferrés had already built the Hotel Palace in Madrid, and was giving the final touches to the main buildings in Estoril. Estoril was the first place of any size and quality to be built for tourists on the Peninsula. Sr Ferrés had constructed hotels, a splendid, sumptuous casino, a spa, a large theater, gardens, tennis courts, golf courses, etc. around thermal springs and on the landscape of haughty pines and lofty palm trees to make the most of the sloping plain on the side of Estoril that overlooked the river estuary. It was an ideal spot and looked to have a great future.
Estoril is on the road from Lisbon that goes to Cascais, namely the road that follows the right bank of the river — a word that is quite inappropriate because the river here is a huge estuary that seems completely still except when it rises and ebbs with the tide. It makes for twenty kilometers of magnificent roadway between villas and gardens, pine groves and slender palms. It is especially delightful on sunny days in autumn and winter when a warm breeze blows and a harmless bank of white cloud fills the limpid sky. A voluptuous feel to the air makes life really pleasant. Sunsets over the estuary, river sandbar, and Atlantic are splendid and diverse. Sunsets over the sea usually have a magnificent quality that is hard to find in those over land. That’s why the tramonti in Rome over the Mediterranean and sunsets over the Portuguese Atlantic are so renowned.
On days when the dark, shadowy sea seems ready to pounce on Portugal as if desperate to devour it, the spectacle isn’t so polished. The palm trees shiver with cold. The pine trees act up.
Indeed, I think the pines add greatly to Estoril’s elegance, as least as much as the Gulf Stream temperatures, sulfurous spa waters, sunsets, and pleasures of roulette. They are tall, wild pines with a natural svelte charm. They don’t create a thick mesh of foliage, but high patches of green, a fresh bright green interspersed with red roofs, glaring white-washed walls that on heavy, damp days have the quality of milk sprinkled with cinnamon powder, and the flowers carpeting the land are a lively, elegant presence. The small picturesque fishing port in the estuary by the side of modern Estoril has quickly adapted to the amenities brought by tourist life. Its inhabitants are welcoming and likeable, courteous and understanding; they required few lessons in how to smile when it’s good for business, and although they remain Atlantic fishermen, their fate will be that of the fishermen in Cannes and Nice: to work as hairdressers or waiters or give baths to boys and girls from good families.
So I decided to go and live near Estoril. Before you reach this sophisticated, expanding town, you come to a boarding house with a prestigious reputation. I rented a room there. It had views over the estuary and was surrounded by pots of geraniums. The river passed by the front of the establishment, as did the train and the road, the road to Cascais that is really the road to Sintra. There is in fact a novel by Eça de Queiroz that is called The Mystery on the Road to Sintra. Places that come with a literary halo seem so much prettier.