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Updated: May 23, 2025
On Sundays and the fiestas of the Valencian saints who for Uncle Caragol were the first in heaven, San Vicente Mártir, San Vicente Ferrer, La Virgin de los Desamparados and the Cristo del Grao would appear the smoking paella, a vast, circular dish of rice upon whose surface of white, swollen grains were lying bits of various fowls.
Thus they reached the Grao and were through it before either of them spoke. "And anyhow, Roseta," said the Rector at last, from sheer necessity of giving some expression to the anguished meditations that were writhing within him, "and anyhow, it's just as well that it is mere talk. For if I should find some day, that it's more than that ... recristo, nobody really knows who I am!
"Don't cry any more, my daughter.... Cristo del Grao! The very idea! A lady as pretty as you, who can find sweethearts by the dozen, crying!... Believe me; find somebody else. This world is just full of men with nothing to do.... And always for every disappointment that you suffer, have recourse to my cordial.... I am going to give you the recipe."
The old man used to speak to them of the Cristo del Grao, whose pictures occupied the most prominent site in the kitchen, and they would all listen as to a new tale, to the story of the arrival by sea of the sacred image, mounted upon a ladder in a boat that had dissolved in smoke after discharging its miraculous cargo.
They remembered that alley just off the market at the Grao where you brushed the wall on each side with your elbows? Well, that was a mile wide compared to the holes those Moors crawled through, always uphill, the eaves coming almost together overhead, and a stream of slop running down over the steps in the pavement.
This had been when the Grao was no more than a group of huts far from the walls of Valencia and threatened by the raids of the Moorish pirates. For many years Caragol, barefooted, had carried this sacred ladder on his shoulder on the day of the fiesta.
I went on deck at nine, found the Mediterranean more like my 'Caire' experience, and was told that we should probably be at Grao by twelve.... Henry has set up an acquaintance with a Mexican who knows a little of England and English, and is going to pass the winter at Valencia. About one o'clock we were in the harbour of Grao.
Before Toni could go out, the shining countenance of the cook surged up out of the obscurity. He was on his way to the saloon, without being called, anxious to know what had occurred, and fearing to find Ferragut dying. Seeing the blood, his consternation expressed itself with maternal vehemence. "Cristo del Grao!... My captain's going to die!..."
Our lives would not be in safety if we remained here; the French ambassador at Madrid will inform me as soon as an American vessel now at anchor in the 'Grao' of Valencia can take us on board, and I will let you know as soon as the moment is come."
It has of course been attributed to Grão Vasco, but it is quite different from either the Velascus pictures at Coimbra or the paintings at Vizeu; besides, some of the beautifully painted flowers, such as the columbines, which enrich the grass on which the royal persons kneel, are not Portuguese flowers, so that it is much more likely to have been the work of some one from Flanders.
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