Cano was a pugnacious character, always getting into scrapes, using his stiletto, and being obliged to shift his residence on short notice.  It is remarkable that his erratic life did not interfere with his work, which seems to have gone calmly on in spite of domestic and civic difficulties.  Among his works at various places, where his destiny took him, was a tabernacle for the Cathedral of Malaga.  He had worked for some time at the designs for this tabernacle, when it was whispered to him that the Bishop of Malaga intended to get a bargain, and meant to beat him down in his charges.  So, packing up his plans and drawings, and getting on his mule.  Cano observed, “These drawings are either to be given away for nothing, or else they are to bring two thousand ducats.”  The news of his departure caused alarm among those in authority, and he was urged to bring back the designs, and receive his own price.

Cano carved a life-size crucifix for Queen Mariana, which she presented to the Convent of Monserrati at Madrid.  Alonso Cano entered the Church and became canon of the Cathedral of Granada.  But all his talents had no effect upon his final prosperity:  he died in extreme want in 1667, the Cathedral records showing that he was the recipient of charity, five hundred reals being voted to “the canon Cano, being sick and very poor, and without means to pay the doctor.”  Another record mentions the purchase of “poultry and sweet-meats” also for him.

Cano made one piece of sculpture in marble, a guardian angel for the Convent at Granada, but this no longer exists.  Some of his architectural drawings are preserved in the Louvre.  Ford says that his St. Francesco in Toledo is “a masterpiece of cadaverous ecstatic sentiment.”

The grotesques which played so large a part in church art are bewailed by St. Bernard:  “What is the use,” he asks, “of those absurd monstrosities displayed in the cloisters before the reading monks?...  Why are unclean monkeys and savage lions, and monstrous centaurs and semi-men, and spotted tigers, and fighting soldiers, and pipe-playing hunters, represented?” Then St. Bernard inadvertently admits the charm of all these grotesques, by adding:  “The variety of form is everywhere so great, that marbles are more pleasant reading than manuscripts, and the whole day is spent in looking at them instead of in meditating on the law of God.”  St. Bernard concludes with the universal argument:  “Oh, God, if one is not ashamed of these puerilities, why does not one at least spare the expense?” A hundred years later, the clergy were censured by the Prior de Coinsi for allowing “wild cats and lions” to stand equal with the saints.

[Illustration:  MISERERE STALL; AN ARTISAN AT WORK]

The real test of a fine grotesque—­a genuine Gothic monster—­is, that he shall, in spite of his monstrosity, retain a certain anatomical consistency:  it must be conceivable that the animal organism could have developed along these lines.  In the thirteenth century, this is always possible; but in much later times, and in the Renaissance, the grotesques simply became comic and degraded, and lacking in humour:  in a later chapter this idea will be developed further.