Read Ebook: Spain v. 2 (of 2) by De Amicis Edmondo Varnall Stanley Rhoads Translator

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Ebook has 1216 lines and 73829 words, and 25 pages

"The reason is this," he answered, pointing to a wall on which hung a map of Toledo. I approached and saw a network of white lines on a black background that seemed like one of those flourishes which school-boys make on their slates to waste the chalk and vex their teacher.

"No matter," said I; "I am going alone, and if I get lost, let them come and find me."

"You will not go a hundred steps," observed the porter.

I went out and turned down the first street I saw, so narrow that on extending my arms I touched both walls. After fifty paces I turned into another street, narrower than the first, and from this passed into a third, and so on.

I seemed to be wandering not through the streets of the city, but through the corridors of a building, and I went forward, expecting momentarily to come out into an open place. It is impossible, I thought, that the whole city is built in this manner; no one could live in it. But as I proceeded the streets seemed to grow narrower and shorter; every moment I was obliged to turn; after a curving street came a zigzag one, and after this another in the form of a hook, which led me back into the first, and so I wandered on for a little while, always in the midst of the same houses. Now and then I came out at a crossway where several alleys ran off in opposite directions, one of which would lose itself in the dark shadow of a portico, another would end blindly in a few paces against the wall of a house, a third in a short distance would descend, as it were, into the bowels of the earth, while a fourth would clamber up a steep hill; some were hardly wide enough to give a man passage; others were confined between two walls without doors or windows; and all were flanked by buildings of great height, between whose roofs one could see a narrow streak of sky.

One passed windows defended by heavy iron bars, great doors studded with enormous nails, and dark courtyards. I walked for some time without meeting anybody, until I came out into one of the principal streets, lined with shops and full of peasants, women, and children, but little larger than an ordinary corridor. Everything is in proportion to the streets: the doors are like windows, the shops like niches, and by glancing into them one sees all the secrets of the house--the table already spread, the babies in the cradle, the mother combing her hair, and the father changing his shirt; everything is on the street, and it does not seem like a city, but like a house containing a single great family.

I turned into a less-frequented street, where I heard only the buzzing of a fly; my footsteps echoed to the fourth story of the houses and brought some old women to the windows. A horse passes; it seems like a squadron; everybody hurries to see what is going on. The least sound re-echoes in every direction; a book falls in a second story, an old man coughs in a courtyard, a woman blows her nose in some unknown place; one hears everything.

Sometimes every sound will suddenly cease; you are alone, you see no sign of life: you seem to be surrounded by the houses of witches, crossways made for conspirators, blind alleys for traitors, narrow doorways suitable for any crime, windows for the whispers of guilty lovers, gloomy doorways suggestive of blood-stained steps. But yet in all this labyrinth of streets there are no two alike; each one has its individuality: here rises an arch, there a column, yonder a piece of statuary. Toledo is a storehouse of art-treasures. Every little while the walls crumble, and there are revealed in every part records of all the centuries--bas-reliefs, arabesques, Moorish windows, and statuettes. The palaces have doorways defended by plates of engraved metal, historical knockers, nails with carved heads, 'scutcheons and emblems; and they form a fine contrast to the modern houses painted with festoons, medallions, cupids, urns, and fantastic animals.

But these embellishments detract in no way from the severe and gloomy aspect of Toledo. Wherever you look you see something to remind you of the city fortified by the Arabs; however little your imagination may exert itself, it will succeed in rearranging from the relics scattered here and there the whole fabric of that darkened image, and then the illusion is complete: you see again the glorious Toledo of the Middle Ages, and forget the solitude and silence of its streets. But it is a fleeting illusion, and you soon relapse into sad meditation and see only the skeleton of the ancient city, the necropolis of three empires, the great sepulchre of the glory of three races. Toledo reminds you of the dreams which come to young men after reading the romantic legends of the Middle Ages. You have seen many a time in your dreams dark cities encircled by deep moats, frowning walls, and inaccessible rocks; and you have crossed those draw-bridges and entered those tortuous, grass-grown streets, and have breathed that damp, sepulchral, prison air. Well, then, you have dreamed of Toledo.

The high altar, if one wished to examine it minutely, would require as much time as the interior of a church: it is itself a church--a miracle of little columns, statuettes, traceries, and ornaments of endless variety, creeping along the iron frames, rising above the architraves, winding about the niches, supporting one another, climbing and disappearing, presenting on every side a thousand outlines, groups, combinations, effects in gilding and color, every sort of grace that art can devise--giving to the whole an effect of magnificence, dignity, and beauty. Opposite the high altar rises the choir, divided into three orders of stalls, marvellously carved by Philip of Bourgogne and Berruguete, with bas-reliefs representing historical events, allegories, and sacred legends--one of the most famous monuments of art.

In the centre, in the form of a throne, stands the seat of the archbishop surrounded by a circle of enormous jasper columns, with colossal statues of alabaster resting on the architraves; on either side rise enormous bronze pulpits provided with two great missals, and two gigantic organs, one in front of the other, from which it seems that at any moment a flood of melody may burst forth and make the vault tremble.

The pleasure of one's admiration in these great cathedrals is almost always disturbed by importunate guides, who wish at any cost to amuse you after their fashion. And it was my misfortune to become convinced that the Spanish guides are the most persistent of their kind. When one of them has gotten it into his head that you are to spend the day with him, it is all over. You may shrug your shoulders, refuse to notice him, let him talk himself hoarse without so much as turning to look at him, wander about on your own account as though you had not seen him: it is all the same thing. In a moment of enthusiasm before some painting or statue a word escapes you, a gesture, a smile: it is enough. You are caught, you are his, you are the prey of this implacable human cuttle-fish, who, like the cuttle-fish of Victor Hugo, does not leave his victim until he has cut off his head. While I stood contemplating the statuary of the choir I saw one of these cuttle-fish out of the corner of my eye--a miserable old rake, who approached me with slow steps sidewise, like a cutthroat with the air of one who was saying, "Now I have got you!" I continued to look at the statues; the old man came up to my side, and he too began to look; then he suddenly asked me, "Do you wish my company?"

"No," I replied, "I don't need you."

And he continued, without any embarrassment,

"Do you know who Elpidius was?"

The question was so remarkable that I could not keep from asking in my turn,

"Who was he?"

"Elpidius," he replied, "was the second bishop of Toledo."

"Well, what of him?

"'What of him?' It was the bishop Elpidius who conceived the idea of consecrating the church to the Virgin, and that is the reason why the Virgin came to visit the church."

"Ah! how do you know that?"

"How do you know it? You see it."

"Do you mean to say that it has been seen?"

"I mean to say that it is still to be seen: have the goodness to come with me."

So saying, he started off, and I followed him, very curious to learn what this visible form of the descent of the Virgin might be. We stopped in front of a sort of chapel close to one of the great pilasters of the central nave. The guide pointed out a white stone set in the wall covered by an iron net, and with this inscription running around it:

"Quando la reina del cielo Puso los pies en el suelo, En esta piedra los puso."

"When the Queen of heaven Descended to the earth, Her feet rested on this stone."

"Then the Holy Virgin has actually placed her feet on this stone?" I asked.

"On this very stone," he replied; and, thrusting a finger between the strands of the iron net, he touched the stone, kissed his finger, made the sign of the cross, and turned toward me as if to say, "Now it is your turn."

"My turn?" I replied. "Oh, really, my friend, I cannot do it."

"Why?"

"Because I do not feel myself worthy to touch that sacred stone."

The guide understood, and, looking hard at me with a serious aspect, he asked, "You do not believe?"

A young priest who was standing near, and who had divined the cause of his words, cast a piercing glance at me, and went off in an opposite direction, muttering I know not what.

The Chapel Mozarabe, which is under the tower of the church, and was erected to perpetuate the tradition of the primitive Christian rite, is probably the most worthy of attention. One of its walls is entirely covered with a fresco, in the Gothic style, representing a conflict between the Moors and the Toledans--marvellously preserved, even to the most delicate lines. It is a painting worth a volume of history. In it one sees the Toledo of those times with all its walls and its houses; the habiliments of the two armies; the arms, faces, everything portrayed with an admirable finish and an unspeakable harmony of color which answers perfectly to the vague and fantastic idea which one may have formed of those centuries and those races. Two other frescoes on either side of the first represent the fleet which bore the Arabs into Spain, and they offer a thousand minute details of the mediaeval marine and the very air of those times, if one may so speak, which makes one think of and see a thousand things not represented in the painting, as one hears distant music on looking at a landscape.

From this hall you pass into a room which is also beautifully painted in fresco by the nephew of Berruguete, and from it into a third, where a sacristan lays the treasures of the cathedral before your eyes--the enormous silver candlesticks; the pyxes flashing with rubies; the golden stands for the elevation of the Host, studded with diamonds; the damask vestments, embroidered in gold; the robes of the Virgin, covered with arabesques, garlands of flowers, and stars of pearl, which at every motion of the cloth flash forth in a thousand rays and colors and quite dazzle one's eyes. A hour is scarcely sufficient to see hurriedly all that display of treasures, which would certainly satisfy the ambition of ten queens and enrich the altars of ten cathedrals; and when, after he has shown you everything, the sacristan looks in your eyes for an expression of surprise, he finds only astonishment and stupefaction, which give evidence of an imagination wandering in far distant regions--in the realms of the Arabian legends where the kindly genii gather all the riches dreamed of by the glowing fancy of enamored sultans.

I went to see the cloister, but, as the door was open through which one reaches it from the church, I saw it before entering. From the middle of the church one gets a glimpse of a part of the cloister-garden, a group of fine leafy trees, a little grove, a mass of luxuriant plants which seem to close the doorway and look as though they are framed beneath a graceful arch and between the two slender columns of the portico which extends all around. It is a beautiful sight, which makes one think of Oriental gardens encircled by the columns of a mosque. The cloister, which is very large, is surrounded by a colonnade, graceful, though severe in form; the walls covered with great frescoes. The guide advised me to rest here a little while before ascending to the campanile. I leaned against a low wall in the shade of a tree, and remained there until I felt able to make another expedition, as the expression is. Meanwhile, my commander extolled in bombastic language the glories of Toledo, carrying his impudence so far, in his patriotism, as to call it "a great commercial city" which could buy and sell Barcelona and Valencia, and a city strong enough, if need be, to withstand ten German armies and a thousand batteries of Krupp guns. After each of his exaggerations I kept spurring him on, and the good man enjoyed himself to the full. What pleasure there is in knowing how to make others talk! Finally, when the proud Toledan was so swollen with glory that the cloister could no longer hold him, he said to me, "We may go now," and led the way toward the door of the campanile.

When we were halfway up we stopped to take breath. The guide knocked at a little door, and out came a swaggering little sacristan, who opened another door, and made me enter a corridor where I saw a collection of gigantic puppets in very strange attire. Four of them, the guide told me, represented Europe, Asia, America, and Africa, and two others Faith and Religion; and they were so made that a man could hide in them and raise them from the ground.

"They take them out on the occasions of the royal f?tes," the sacristan added, "and carry them around through the city;" and, to show me how it was done, he crept in under the robes of Asia. Then he led me to a corner where there was an enormous monster which when touched, I know not where, stretched out a very long neck and a horrible head and made a dreadful noise. But he could not tell me what this ugly creature signified, and so invited me instead to admire the marvellous imagination of the Spaniards, which creates so "many new things" to sell in all the known world. I admired, paid, and continued the ascent with my Toledan cuttle-fish. From the top of the tower one enjoys a splendid view--the city, the hills, the river, a vast horizon, and, below, the great mass of the cathedral, which seems like a mountain of granite. But there is another elevation, a short distance away, from which one sees everything to a better advantage, and consequently I remained in the campanile only a few moments, especially as at that hour the sun was shining very strongly, confusing all the colors of the city and country in a flood of light.

"Is it much farther?" I would ask from time to time, and he would always answer: "It is right here," and yet we never reached it.

It is a church which seems like a royal palace: the highest part is covered by a balcony surrounded with a honeycombed and sculptured breastwork, upon which rises a series of statues of kings, and in the middle stands a graceful hexagonal cupola which completes the beautiful harmony of the edifice. From the walls hang long iron chains which were suspended there by the Christian prisoners released at the conquest of Granada, and which, together with the dark color of the stone, give the church a severe and picturesque appearance. We entered, passed through two or three large, bare rooms, unpaved, cluttered with piles of dirt and heaps of rubbish, climbed a staircase, and came out upon a high gallery inside the church, which is one of the most beautiful and noblest of the monuments of Gothic architecture. It has a single great nave divided into four vaults, whose arches intersect under rich rosettes. The pilasters are covered with festoons and arabesques; the walls ornamented with a profusion of bas-reliefs, with enormous shields bearing the arms of Castile and Arragon, eagles, dragons, heraldic animals, trailing vines, and emblematic inscriptions; the gallery running all around the room is perforated and carved with great elegance; the choir is supported by a bold arch; the color of the stone is light gray, and everything is admirably finished and preserved, as if the church had been built but a few years ago, instead of at the end of the fifteenth century.

From the church we descended to the cloister, which is, in truth, a miracle of architecture and sculpture. Graceful slender columns which could be broken in two by the stroke of a hammer, looking like the trunks of saplings, support capitals richly adorned like curving boughs; arches ornamented with flowers, birds, and grotesque animals in every sort of carving. The walls are covered with inscriptions in Gothic characters in a framework of leaves and very delicate arabesques. Wherever one looks one finds grace mingled with riches in enchanting harmony: it would not be possible to accumulate in an equal space and with more exquisite art a larger number of the most delicate and beautiful objects. It is a luxuriant garden of sculpture, a grand saloon embroidered, quilted, and brocaded in marble, a great monument, majestic as a temple, magnificent as a palace, delicate as a toy, and graceful as a flower.

After the cloisters one goes to see a picture-gallery which contains only some paintings of little value, and then to the convent with its long corridors, its narrow stairs, and empty cells, almost on the point of falling into ruins, and in some parts already in ruins; throughout bare and squalid like a building gutted by fire.

The fa?ade is carved in arabesques in a manner at once dignified and elegant. The interior of the palace corresponds with the exterior: it is a vast court surrounded by two orders of graceful arches, one above the other, supported by slender columns, with a monumental marble staircase starting at the centre of the side opposite the door, and a little way above the pavement divides into two parts that lead to the interior of the palace, the one on the right, the other on the left. To enjoy the beauty of the courtyard it is necessary to stand on the landing where the staircase separates: from that point one comprehends at a glance the complete harmony of the edifice, which inspires a sense of cheerfulness and pleasure, like fine music performed by hidden musicians.

He told me that Toledo had been thrice surrounded by a wall, and that the traces of all three walls were still clear. "Look!" he said; "follow the line which my finger indicates: that is the Roman wall, the innermost one, and its ruins are still visible. Now look a little farther on: that other one beyond it is the Gothic wall. Now let your glance describe a curve which embraces the first two: that is the Moorish wall, the most recent. But the Moors also built an inner wall on the ruins of the Roman wall: this you can easily see. Then observe the direction of the streets, which converge toward the highest point of the city; follow the line of the roofs--here, so; you will see that all the streets go up zigzag, and they were built purposely in this manner, so that the city could be defended even after the walls had been destroyed; and the houses were built so close one against another in order that it would be possible to jump from roof to roof, you see; and then the Arabs have left it in their writings. This is the reason that the Spanish gentlemen from Madrid make me laugh when they come here and say, 'Pooh! what streets!' You see, they do not know a particle of history: if they knew the least bit, if they read a little instead of spending their days on the Prado and in the Recoleto, they would understand that there is a reason for the narrow streets of Toledo, and that Toledo is not a city for ignoramuses."

I began to laugh.

"And the head of the Moor?"

"What stuff you are talking! How can I believe it?"

It was the hour for promenading. The principal street, hardly wide enough for a carriage to pass through, was full of people; there may have been a few hundred persons, but they seemed like a great crowd; it was dusk, the shops were closing, and a few stray lights began to flicker here and there. I went to get my dinner, but came out quickly, so as not to lose sight of the promenade. It was night: there was no other illumination save the moonlight, and one could not see the faces of the people; I seemed to be in the midst of a procession of spectres, and was overwhelmed with sadness. "To think that I am alone!" I said--"that in all this city there is not a soul who knows me; that if I fall dead at this moment, there would not be a dog to say, 'Poor man! he was a good fellow!'" I saw joyous young men pass, fathers of families with their children, husbands or those who had the air of husbands with beautiful creatures on their arms; every one had a companion; they laughed and talked, and passed without so much as looking at me. How wretched I was! How happy I should have been if a boy, a beggar, or a policeman had come up and said, "It seems to me that I recognize you, sir"!--"It is impossible, I am a foreigner, I have never been in Toledo before; but it makes no matter; don't go away; stay here, and we will talk a while, for I am lonely."

The city is poor, and worse than poor: it is dead; the rich have abandoned it for Madrid; the men of genius have followed the rich; it has no commerce; the manufacture of cutlery, the only industry which flourishes, provides a livelihood for some hundreds of families, but not for the city; popular education is neglected; the people are lazy and miserable.

I returned to the hotel shortly before midnight. Although the moon was shining brightly--for on moonlight nights they do not illuminate the streets, although the light of that silvery orb does not penetrate those narrow ways--I was obliged to grope my way along like a thief. With my head full, as it was, of fantastic ballads which describe the streets of Toledo traversed at night by cavaliers muffled in their cloaks, singing under the windows of their ladies, fighting and killing one another, climbing into palaces and stealing the maidens away, I imagined I should hear the tinkle of guitars, the clashing of swords, and the cries of the dying. Nothing of the kind: the streets were deserted and silent and the windows dark, and one heard faintly from time to time at the corners and crossways the light step of some one passing or a fugitive whisper, the source of which one could in no way discover. I reached the hotel without harming any fair Toledan, which might have caused me some annoyance, and also without having any holes made in my stomach, which was undoubtedly a consolation.

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