it was keen as the blades he turned over so carefully. We were the only
customers; the dealer seemed in no hurry, the shop--cool, comfortable
and smelling of fresh mint--was a pleasant place. The sunlight,
streaming through the windows, glinted on the weapons. Patsy handled the
deadly things as skillfully as he had handled the scythe at Seville
Fair. The dreadful inherited knowledge of killing was in his fingers;
that strong, nervous hand could, if need be, use that rapier as it could
use the scythe.
“How much for this dagger?” Patsy asked at last.
The dealer named a moderate price for the beautiful weapon. The handle
and sheath were of iron, finely damascened with gold. The blade, sharp
and flexible, as the dealer proved by bending it double, was of shining
steel, a “Toledo trusty” such as Mercutio says a soldier dreams of.
Patsy read the motto on the hilt; “Who lacks courage need place no faith
in me!”
“Do you realize,” he said, “that since the days of the Romans these
Toledo blades ‘with the ice-brook’s temper’ have been the most famous
weapons in the world?” Then, in spite of my murmured, “Whatever will you
do with it,” he offered half the price that had been asked. We had done
little shopping in Spain, and had come from a long stay in a land where
the same article has many prices. The dealer stroked his pointed beard
with a white well-kept hand, as if to hide the chilly smile that curved
his thin lips, and politely repeated his price. Though he was willing to
show his wares, he did not seem anxious to sell them.
“I had forgotten we were in Spain,” murmured the crestfallen Patsy; “in
Toledo, the ‘Heart of Spain!’” Without more ado he bought the dagger and
a lady’s pocketknife with two sharp blades.
While the trade was making, I studied the tradesman. He might have been
descended from one of the Toledan hidalgos, immortalized by El Greco’s
portraits. He had a thin nervous face, with great hollow eyes and a
large sharp-cut nose. We got to know the type well before we left
Toledo, for the citizens are of a distinct type. Just as in Seville we
were always meeting Murillo Madonnas walking about the streets, and in
Madrid Velasquez portraits, in Toledo we were continually meeting the
hidalgos of El Greco.
From the shop where weapons are sold, we went to the Military Academy
where soldiers are made. The cadets were just coming out from recitation
as we looked into the courtyard to see the fountain cast from captured
guns. They were gallant looking lads, full of pranks and tricks, as they
streamed down the long staircase into the patio and out into the
_calle_, past the wonderful carved stone doorway of the Hospital Santa
Cruz. Don Luis sent in a message begging that a certain young cadet,
Candalaria’s son, might have leave of absence to lunch with us. Leave
was granted, and the cadet, his name was Pepé, as smart a young blade as
you could see, escorted us through the confusing labyrinth of narrow
_calles_ that lay between the Military Academy and our hotel. Pepé was
well known at the hotel; after his visit we were even better treated
than before.
“What is best worth seeing in Toledo, after the Academy?” Patsy asked.
“The Fabrica de Espadas, where your dagger was made,” said Pepé
promptly. So after lunch J. and Patsy, escorted by Pepé, went off to the
Weapon Factory, leaving Don Luis and me to run lightly over “the chief
attractions.”
“Look up my brother, Gregorio,” Pepé flung back over his shoulder, as
they swung off together. “He is free this afternoon; he knows all about
churches and museums, if you care for such dull things.”
“Yes,” said Don Luis, “we will look up Gregorio. He knows a good deal
about Toledo.”
Gregorio, Candalaria’s eldest son, was unlike any other member of that
interesting family. He was small and fragile, with piercing brown eyes.
He came, rather unwillingly, to show us the cathedral.
“Gregorio wished to go into the Church,” Don Luis told us. “His father
and Candalaria did not like the idea. They never opposed the boy, but
sent him to Toledo to spend a year with a priest cousin, who is the
greatest bore in the family; the plan was that old fox Jaime’s, it’s
working out well. From what Pepé says, Gregorio is not so bent on taking
orders now as he once was.”
Gregorio took us to the cathedral, a fine building, so hemmed about by
smaller ones that we could get no view of the whole. The exterior of a
stone originally white, is now tanned by sun and weather to a delicious
mellow tone. The ruddy tower faintly recalls that greater glory, the
Giralda. Some parts of the cathedral are in severe Gothic style, some
very florid; this shows that it was a long time in building. The main
entrance is perfectly gorgeous, the stone fretted and carved like so
much petrified lace; the outer gate is only opened to admit the reigning
sovereign. The interior is marred, like Seville and Cordova, by the
_coro_. The stained glass is sumptuous. Over the main door is a
thirty-foot rose window, in each transept a smaller rose. The afternoon
sun, pouring through these and the graceful pointed windows in the
different parts of the church, did much to counteract the cold,
whitewashed walls. The vast white stone columns, with their prodigal
carving, were stained ruby, amber, emerald, the seven colors of the
rainbow, by the sunlight falling through those jewel windows. The
cathedral is a museum in itself. One of the treasures is a small carved
wooden statuette of St. Francis, by Alonzo Cano. The saint stands with
his arms folded; the marvellous face of carven ivory, the agate eyes,
look at you from the dark shadow of his cowl. Eyes and face reminded us
of a pair of Egyptian statues at Cairo, whose discovery Marriatt Bey
described: the workman who first entered the tomb where they were found
came hurrying out in terror, crying, “There are live people in there; I
saw the shining of their eyes!”
Our first visit to the cathedral, with Gregorio to protect us, was the
best. When we went back without him, we were harried by the
_silencieros_, vulgarly called dog-beaters, fierce beadles with long
staves who pursued us, would not let us look at what we wanted to see,
and tried to make us look at things we did not care for.
From the cathedral Gregorio took us to the Archbishop’s palace,
connected with it by a covered bridge, high up in the air, like the
Bridge of Sighs at Venice.
“The Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, Primate of Spain, lives here,” said
Gregorio. “He passes through that bridge when he goes from the palace to
the cathedral. I would take you to call upon him, but we should not find
him at home. He goes every afternoon to the new convent he has founded,
to see how the workmen are getting on.”
“Let us follow him to the convent,” said Don Luis, an adorable cicerone,
bent on showing us all sorts and conditions of men and works. After a
little coaxing, Gregorio agreed to take us to see the Archbishop. We
must not object, he stipulated, to stopping for a lady, he mentioned her
name.
“You will be doing our friends a great service,” said Don Luis, “for she
is not only very distinguished and beautiful, but exceedingly kind.”
She was all Don Luis said, and more! Among the visions that arise when
the magical name Toledo is spoken, none is more vivid than Engracia’s
dark, mobile face. She was one of those women born to command. From the
moment she appeared to us, standing on the steps of the old Toledan
palace, daintily holding up her white linen skirt, embroidered with
purple grapes, we all, even Gregorio, obeyed her.
We drove directly to the convent where we were promptly admitted by one
of the sisters of the new order founded by the Cardinal. She wore a
simple black gown with a thin lace veil, not unlike those of Spanish
women of the lower class,--the best dressed women in the world to-day,
from the artist’s standpoint. The sister showed us into the parlor, and
went to announce our visit to the Cardinal. From the adjoining room came
the sound of sweet high voices singing the rosary; we caught a glimpse
of rows of little girls sitting demurely with folded hands.
Gregorio explained that this was a teaching sisterhood. He wished to
interest Engracia in the convent. There was still room for a few more
novices. Each novice must bring a dot of four thousand dollars, which
insured her support for the rest of her life. While Gregorio was
describing the joys of life in a Toledo convent, the Cardinal sent for
us. We found him in the garden, attended by his secretary and the Lady
Superior. They had been inspecting some mason work. The Cardinal was a
fine subtle-faced old man with an authoritative manner, and a
straighter, more dominating eye than any Roman cleric I know. Though he
wore a simple black habit, with only a thread of scarlet and the scarlet
moire skullcap under the shovel hat, I recognized him at once as the
splendid prelate in the vermilion robes who had officiated at the
Infanta’s marriage, and who would, Gregorio said, celebrate the marriage
of the King.
Imperious Engracia knelt before the Cardinal, and kissed his emerald
ring. He asked about her husband and parents, whom he had known, and
then began to talk with her about his convent. He had founded this new
order to resist the teaching of socialism and atheism to the masses. He
had talked the plan over with Leo XIII, “a fine, great pope,” who had
sympathized deeply with his scheme. Pope Leo, however, had feared it
would be difficult to carry out the plan. It was a moment when convents
and religious orders were being broken up everywhere; those already
existing could only be maintained with the greatest fostering. He
hoped, however, that the Cardinal might succeed, and blessed his
undertaking. The whole idea of the new order was to teach the true value
of the Church. The sisters were to have far greater liberty in coming
and going than in the older orders. This was borne out by the free and
frank bearing of the five or six sisters we saw. I was struck by the
simplicity and directness of their manners. Compared to the Abbess of
Ronda, who might have belonged to the time of Santa Teresa, the Superior
of the Toledo Convent _seemed_ a modern person belonging to our epoch.
Was she? To this day I cannot make up my mind! Can we pour new wine into
old bottles, and mend the old garment with new cloth? That is the
question!
We parted with the Cardinal at sunset. He shook hands kindly with us,
and with old-fashioned courtesy invited us to come and see him again if
we should return to Toledo.
We spent much of our too short time in Toledo in studying the pictures
of that strange and interesting painter, Domenico Theotocopulos, called
El Greco because he was a Greek, a native of Crete. The portraits in the
little Museum of San Juan de Los Reyes are among the best examples of
his individual and peculiar manner. Greco is a realist; he paints what
he sees with splendid fidelity
[Illustration: DETAIL FROM “THE BURIAL OF COUNT ORGAZ.” _Greco_]
and power. His most famous picture, the Funeral of Count Orgaz, in the
church of San Tomé, is a fine illustration both of his strength and his
weakness. In the lower part of the canvas we have the dead Count, with
the priests and the mourners about him. Here all is real; the dead man
in his armor, the Bishop in his mitre and gorgeous robes, the long line
of attendants and mourners, and the lovely head of the young boy are all
portrait studies. In the upper part, where the heavenly vision is
painted, Greco has left the realm of the real and entered that of the
ideal. Instead of raising us to the seventh heaven, he lets us down upon
the earth. Saints Augustine and Stephen, who appear in the clouds as a
heavenly vision attended by a heavenly host--things imagined and not
seen--are grotesque, almost ridiculous.
Don Luis was right; it is only at Toledo that one can really understand
El Greco. The religious pictures at the Prado had offended us; they had
seemed the work of a madman. At Toledo one gets a true understanding of
his original and extraordinary personality. He neither saw nor painted
as other men see and paint. There was much that was morbid, something
that was mad in his vision; but there was, besides, much that was
sincere, honest and lucid. El Greco, who is now ranked as second only to
Velasquez by many critics, by some as his equal if not superior, seems
to have become so thoroughly saturated with the Spanish sentiment that,
though his name is a constant reminder of his nationality, he is
invariably spoken of as if he were in truth a Spaniard. The strange and
wayward genius, who has so touched and influenced the imagination of
Velasquez, of Sargent and so many other famous painters, was a true son
of Hellas. To Greece belong his glory and his laurels.
XIV
THE BRIDE COMES
In March Sir Maurice de Bunsen, the new English Ambassador, presented
his credentials to the King. We went over to the palace to see what we
could of the ceremony. There had been a sudden change in the weather. It
was very hot waiting in the Plaza de Armas outside the palace. The
_chicos_, playing at marbles instead of basking in the sun, had moved
into the shadow. There were very few spectators; Mrs. Young, the wife of
one of the English Secretaries, fair and cool in a white summer dress,
her maid armed with a kodak, and perhaps a dozen other people.
“What do they mean,” said Patsy, “by saying that in Madrid you must not
put away your overcoat till the fortieth of May?”
“Wait a little and perhaps you will know,” said a familiar voice. It was
the Argentino, who had lately come to Madrid; the chance acquaintance
begun at Cordova was ripening into something like friendship.
Two lines of soldiers in fresh blue uniforms with green trimmings and
gloves were drawn up between the gate of the plaza and the palace.
Punctually at the appointed hour the band struck up the Spanish national
air, there was a ruffle of drums and a fine gala coach from the royal
stables came rumbling along the Calle Bailen at the heels of four noble
horses with head-dresses of long nodding blue ostrich plumes. The coach
was of gold and crystal with beautiful painted panels. The liveries of
coachman, postillions, outriders, palfreniers and men-in-waiting who
walked beside, were blue and gold to match the splendid trappings.
“The coach is empty, there is nobody inside,” cried Patsy. “What does it
mean?”
“This,” said the Argentino, “is the _coche de respecto_ for the
Secretaries of Embassy. In the days when people travelled by post or on
horseback, important personages always had a led horse or an extra
carriage in case of accident.”
“What accident,” laughed Patsy, “could happen between the Embassy and
the palace?”
“One never knows; it is one of the picturesque old customs the Spanish
Court preserves, even though the need of the _coche de respecto_ may
have been outlived.”
In the second coach--as handsome in every detail as the first, the only
difference being that the feathers and decorations were red instead of
blue--rode Mr. Fairfax Cartwright, Mr. George Young, and two other
English Secretaries of Embassy, looking magnificent and uncomfortable in
stiff gold-laced court uniforms. Mr. Young made a little gesture of
recognition to his wife, the others did not look out of the window.
The Ambassador’s _coche de respecto_, drawn by six horses, was even
finer than the other. The liveries, trappings and feathers were red and
yellow, the Spanish colors. There were six coaches in all, four for the
Englishmen, two for the escort. In the last rode Sir Maurice, a tall
fair man, with the First Introducer, both radiant in court finery. They
had driven down the Calle Bailen in single file; at the plaza the
shining coaches were drawn up into two lines, three abreast, with an
escort of mounted cavalry on either side. They advanced at a snail’s
pace, crossed the palace yard where the soldiers stood at attention, and
approached the three doors of the palace to the music of the military
march. The ambassador drove in through the middle door.
“That is the royal entrance,” said the Argentino. “Sir Maurice passes
through it to-day because he brings letters from King Edward; he is not
likely ever to go through it again.”
While we waited to see them come out, a private brougham with black and
silver liveries drove up to the door by which the Secretaries had gone
in. We caught a glimpse of Lady de Bunsen in a white dress with feathers
in her hair, on the way to her audience with the Queen.
“She has come early,” said the Argentino, “so that she may see the
finest sight of the ceremony, the halberdiers guarding the grand
staircase while the Ambassador passes in and out of the throne room.
They stand two on each step in that old swashbuckler uniform,
silver-buckled shoes, cutaway coats, knee breeches and cocked hats,
holding their big halberds so that the blades touch. The Ambassador
walks up and down the stair between two flashing lines of steel. It
really is worth seeing.”
We waited till the audience was over, watched the Ambassador and his
suite drive away in the same state as they had come, and a little later
the halberdiers march out of the palace and down the Calle Bailen to
their barracks.
“There goes Pedro,” murmured Patsy, as the halberdier who had made room
for us at the Infanta’s wedding swung by. “The soldiers on duty in the
yard looked like any other soldiers. These chaps could only be
Spanishers. The fire in the eye, the haughtiness, are perfectly
colossal!”
“And the fierce curl of the _bigotes_. You know what _bigote_ means?
When the Spanish soldiers were in the Low countries, they fell in with
the English--you remember Uncle Toby says ‘our army swore terribly in
Flanders.’ Every time the British soldier swore he twisted his moustache
and said ‘by God!’ The Spanish imitated him, twirled his moustachios and
cried ‘bigote.’ By and by he connected the action with the words,
imagined the oath had something to do with the moustache; to this day
the Spaniard calls his moustache a _bigote_ in memory of that swearing
English army in Flanders--or, some people say, of the swearing German
soldiers of Charles V.”
We lingered after the other spectators had gone, and the _chicos_ had
begun their game again; palace and plaza had a strong fascination for
us. We looked through the arches of the peristyle across the bare
Castilian plain to the snow-capped Guadarramas.
“The Escorial lies in that direction,” said the Argentino. “On clear
days it can be seen from the palace. Do you suppose when he looks out of
window, Don Alfonzo ever thinks about that black marble sarcophagus
waiting for him over there?”
That seventh wonder of the world, the Escorial, palace, monastery and
mausoleum all in one, was built by Philip II. It is a proper monument to
a man who is remembered as having laughed rarely, and loudest when he
heard of the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew. The Escorial expresses
Philip’s dour personality as no other building that I know expresses any
other man’s. From the moment you catch sight of the gloomy pile, built
in the shape of a gridiron, in memory of Saint Lawrence, you feel if
ever place was haunted, the ghost of Philip haunts that gray grim
tragedy in stone.
“I am glad,” said Patsy, “that I saw the Escorial; I shall be glad never
to see it again. The places where people have lived for me, rather than
those where they are buried. This palace is a thousand times more
interesting than the Escorial. Think how much we know about the people
who have lived here! When Napoleon first saw this palace, he said to his
brother Joseph--he had just casually made him King of Spain: “You will
be better lodged than I.”
(Poor Joseph did not enjoy the lodging long; he was glad to escape from
it alive and fly to Bordentown, New Jersey, where he lived in semi-royal
state at Point Breeze. Here, an old letter preserves the fact, my
grandmother Ward dined with him, and wore an “embroidered cambric dress
and a lilac turban.”)
“We are interested not only in the people who have lived here, but in
those who live here now,” Patsy went on, as a closed carriage drawn by
four black mules dashed by. “There go the King’s nieces and nephews.”
The little Prince of the Asturias, the heir to the throne, bowed, smiled
and waved his tiny hand in quaint mechanical greeting to whoever might
be looking. The youngest child, still happily unconscious of his rank,
wriggled in the English nurse’s arms like any other baby out for its
airing.
“The boy has learned his part well,” said the Argentino. “He’s not like
the little prince Imperial: when the Empress Eugenie threatened to
punish him, he made the dreadful counter threat, ‘_je ferai des grimaces
au peuple_’ (I will make faces at the people). There you see the
difference between real and upstart royalty!”
The day after the Ambassador’s audience seemed to us the coldest of the
winter. The trees in the Recoletos had a wedge of snow down one side,
the side that faces north and gets the full force of the wind sweeping
down from the snow fields of the Guadarramas. Engracia’s vivid face was
tingling with the cold when she blew into the Tower with Don Luis that
morning and announced that she had come to take us into the country for
the day.
“The motor is at the door;” she declared, “luncheon is ordered. We go
first to El Pardo to see the royal hunting chateau, and then on to our
own shooting box where my husband joins us.”
From our first meeting at Toledo, not a week had passed without some
pleasant incident for which we had to thank Engracia.
The city was soon left behind and we were bowling along a road smooth as
a billiard table cut through the heart of a wood. The cool breath of the
forest was in our faces, the smell of the woods in our nostrils, a
mingled perfume of tree, moss, wild creature, and under all, binding
them together like ambergris, the mysterious scent of decay. The air was
full of wood noises, the peace and calm of the wilderness lay on either
side of us not twenty feet away from a road as good as the Paseo
Castellana.
“For the first time,” said Patsy, “I envy Don Alfonzo. I should hate to
live in a palace, to have the power of life and death, to pass my life
under a microscope, but I must say I should like to own El Pardo.”
“Velasquez often stayed here with King Philip and his brothers,” said
Don Luis. “No wonder they all liked it. Court etiquette relaxed, the
artist was treated as the friend. One understands why he painted so many
portraits of the royalties man and boy, in hunting dress, with gun and
dog. They were not only tremendous sports, but caramba! in these woods
there was freedom, even for a king, even for a genius!”
Engracia on the front seat scanned the covers with keen eyes.
“Look!” she cried. “There is a deer; if I only had my gun, what an easy
shot! There goes a red fox scuttling across the road. Ah! that was a
hare.” A bright-eyed furry creature gave us one timid glance, flattened
its ears and leapt into the bracken.
At the chateau we were refused admittance. Engracia, used to seeing all
doors fly open before her, sent for the official in charge, an old
friend of hers.
“Don Fulano, these are my friends; they are very anxious to see the
chateau. Surely we may come in?” Engracia entreated.
Don Fulano, a grave Castilian, regretted, evaded, apologized, finally
confessed. All ordinary rules should be set aside for Engracia, but he
himself had received orders from His Majesty that no one should be
admitted to the grounds. The work of putting the chateau in order for
the bride had begun.
Engracia sparkled with excitement at the news. In that case, of course,
we would not dream of asking; how natural, how charming of Don Alfonzo!
As we could not see the house, Don Fulano took us to a neighboring
casino where, he said, the royal guests would go for tea. Here we
wandered in the garden; Engracia picked a spray of orange blossoms,
tucked it in her belt; then, like a fairy godmother, witched us away in
her motor to the shooting lodge, where we found her serious husband and
her five-year-old son. The shooting box stood on a piece of high cleared
ground surrounded by a thick wood; it seemed delightfully sylvan and
remote from feverish Madrid.