tilted by the hilly site, is wonderfully quaint in its irregularities.
Every window is heavily grated with iron, from the top to the bottom
story, even the openings high up in the cathedral spire being similarly
guarded, until the whole place looks like a metropolis of prisons. In
the stout doors, too, there are small openings or peep-holes, such as we
had seen still in actual use at Madrid--the relics of an epoch when even
to open to an unknown visitor might be dangerous. White, white, white
the sunshine!--and the walls of pink or yellow-brown, of pale green and
blue, are sown with deep shadows and broken by big archways, often
surmounted by rich knightly escutcheons. Balconies with tiled floors
turning their colors down toward the sidewalk stud the fronts, and long
curtains stream over them like cloaks fluttering in the breeze. At one
point a peak-roofed tower rises above the rest of its house with sides
open to the air and cool shadow within, where perhaps a woman sits and
works behind a row of bright flowering plants. Doves inhabited the fonda
roof unmolested by the spiritless cats that, flat as paper, slept in the
undulations of the tiles; for the Toledan cats and dogs are the most
wretched of their kind. They get even less to eat than their human
neighbors, which is saying a great deal. And beyond the territory of the
doves my view extended to a slender bell-spire at the end of the
cathedral, poised in the bright air like a flower-stalk, with one bell
seen through an interstice as if it were a blossom. At another point the
main spire rose out of what might be called a rich thicket of Gothic
work. Its tall thin shaft is encircled near the point with sharp
radiating spikes of iron, doubtless intended to recall the crown of
thorns: in this sign of the Passion, held forever aloft, three hundred
feet above the ground, there is a penetrating pathos, a solemn beauty.
III.
The cathedral of Toledo, long the seat of the Spanish primate, stands in
the first rank of cathedrals, and is invested with a ponderous gloom
that has something almost savage about it. For six centuries art,
ecclesiasticism, and royal power lavished their resources upon it; and
its dusky chapels are loaded with precious gems and metals, tawdry
though the style of their ornamentation often is. The huge pillars that
divide its five naves rise with a peculiar inward curve, which gives
them an elastic look of growth. They are the giant roots from which the
rest has spread. Under the golden gratings and jasper steps of the high
altar Cardinal Mendoza lies buried, with a number of the older kings of
Spain, in a grewsome sunless vault; but at the back of the altar there
is contrived with theatrical effect a burst of white light from a window
in the arched ceiling, around the pale radiance of which are assembled
painted figures, gradually giving place to others in veritable
relief--all sprawling, flying, falling down the wall enclosing the
altar, as if one were suddenly permitted to see a swarm of saints and
angels careering in a beam of real supernatural illumination. A private
covered gallery leads above the street from the archbishop's palace into
one side of the mighty edifice; and this, with the rambling, varied
aspect of the exterior, in portions resembling a fortress, with a stone
sentry-box on the roof, recalls the days of prelates who put themselves
at the head of armies, leading in war as in everything else. A spacious
adjoining cloister, full of climbing ivy and figs, Spanish cypress, the
smooth-trunked laurel-tree, and many other growths, all bathed in
opulent sunshine, marks the site of an old Jewish market, which
Archbishop Tenorio in 1389 incited a mob to burn in order that he might
have room for this sacred garden. But the voices of children now ring
out from the upper rooms of the cloister building, where the widows and
orphans of cathedral servants are given free homes. Through this
"cloister of the great church" it was that Cervantes says he hurried
with the MS. of Cid Hamete Benengeli, containing Don Quixote's history,
after he had bought it for half a real--just two cents and a half.
[Illustration: A TOLEDO PRIEST.]
A temple of the barbaric and the barbarous, the cathedral dates from the
thirteenth century: but it was preceded by one which was built to the
Virgin in her lifetime, tradition says, and she came down from heaven to
visit her shrine. The identical slab on which she alighted is still
preserved in one of the chapels. A former inscription said to believers,
"Use yourselves to kiss it for your much consolation," and their
obedient lips have in time greatly worn down the stone. Later on, the
church was used as a mosque by the infidel conquerors, and when they
were driven out it was pulled down to be replaced by the present huge
and solemn structure. But, by a compromise with the subjugated Moors, a
Muzarabic mass (a seeming mixture of Mohammedan ritual with Christian
worship) was ordained to be said in a particular chapel; and there it is
recited still, every morning in the year. I attended this weird,
half-Eastern ceremony, which was conducted with an extraordinary
incessant babble of rapid prayer from the priests in the stalls,
precisely like the inarticulate hum one imagines in a mosque. On the
floor below and in front of the altar-steps was placed a richly-draped
chest, perhaps meant to represent the tomb of Mohammed in the Caaba, and
around it stood lighted candles. During the long and involved mass one
of the younger priests, in appearance almost an imbecile, had the prayer
he was to read pointed out for him by an altar-boy with what looked like
a long knife-blade, used for the purpose. Soon after an incense-bearing
acolyte nudged him energetically to let him know that his turn had now
come. This was the only evidence I could discover of any progress in
knowledge or goodness resulting from the Muzarabic mass.
At one time Toledo had, besides the cathedral, a hundred and ten
churches. Traces of many of them are still seen in small arches rising
from the midst of house-tops, with a bell swung in the opening; but the
most have fallen into disuse, and the greatest era of the hierarchy has
passed. The great priests have also passed, and those who now dwell here
offer to the most unprejudiced eye a dreary succession of bloated bodies
and brutish faces. Sermons are never read in the gorgeous cathedral
pulpits, and the Church, as even an ardent Catholic assured me, seems,
at least locally, dead. The priests and the prosperous shop-keepers are
almost the only beings in Toledo who look portly; the rest are thin,
brown, wiry, and tall, with fine creases in their hard faces that appear
to have been drilled there by the sand-blast process.
The women, however, even in the humbler class, preserve a fine, fresh
animal health, which makes you wonder how they ever grow old, until you
see some tottering creature who is little more than a mass of sinews and
wrinkles held together by a skirt and a neckerchief--the _pañuclo_
universal with her sex. At noon and evening the serving-women came out
to the fountains, distributed here and there under groups of miniature
locust-trees, to fetch water for their houses. They carried huge earthen
jars, or _cantarones_, which they would lug off easily under one arm, in
attitudes of inimitable grace.
[Illustration: TOLEDO SERVITORS AT THE FOUNTAIN.]
[Illustration: A PROFESSIONAL BEGGAR.]
If religious sway over temporal things has declined, Toledo still
impresses one as little more than a big church founded on the rock, with
room made for the money-changers' benches, and an unimaginable jumble of
palaces once thronged with powerful courtiers and abundant in wealth,
but at this day chiefly inhabited by persons of humble quality. Nightly
there glows in the second story of a building on the Zocodover, where
_autos-da-fé_ used to be held, a large arched shrine of the Virgin hung
with mellow lamps, so that not even with departing daylight shall
religious duty be put aside by the commonplace crowd shuffling through
the plaza beneath. Everywhere in angles and turnings and archways one
comes upon images and pictures fixed to the wall under a pointed roof
made with two short boards, to draw a passing genuflection or incidental
_ave_ from any one who may be going by on an errand of business or--as
more often occurs--laziness. Feast-days, too, are still ardently
observed. With all this, somehow, the fact connects itself that the
populace are instinctive, free-born, insatiable beggars. The
magnificently chased door-ways of the cathedral festered with revolting
specimens of human disease and degeneration, appealing for alms. Other
more prosperous mendicants were regularly on hand for business every day
at the "old stand" in some particular thoroughfare. I remember one,
especially, whose whole capital was invested in a superior article of
nervous complaint, which enabled him to balance himself between the
wall and a crutch, and there oscillate spasmodically by the hour. In
this he was entirely beyond competition, and cast into the shade those
merely routine professionals who took the common line of bad eyes or
uninterestingly motionless deformities. It used to depress them when he
came on to the ground. Bright little children, even, in perfect health,
would desist from their amusements and assail us, struck with the happy
thought that they might possibly wheedle the "strangers" into some
untimely generosity. There was one pretty girl of about ten years, who
laughed outright at the thought of her own impudence, but stopped none
the less for half an hour on her way to market (carrying a basket on her
arm) in order to pester poor Velveteen while he was sketching, and
begged him for money, first to get bread, and then shoes, and then
anything she could think of.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF MENDICANTS.]
A hand opened to receive money would be a highly suitable device for the
municipal coat of arms.
[Illustration: A PATIO IN TOLEDO.]
My friend's irrepressible pencil, by-the-way, made him the centre of a
crowd wherever he went. Grave business men came out of their shops to
see what he was drawing; loungers made long and ingenious detours in
order to obtain a good view of his labors; ragamuffins elbowed him,
undismayed by energetic remarks in several languages, until finally he
was moved to get up and display the contents of his pockets, inviting
them even to read some letters he had with him. To this gentle satire
they would sometimes yield. We fell a prey, however, to one silent youth
of whom we once unguardedly asked a question. After that he considered
himself permanently engaged to pilot us about. He would linger for hours
near the fonda dinnerless, and, what was even more terrible, sleepless,
so that he might fasten upon us the moment we should emerge. If he
discovered our destination, he would stride off mutely in advance, to
impress on us the fact that we were under obligation to him; and when we
found the place we wanted, he waited patiently until we had rewarded him
with a half-cent. If we gratified him by asking him the way, he
responded by silently stretching forth his arm and one long forefinger
with a lordly gesture, still striding on; and he had a very superior
Castilian sneering smile, which he put on when he looked around to see
if we were following. He gradually became for us a sort of symbolic
shadow of the town's vanished greatness; and from his mysterious way of
coming into sight, and haunting us in the most unexpected places, we
gave him the name of "Ghost." Nevertheless, we baffled him at last. In
the Street of the Christ of Light there is a small but exceedingly
curious mosque, now converted into a church, so ancient in origin that
some of the capitals in it are thought to show Visigothic work, so that
it must have been a Christian church even before the Moorish invasion.
Close by this we chanced upon a charming old _patio_, or court-yard,
entered through a wooden gate, and by dexterously gliding in here and
shutting the gate we exorcised "Ghost" for some time.
The broad red tiles of this _patio_ contrasted well with its
white-washed arcade pillars, on which were embossed the royal arms of
Castile; and the jutting roof of the house was supported on elaborate
beams of old Spanish cedar cracked with age. It was sadly neglected.
Flowers bloomed in the centre, but a pile of lumber littered one side;
and the house was occupied by an old woman who was washing in the
arcade, her tub being the half of a big terra-cotta jar laid on its
side. She spread her linen out on the hot pavement to dry; and a
sprightly neighbor coming in with a basket of clothes and a "Health to
thee!" was invited to dry _her_ wash on a low tile roof adjoining.
"Solitude" served at once as her name and to describe her surroundings.
We made friends with her, the more easily because she was much
interested in the sketch momently growing under my companion's touch.
"And _you_ don't draw?" she inquired of me.
I answered, apologetically, "No."
Having seen me glancing over a book, she added, as if to console me, and
with emphasis, "But you can read!" To her mind that was a sister art and
an equal one.
She went on to tell how her granddaughter had spent ten years in school,
and at the end of that time was able to read. "But now she is forgetting
it all. She goes out and plays too much with the _muchachas_" (young
girls).
[Illustration: THE HOME OF "SOLITUDE."]
This amiable grandmother also took us in to see her domicile, which
proved to be a part of the old city wall, and had a fine view from
its iron-barred window. She declared vaguely that "a count" had
formerly lived there; but it had more probably been the gate-captain's
house, for close by was one of the fortified ports of the inner
defences. A store-room, in fact, which she kept full of pigeons and
incredibly miscellaneous old iron, stood directly over the arched
entrance, and there we saw the heavy beam and windlass which in by-gone
ages had hoisted or let fall the spiked portcullis. I induced "Solitude"
to tell me a legend about one of the churches; for there is generally
some story to every square rod of ground hereabout, and indeed a little
basilica below the town sustains four different narratives all
explaining a single miracle. Serving as an appropriate foundation for
local wonder-mongering, a great cave in the rock underlies some portion
of the city, and is said to have been hollowed out by Hercules, who, in
addition to his other labors, has received the credit of founding
Toledo. I am convinced that no muscles but his could ever have stood the
strain of first climbing its site. The cave I refer to has been for the
most part of the last two hundred years closed and walled up. About
thirty years since it was timidly explored by a society formed for the
purpose, and some Roman remains were found in it; but after that, terror
fell upon the explorers, and the cavern was again closed, remaining even
yet a reservoir of mystery. There are equally mysterious things above
ground, however, as will shortly be demonstrated by the tale of the
"Christ of Compassion." Let me, before giving that, recall here a more
poetic tradition, preserved by Señor Eugenio Olavarria, a young author
of Madrid. We saw just outside the mosque-church of the Christ of Light
an old Moorish well, of a kind common in Spain, with a low thick wall
surrounding the deep sunken shaft, to rest the bucket-chain on when it
is let down and drawn up by sheer muscular force. The edges were worn
into one continuous pattern of grooves by the incessant chafing of the
chains for ages, and we conjured up a dozen romances about the people
who of old slaked their thirst there. It is about another water-source
of the same kind, on a small street still called Descent to the Bitter
Well, that the story here outlined is told:
THE WELL OF BITTERNESS.
"In the time of one of the Moorish kings there lived at Toledo,
under the mild toleration of that epoch, a rich Jew, strictly and
passionately devoted to the laws of his religion and to one only
other object: that one was his daughter Raquel, motherless, but
able to solace his widowed heart with her devoted affection.
Sixteen Aprils had wrought their beautiful changes into her
exquisite form and lovely mind, till at last, of all things which
they had waked to life, she appeared the fairest.
"Reuben had gradually made her the chief end of his existence, and
she certainly merited this absolute concentration of her father's
love. But, notwithstanding that at this time Jews and Christians
dwelt together unmolested by the Mohammedan rule, the inborn
hostility between these two orders underwent no abatement.
Intercourse between them was sedulously avoided by each, and the
springing up of any shy flower of love between man and maid of such
hostile races was sure to be followed by deadly blight and ruin.
Nevertheless--and how it happened who can say?--Raquel, already
ripened by the rich sun of her native land into a perfected
womanhood, fell in love with a young Christian cavalier, who had
himself surrendered to her silent and distant beauty as it shone
upon him, while passing, from her grated window in Reuben's stately
mansion. He learned her name, and spoke it to her from the
street--'Raquel!'--at twilight. So trembling and brimming with
mutual love were they, that this one word, like the last
o'erflowing drop of precious liquid from a vase, was enough to
reveal to her what filled his heart. As she heard it she blushed as
though it had been a kiss that he had reverently impressed upon her
cheek; and this was answer enough--their secret and perilous
courtship had begun. Thereafter they met often at night in the
great garden attached to the house, making their rendezvous at the
low-walled well that stood in a thicket of fragrant greenery. At
last, through the prying of an aged friend, his daughter's passion
came to the knowledge of old Reuben, who had never till then even
conceived of such disgrace as her being enamoured of a Christian.
His course was prompt and terrible. Concealing himself one evening
behind a tree-trunk close to the well, he awaited the coming of the
daring cavalier, sprung upon him, and after a short, noiseless
struggle bore him down with a poniard in his breast!
"The stealthy opening of a door into the garden warned him of
Raquel's approach. He hastened again into concealment. She arrived,
saw her fallen lover, dropped at his side in agonies of terror, and
sought to revive him. Then she saw and by the moonlight recognized
her father's dagger in the breathless bosom of the young man, and
knew what had happened. Moved by sudden remorse, Reuben came out
with words of consolation ready. But she knew him not, she heard
him not; from that instant madness was in her eyes and brain. Many
months she haunted the spot at night, calm but hopelessly insane,
and weeping silently at the margin of the well, into whose waters
her salt tears descended. At length there came a night when she did
not return to the house. She had thrown herself into the well and
was found there--dead!
"Never again could any one drink its waters, which had been famous
for their quality. Raquel's tears of sorrow had turned them
bitter."
The other legend is still more marvellous: "In the reign of Enrique IV.
of Spain there was fierce rivalry between two Toledan families, the
Silvas and the Ayalas, which in 1467 led to open warfare. The Silvas
threw themselves into the castle, and the Ayalas held the cathedral--the
blood shed in their combats staining the very feet of its altars. During
this struggle of hatred there was also a struggle of love going on
between two younger members of the embroiled families. Diego de Ayala,
setting at naught the pride of his house, had given his heart to Isabel,
the daughter of a poor hidalgo; but it so happened that his enemy, Don
Lope de Silva, had resolved to win the same maiden, though receiving no
encouragement from her. One night when the combatants were resting on
their arms, and the whole city was in disorder, Don Lope succeeded in
entering Isabel's house with several of his followers and carried her
off--trusting to the general confusion to prevent interruption. As they
were bearing her away across a little square in front of the Church of
San Justo, Don Diego, on his way to see Isabel, encountered them.
"'Leave that woman, ye cowards, and go your way!' he commanded, with
drawn sword. And at that instant, by the light of the lamp which burned
before the pictured Christ of Compassion on the church wall, he
recognized Isabel and Don Lope.
"Making a bold dash, he succeeded in freeing Isabel and getting her into
the shelter of an angle in the wall, just below the holy figure. But
being there hemmed in by his adversaries, he felt himself, after a sharp
fight in which he dealt numerous wounds, fainting from the severe
thrusts he had himself received. Fearing that he was mortally hurt, he
raised his eyes to the shrine and prayed: 'O God, not for me, but for
her, manifest thy pity! I am willing to die, but save her!'
"Then a marvellous brilliance streamed out from the thorn-crowned head,
and instantly, propelled by some unseen force, Diego found himself and
Isabel pushed through the solid wall behind them, which opened to
receive them into the sanctuary, and closed again to keep out the
assassins. Don Lope rushed forward in pursuit, and in his rage hacked
the stones with his sword as if to cut his way through. The marks made
in the stone by his weapon are still to be seen there." The
compassionate face still looks down from the shrine, and little
sign-boards announce indulgences to those who pray there: "Señor Don
Luis Maria de Borbon, most Illustrious Señor Bishop of Carista, grants
forty days' indulgence to all who with grief for their sins say, 'Lord
have mercy on me!' or make the acts of Faith, Charity, and Hope before
this image, praying for the necessities of the Church."
Altogether I computed that a good Catholic could by a half-hour's
industry secure immunity for two hundred and twenty days, or nearly
two-thirds of a year. It is to be feared that the Toledans are too lazy
to profit even by this splendid chance.
The majority of people here who can command a daily income of ten cents
will do no work. Numbers of the inhabitants are always standing or
leaning around drowsily, like animals who have been hired to personate
men, and are getting tired of the job. Every act approaching labor must
be done with long-drawn leisure. Men and boys slumber out-of-doors even
in the hot sun, like dogs; after sitting meditatively against a wall for
a while, one of them will tumble over on his nose--as if he were a
statue undermined by time--and remain in motionless repose wherever he
happens to strike. Business with the trading class itself is an
incident, and resting is the essence of the mundane career.
Nevertheless, the place has fits of activity. When the mid-day siesta is
over there is a sudden show of doing something. Men begin to trot about
with a springy, cat-like motion, acquired from always walking up and
down hill, which, taken with their short loose blouses, dark skins, and
roomy canvas slippers, gives them an astonishing likeness to
Chinamen.[5] The slip and scramble of mule hoofs and donkey hoofs are
heard on the steep pavements, and two or three loud-voiced, lusty men,
with bare arms, carrying a capacious tin can and a dipper, go roaring
through the torrid streets, "Hor-cha-ta!" Then the cathedral begins
wildly pounding its bells, all out of tune, for vespers. The energy
which has broken loose for a couple of hours is discovered to be a
mistake, and another interval of relaxation sets in, lasting through the
night, and until the glare of fiery daybreak, greeted by the shrill
whistling of the remorseless pet quail, sets the insect-like stir going
again for a short time in the forenoon. Because of such apathy, and of a
more than the usual Latin disregard for public decency, the streets and
houses are allowed to become pestilential, and drainage is unknown.
Enervating luxury of that sort did well enough for the Romans and Moors,
but is literally below the level of Castilian ideas. In the midst of the
most sublime emotion aroused by the associations or grim beauty of
Toledo, you are sure to be stopped short by some intolerable odor.
[Illustration: "MEN AND BOYS SLUMBER OUT-OF-DOORS EVEN IN THE HOT SUN."]
The primate city was endowed with enough of color and quaintness almost
to compensate for this. We never tired of the graceful women walking the
streets vestured in garments of barbaric tint and endlessly varied
ornamentation, nor of the men in short breeches split at the bottom,
who seemed to have splashed pots of vari-colored paint at hap-hazard
over their clothes, and insisted upon balancing on their heads
broad-brimmed, pointed hats, like a combination of sieve and inverted
funnel. There was a spark of excitement, again, in the random entry of a
"guard of the country," mounted on his emblazoned donkey-saddle, with a
small arsenal in his waist sash, and a couple of guns slung behind on
the beast's flanks, ready for marauders. Even now in remembrance the
blots on Toledo fade, and I see its walls and towers throned grandly
amid those hills that were mingled of white powder and fire at
noon-tide, but near evening cooled themselves down to olive and russet
citron, with burning rosy shadows resting in the depressions.
[Illustration: A STRANGE FUNERAL.]