TOLEDO
There are but three reasons, that I know of, for anyone visiting Madrid.
First, that the roads (which are very bad) lead there; second, that the
Prado picture gallery (which was closed) is exceeding magnifical; and
third, that there is a bicycle repairer--which is an unsatisfactory
reason at best. Smart, well-groomed, busy cities with commodious
mansions and boulevards may be found (by such as have need of them)
within easier distances than this. And for those who seek old streets,
historic monuments, and that delightful aroma of medievalism which is
the true inward charm of the Peninsula,--are not the little crooked
_calles_ of Ávila and Segóvia and Toledo better than all the _carreras_
of Madrid?
To them the "Only Court" is no more than a convenient "jumping-off
place"; a head office of "Cooks'"; an _entrepôt_ of the central roads.
The Mecca of their pilgrimage lies fifty miles to the southward,--Toledo,
the ancient stronghold of the Moor, the Visigoth, and the Roman in the
days when none dreamed of such a kingdom as Castile.
The map showed two roads to Toledo, and already I had sampled one of
them. "The Illescas road," I argued, "was as bad as possible"; and
"therefore the Aránjuez road is the best." My premise had been quite
unassailable, yet after all my deduction proved fallacious. More just,
and equally logical, was "therefore it has necessarily improved."
The Aránjuez road, to do it justice, starts off with the most admirable
intentions; and as if it were really determined to arrive (as it
proposes) at Cadiz. But there is a sad slump in its prospects before it
has got far on the journey. It becomes stony and bumpy and hummocky,
with ruts like the furrows of a plough; and to steer a bicycle along the
narrow ribbon of practicable track at the margin is an operation of some
nicety, which is not at all facilitated by a heavy side wind. Presently
there is a lucid interval of good smooth surface, which lasts just long
enough to put the victim into good humour; and the final stage into
Aránjuez is like the shingle that is upon the sea-shore.
Such are the habits of a Spanish road; and in a way its eccentricities
are consolatory. However bad it may be, you can always cherish the hope
that it will reform itself altogether round the next turn. There is no
reason why it should, but it often does. Of course, "in the alternative"
the converse is equally true, but that is a point which needs glossing.
Unless you foster a sanguine temperament you will make no progress at
all.
I have dwelt at some length on the state of the road, but, indeed, at
this stage there is little else to dwell upon. A struggling avenue is
pluckily endeavouring to push a line of green pickets across the
dun-coloured plain; and here and there are a few miserly olives, each
perched upon the little hoard of soil clutched by its hungry roots. But
the only things that seem really to flourish are the gigantic six-foot
thistles, and I fear that is an ill-omened fertility. It is a greener
and leafier world when we descend into the Jarama valley.
[Illustration: TOLEDO
Bridge of Alcántara, from the Illescas Road.]
Yet those who have heard Aránjuez described as a Garden of Eden in the
midst of a desolate wilderness are likely to find themselves somewhat
disillusioned by the reality. True, a tree is always a welcome object in
verdureless Castile; but the English elms which are the boast of King
Philip's oasis, "they grow best at home in the North Countree"; and
though they wear a brave face, they must envy the ample glades and rich
green turf which their brethren enjoy in the parks of England. That the
much-vaunted palace itself should prove rather a failure need surprise
no one. The Spanish nobles are town-dwellers, and a country seat such as
Haddon, or Hatfield, or Burleigh, is quite beyond their ken. Aránjuez
was a first attempt, and is not the right plant for the soil. Perhaps
Hampton Court, enlarged and remodelled in the style of an Alexandra
Palace, might convey some notion of its cheap tea-gardeny air: but even
the river is uninteresting--a reproach that can seldom be levelled at
the Tagus!
I had been cheering my flagging spirits by the anticipation of a nice
shady road down the Tagus banks to Toledo: but now an old muleteer
regretfully mentioned that the road was dead, and truly it was the
spectre of a road to which he introduced me. The ox-carts had been
wallowing in it axle deep throughout the winter, and the spring sun had
baked it into a chaos of _seracs_ and _crevasses_ which might have been
practicable for a goat. It was wide and straight indeed, and it boasted
a noble avenue; but its sole saving feature, from a practical
standpoint, was a grassy footpath at the side. So long as the avenue
continued, the track maintained some semblance of coherency; but when
that also defaulted, it frankly abandoned all further interest in life.
As a guide it was luckily needless; I had simply to follow the valley,
and as there were no walls or hedges I could make a bee-line if I chose.
Moreover, on the further side of the river a lofty detached hill, with a
ruined castle on the summit, formed a prominent landmark by which to
gauge my progress; and with plenty of time before me, I was bound to
arrive in the end.
A sympathetic bandit, who found me hauling my bicycle across a ploughed
field, dispassionately suggested that I might find the railroad better.
This opinion was loyally endorsed by Second Bandit a mile or so to the
rearward; and Third Bandit (ever the most practical of the trio) fairly
marched me up the embankment and launched me along the permanent way.
They were quite right--it was better; but sleepers and ballast are not a
desirable cycle track, and my well-regulated English mind revolted
against the scandalous impropriety of the whole proceeding. However, it
is sheer waste of one's scruples to squander them over the infraction of
Spanish bye-laws. They are humoured so long as convenient; but for
everything there is a season: and nobody dreams of enforcing them if
they chance to be inopportune. There was a wayside station to pass
before I reached Toledo; there was a train drawn up at the platform,
with all the officials _en evidence_, and the passengers, as usual,
profiting by the stoppage to indulge in a stroll and cigarettes. I
dismounted perforce at the points; but through the station I rode
unblushingly: and no one seemed to regard the circumstance as the least
unusual or reprehensible. No doubt from Aránjuez to Toledo all
bicyclists travel that way.
Meanwhile I had been making fair progress, and my goal was nearly
gained. My castellated beacon had dropped out of sight behind me; and in
front, at the end of the valley, silhouetted against the western sky,
rose the great rocky knoll which is the seat of imperial Toledo. A bend
of the river had brought its waters within easy reach, and having washed
off the dust of travel, I was indulging in a few minutes' idleness
before resuming the road. Suddenly a herd of cattle plashed down into
the river a few yards away from me; and their diminutive Corydon--a
little brown wisp of humanity in the costume of a second-hand
scarecrow--came pattering happily at their heels. An English yokel
would have been hopelessly flabbergasted by such an unlooked-for
encounter; but not so my little Castilian. He bowed, sat down beside me,
and launched out into conversation with the most delicious confidence
and self-possession, as if it were all the most natural occurrence in
the world. He accepted a cigarette with becoming gravity, and made
sympathetic murmurs when the matches refused to light. Our final success
was acknowledged with a prim little "Blessed be God!" At the end of our
chat he escorted me back to the pathway, and made his adieu with a
quaint courtliness that conferred a dignity on his rags. Yet probably he
had never set foot outside his village, nor set eyes on a stranger in
his life. Good manners, like good looks, are sometimes bred in the bone.
[Illustration: TOLEDO
The Bridge of Alcántara.]
Hitherto the valley has been wide and open; but now the river begins to
reveal itself in its true character,--_El Tajo_, the Gash,[30]--deep and
narrow between its riven walls. Across its path lies the massive granite
barrier of the mountains of Toledo. The stream drives squarely into them
and recoils away sullenly towards the west. But ere it turns it has
bitten deep, and a great outlying bastion is held in the hollow of its
curve. The sun at his creation shone first upon that rocky dais! The
dignity of Toledo demands no meaner site!
It is indeed an ideal situation for a medieval fortress; in plan a rough
approximation to the shape of a rather square D. The curved line is
formed by the gorge of the Tagus, whose steep, rocky banks would alone
be an adequate defence; the straight by the landward face,--also lofty
and precipitous, and crowned with the remnants of Wamba's ancient walls.
And at the two corners the grand fortified medieval bridges of San
Martin and Alcántara throw their lofty arches across the stream. The
site is very similar to that of Durham: but the Toledo plateau is
larger; and the Tagus is all unwooded, and wilder and grander than the
Wear.
The founder, of course, was Hercules. All Spanish cities were founded by
Hercules, except a few which had been previously founded by Tubal. No
doubt a large man with a club was a somewhat recurrent phenomenon; and
the tale of his legendary prowess was the sole evidence of identity that
an early Phoenician colonist was likely to require. After the
Phoenicians came the Romans. But the glory of Toledo first reached its
height in the Dark Ages which succeeded the Roman, when the Visigoth
dwelled in the land. Toledo was the capital of the Visigothic kingdom;
and that kingdom in the day of its power, during the reigns of Leovigild
and Wamba, was probably the most potent among all the nations of the
West. How dire must have been the consternation of Austrasia and
Neustria and Lombardy, when, scarcely a generation later, their
protagonist succumbed so utterly before the onset of the Moors!--when
the Jews opened the gates of the unwary capital to admit the hordes of
Tarik, and the fall of imperial Toledo set the seal on the disaster of
Guadalete.
Neither Christian nor Moslem underrated the catastrophe of that fatal
Palm Sunday; and the meagre outline of history has been gaudily coloured
by romance. Who has not heard the tale of the enchanted Tower of
Hercules, wherein the self-willed Roderic sought and learned the secret
of his doom? The fascinating Shahrazad won a full night's respite from
her dangerous lord by her catalogue of the loot of the "City of
Labtayt"--the hundred and seventy crowns of pearl and jacinth, the
magical mirror, and the emerald table of Solomon!
[Illustration: TOLEDO
Puerta del Sol.]
The Tower of Hercules is no longer alive to testify: but an old Moorish
ruin down by the water's edge, under the bridge of San Martin, is still
pointed out as the scene of the companion tale. Here the fair Florinda
was bathing in the Tagus when her beauty caught the eye of the royal
Roderic, and fired the passion which brought unnumbered woes to Spain.
It is, indeed, a little hard upon poor Florinda that she should never
have been forgiven for her share in the disaster. It was her father, not
she, who let loose the Moors to avenge her; and even the legend
describes her as more sinned against than sinning. Yet the ballads,
which can spare pity for Roderic, have nothing but contumely for her. It
is argued, I suppose, that all the trouble arose out of her unbridled
passion for bathing. But this is a failing which we northerners regard
more leniently. Arletta's ablutions were under a happier star!
During the palmy days of Moslem dominion, Toledo had to yield pride of
place to Córdova. But after the fall of the western Caliphate it
disputed the _hegemony_ with Seville; and it was with considerable
equanimity that Mohammed, the king of Andalusia, saw his formidable
rival grappled by the Christians under Alfonso VI. The author of the
_Poema del Cid_ bitterly deplores the fact that there was no "sacred
bard" to immortalise the chivalrous incidents of that great two years'
leaguer; but, at least, the result was satisfactory, and three hundred
and seventy years after its capture Toledo was won again from the Moor.
Its fall was wellnigh fatal to the Spanish Moslems; for Mohammed himself
was now unable to resist the conqueror; and willing to live "a
camel-driver in the African deserts rather than a swineherd in Castile,"
he despairingly summoned the Almoravides from Morocco to his aid. He had
sold his kingdom to save it; yet the newcomers beat back Alfonso: and
the Cid's newly-won kingdom of Valéncia went under in the flood. But
Toledo, once the stronghold of Paynimry, was now the bulwark of
Christendom; and against its iron ramparts the wave of Moslem reaction
spent itself in vain.
Now began the second period of Toledo's greatness. The city became the
seat of the Spanish primate and the favourite residence of the Castilian
kings. Some of its importance leaked away southward when Córdova and
Seville were reconquered by Ferdinand III. in 1248. But the first great
blow to its prosperity was the inhuman expulsion of the Jews by
Ferdinand and Isabella at the end of the fifteenth century. Toledo had
been one of their chief asylums ever since the destruction of Jerusalem;
and though Goth and Moor and Christian had all alike persecuted them
whenever they became rich enough to make it worth while, yet they were
now a numerous colony, wealthy, honoured, and well affected to the
crown. But Torquemada's savage fanaticism overbore the scruples of the
queen. The whole nation was ruthlessly exiled at a bare six months'
notice; and perhaps it is no exaggeration to say that nearly all of
them, beggared and hopeless, perished of hardship by the way.
Toledo was still important enough to play the leading rôle in the great
revolt of the _Communeros_ at the beginning of the reign of Charles V.
It was indeed the last city to succumb; and that resolute lady, Maria
Pacheco, the widow of Padilla, held it for many months against the
imperial forces before she finally abandoned the struggle and fled from
the realm. The thoroughness with which this rising was suppressed is
perhaps a matter for regret. The triumph of the crown was too complete;
and Spain, once the most democratic of medieval monarchies, was
henceforth an absolute autocracy.
With this last effort Toledo's prominence upon the stage of history
comes practically to an end. Henceforth it retired upon its reputation,
and let the busy world go on without it as it chose. It still turns out
a few of those famous sword blades, "the ice brook's temper," which
Othello bore upon his thigh; but, for the rest, it is but a quiet
country town, dozing placidly under the _ægis_ of the great cathedral,
which now seems to furnish its only _raison d'être_.
[Illustration: TOLEDO
Calle del Comércio, with the Cathedral Tower.]
Nearly a thousand years have elapsed since Toledo was recovered by the
Christians; and, though but few of its monuments are of genuine Moresco
workmanship,[31] yet to all outward appearance it remains a Moorish city
still. The trade-mark of the East is stamped indelibly upon it;--steep,
narrow, crooked streets; and square, sombre palaces, whose grim façades
give no hint of the lovely _patios_ within. Its mazy network of _calles_
is spread all over the surface of the great domed rock upon which it
stands; and the fact that the Calle del Comércio is the widest,
longest and straightest of any, may serve as some indication of the
character of the rest. Street frankly admits that it is one of the few
cities where he could not find his way without a guide; and but that I
found all ways equally fascinating, it is highly probable that I should
have been in the same predicament myself. Every corner of the stage
seems still set exactly as it was quitted by the heroes and heroines of
Lope de Vega and Calderon. Lazarillo de Tormes might still be town
crier. It might be but yesterday that the horrified Gil Blas recognised
the comrades of his early escapades walking among the condemned in
the procession of the _Auto-da-fé_. One little alley that I discovered
in the course of my wanderings bore the remarkable title of
"_Calle del Diablo pertinece al Ayuntamiento_,"
"The-Devil-belongs-to-the-Corporation Street." He does!--to many
Corporations! But few are ingenuous enough to proclaim the fact at the
street corners! And few have such slight cause to lament it;--he is
generally a Devil of Unrest.
The great Alcázar,[32] which is the most prominent object in the city,
is too uncompromisingly cubical to be strictly picturesque; and the
cathedral, which is its chief glory, is singularly unobtrusive in a
general view. The houses shoulder up against it as though anxious to
keep it hidden; and when, after much circumnavigation, we do manage at
last to unmask it, behold! it is bare and featureless, only redeemed
from meanness by its noble western tower.
But the moment we pass the portal all cavilling is awed to silence. Out
of the blaze of the southern sunshine we step into a vast, mysterious
twilight, lit only by the jewelled pictures in the clerestory overhead.
The air is heavy with the odour of incense; and the chant of the canons
thunders down the aisles. The style of this great temple is the purest
and most solemn of thirteenth-century Gothic. Built by the canonized
king, St Ferdinand, out of the spoils of Seville, it is equal to Rheims
in majesty, and ranks next to Cologne in point of size. But noble as is
the edifice itself, this is but the casket for its nobler treasures. No
other Cathedrals in the world can compete with the Spanish in the
richness of their furniture; and here, for more than three centuries,
the richest of all the great Chapters[33] lavished their wealth upon the
adornment of their shrine. The skilfulest craftsmen of the
Renaissance,--Copin and Rodrigo, de Arfe and Villalpando, Borgoña and
Berruguete,--spent the best years of their lives upon its stalls and
_rejas_ and _custodias_.[34] They were furnished with gold and silver,
jasper and alabaster, with a prodigality worthy of Solomon himself; and
we may well apply to them all the boast that is recorded of two of
them,--that no one can ever determine who best deserves the palm.
The great masterpieces of the cathedral are concentrated in bewildering
profusion about the _Coro_ and _Capilla Mayor_; but each and all of the
score of chapels that surround it, is stored with relics of history and
gems of ancient art. Here lies Alvaro de Luna, the Cardinal Wolsey of
Spanish history. The great Constable died on the scaffold in the _Plaza_
at Valladolid, and his vindictive enemies would not spare even his tomb;
but his beautiful marble monument shows that his daughter's piety was
respected in a later reign. Here lies the Grand Cardinal Mendoza,
_tertius rex_ to the wedded "kings" who made Spain a nation; and his
tomb is worthy of a king. Here lie the early monarchs of Castile,--their
sarcophagi caught up in the tangle of intricate tracery which encloses
the _Capilla Mayor_. And here, among all these kings and princes, are
the monuments of two others;--Abu Walid the Moslem, "the good _Alfaqui_"
who pled for his persecutors against the wrath of Alfonso VI.; and the
humble shepherd of the Morena, who led Alfonso VIII. by the secret pass
across the mountains, and died on the plains of Tolosa in the great
victory which his guidance gained.[35] "They buried them in the city of
David among the kings, because they had done good in Israel." The men of
the thirteenth century were no respecters of persons, and could
understand an honourable reward.
[Illustration: TOLEDO
The Gorge of the Tagus.]
One of the chapels is specially reserved for the performance of the
Mozarabic[36] ritual, the ancient Use of St Isidore, which had been
preserved by the Toledan Christians throughout the period of their
subjection to the Moors. At the reconquest the Romanizers were anxious
to suppress it, and after much controversy the question was referred to
ordeal by battle. Two bulls were appointed champions for the rival
churches! but the defeat of the Roman representative left his clients
unconvinced, and two knights took the place of the bulls. Again the
Toledan was victorious, but again the argumentative Romanists refused to
accept the result. The arm of the flesh was a vain thing in such a
matter; "the God that answereth by fire, let Him be God!" The protests
of the _Mozárabes_ were overborne, and the arbitrary bonfire was kindled
in the triangular Toledan market-place. The Romanists astutely conceded
the privilege of "first go." They complacently watched their antagonists
commit St Isidore's precious Missal to the flames. _And, behold, it
would not burn!_ Had the Romanists kept their heads it might have
occurred to them that the old parchment tome, with its thick oak boards
and solid metal clasps, was about as unpromising a bit of fuel as mortal
bonfire could tackle. But this third defeat gave them a panic. There was
only a draw to be hoped for, and they dared not expose their own volume
to such an unprofitable risk. With desperate ingenuity they once more
tried to revive the controversy from the beginning; but their opponents
were now upon too firm ground, and their orthodoxy had to be conceded.
In later years, however, the Mozarabic ritual fell into disuse, and was
only rescued from oblivion by the enterprise of Cardinal Ximenes, who
collated and republished it, and founded the chapel wherein it is still
performed. This sounds rather a broad-minded act for a Grand Inquisitor;
but Ximenes, an ascetic and a conqueror, a foe to knowledge and a patron
of learning, was one of those strange complex characters whose actions
seem consistent to no one but himself.
One might readily fill a volume with a list of the glories of Toledo,
and not a tithe of its attractions can be mentioned in these meagre
notes. Its proximity to Madrid renders it somewhat better known than the
majority of Castilian cities, yet most visitors appear to imagine that
they can "do" it adequately in a day. A cheerful American whom I met
there had come over from Madrid in the morning, and was returning the
same afternoon. He was seeing Toledo in three hours, and was spending
one of them in dining! A month might well prove insufficient; but a
month was not to be spared. One further visit, however, is incumbent on
every Englishman. A pilgrimage down the Tagus to the battlefield of
Talavera is a duty that he may not ignore.
The Tagus valley becomes more tame and domesticated below the grim
defiles of Toledo; and its mountain fences, the Sierras of Grédos and
Guadalupe, face one another at a distance of some fifty miles. Yet the
intervening plains have not nearly the amplitude of the Duero's, though
the ground is comparatively open and even comparatively green. It is a
very interesting district; for the Tagus was long a frontier river, and
its banks were as diligently fortified as those of our own Tweed.
The roads from Madrid and Toledo unite at the castle of Magueda; and it
was at the brook beneath it that I made the acquaintance of _El Maestre_
Pedro and his wife and family, a couple of Pyrenean bears and a Barbary
ape. What an ungainly group they looked as they came scrambling down the
road towards me! But they were all true Castilians (at least all the
human section), and offered me a share of their food when they stopped
to lunch at the water side, as all well-bred wayfarers should:--Would my
honour please to eat? "Many thanks! a good meal to your honours!" is the
correct reply to this courtesy: and therewith I went my way.
And now the military tourist will begin to recognise that he is
approaching a classic neighbourhood. His ear is caught by the names of
the villages--Torrijos, Sta Olalla, Alcabon. They are humble little
hamlets enough, yet their names ring vaguely familiar. They each dropped
a card upon history one hundred years ago.
Now, too, the landscape is pervaded by an additional feature, which was
likewise important enough to win historical mention on the
battlefield.[37] To wit, Pigs. Pigs and pigs and pigs. Pigs by single
spies, pigs in battalions. No fat and greasy citizens, like their
cousins in England, but sinewy, razor-backed racers of strong sporting
proclivities, who rioted along beside the bicycle in sheer exuberance of
athleticism. There was a big pig fair toward at Talavera on the morrow,
and its votaries were mustering from all points of the compass like the
sorcerers of Domdaniel when Eblis summoned them to doom. They were all
washed beautifully clean by a tremendous thunderstorm which caught us at
the bridge over the Alberche: but the streets and lanes of the city were
reduced to an indescribable state.
[Illustration: TALAVERA DE LA REINA
From the banks of the Tagus.]
Talavera de la Reyna lies upon low ground on the right bank of the
Tagus, which here is comparatively wide and shallow, and is crossed by
a long and very crooked bridge. The town is not strictly fortified;
but it is walled, and well screened by its orchards; and as the plain is
here narrowed by outlying hummocks from the mountains, it forms an
effective position for disputing the passage of the road.
All the main fighting in the battle took place upon the higher ground to
the northward. The town itself, with its enclosures and orchards, was
occupied by the Spaniards under their obstinate old Captain-General
Cuesta. They had nearly come to grief two days before in retreating
across the Alberche, but were now entrenched in a position too strong
for assault; and Jourdan and Victor directed all their efforts against
the left and centre where the English were drawn up. Here the ground is
more open and more elevated, sloping up from the flats by the river till
it culminates in the hill of Medellin. The position (as in most other
battlefields) does not seem very formidable to a layman. But then any
position that did would probably never be attacked.
The battle was one of the bloodiest in the Peninsula; for the British
were heavily outnumbered, and their raw militia battalions lacked three
years' tempering of the Ironsides of Albuera and Badajoz. But what they
lacked in warcraft they redeemed in staunchness. For two days and a
night they were fighting, and then their assailants sullenly withdrew.
Yet, after all, Sir Arthur Wellesley had won merely a tactical victory.
His strategic position was too perilous to permit him to garner the
fruits. Soult's Galician army corps, already reorganised after the
_debacle_ of the Douro, was threatening his rear from Plaséncia; and it
was only by an adroit retreat across the Tagus at Arzobispo that he was
able to elude the stroke.
One of the minor incidents of the battle was an extraordinary piece of
marching. The Light Division, under General Craufurd, was far in the
rear at the commencement of the fighting, and were eager to get up
before the close. The task was too great, but the attempt was something
Homeric. They covered sixty-two miles in twenty-six hours, all in full
marching order: and lost but seventeen stragglers by the way! This was
probably a record for the Peninsula; though Wellington himself thought
that it might be paralleled in India; and some of Marmont's marches
previous to Salamanca were not far behind. What manner of men were they
who could achieve such feats in July under a Spanish sun?