SEGÓVIA
Few streams are so mercilessly bantered as the hapless Manzanares, and
it is rough on an honest little river to rag it because it is poor. It
is "navigable at all seasons for a coach and six"; it is mockingly urged
"to sell its bridges for water"; and it labours under a gross imputation
(not to be whispered in the presence of touchy Madrilenos), that upon
one occasion when it happened to be sufficiently copious to float a
mule's pack-saddle, the enthusiastic citizens turned out to capture the
"whale." Even its few partisans show a calculated _gaucherie_ in their
compliments. "Duke of streams and viscount of rivers" is quite a
preposterous flight. But perhaps the bitterest tribute is the gibe of a
jealous young sportsman (a Toledan, and consequently part-proprietor of
the Tagus) who had fainted from heat at a bull-fight, and to whom his
neighbours were kindly proffering a pitcher of water:--"Pour it into
the Manzanares," gasped the Spanish Sidney, "it needs it more than I."
No one would have had an ill word to say of it had it clung to its
lowlier destiny. It reaps the reward of the tuft-hunting which sent it
to visit Madrid. A mile above the Iron Gate it is as pretty and secluded
a little brooklet as anyone need desire;--a clean shingly bed, and
broken banks fringed with brushwood and poplars, beneath whose shade we
very contentedly dozed through the hot hours of siesta-time, cooling our
toes in the water and restfully contemplating the distant summits of the
Sierra de Guadarrama,--faint opalescent outlines above the tree-tops in
the glen. We had ridden in that morning from Toledo; and to push on
across the mountains the same afternoon was too heavy a task to be
seriously contemplated. No; we would take matters easily during the
heat, and drift on in the evening towards the foot of the pass. We
should find lodging--of a sort--at some little village _posada_, and
could tackle the long ascent in the cool of the early dawn.
[Illustration: SEGÓVIA
Church of San Miguel.]
The sun was sinking as we passed las Rozas, but there was still an hour
of daylight before us, and it seemed a pity to waste such a beautiful
evening, so we launched out venturously on to the moors. At first
we had fellow-voyagers;--a homeward ploughman with his yoke of oxen,--a
shepherd with his whip--(is there any other region where shepherds use
whips?)--and his droop-necked flock earing the ground towards their
fold. But soon the dusk won its will, and the darkling track lay empty.
The only survivor astir was the habitual belated _arriero_, with his
team outspanned for the night and his waggon beached upon the margin of
the road. The stars had already begun to flicker up in the heavens, and
we could see that Torrelodones, the next village, must be Hobson's
choice for ourselves.
At Torrelodones, saith the proverb, are twenty-four burgesses and
twenty-five thieves (the twenty-fifth being the curate); yet there is no
innkeeper among so many. Bread and wine, however, were forthcoming at
one of the cabins, and eggs at a second, which we got cooked at a third;
and if anyone wanted to wash himself, was there not the fountain on the
village green? Beds, however, were a different matter. A muleteer would
have rolled himself up on the floor in his blanket; but we had no
blankets, and did not fancy the floor. As for the reputation of the
villagers, no doubt that was wholly unmerited; but we thought of the
fresh air of heaven, and the scent of the clean sweet herbage was borne
in to us upon the breeze.
It was already dark when we quitted the hamlet, and the distant lights
of Madrid were twinkling up at us from the misty plain below. But
another beacon rose in sight as we breasted the surge of the moorland--a
large brilliantly-lighted building, apparently right in front of us and
only a few hundred yards away. What was it? Evidently no ordinary
farmstead--the lights were so many and so small. But anyway it would not
do to camp right under its windows, so the question was shelved
unanswered. We wheeled aside from the roadway, and picked out a bedroom
under the lee of a huge boulder which promised us shelter from the wind.
Anyone who has ever tried the experiment must be perfectly well aware
that the delights of an extemporary bivouac are better imagined than
endured; but we had not bargained to take our discomfort in exactly the
form that it came. The last few nights we had spent at Toledo kicking
the last sheets off our beds in a vain endeavour to get reposefully
cool.[43] But the boot was on the other leg up here in the lap of the
mountains. In vain did we empty our knapsacks; we could not get the
clothes to keep us warm. About midnight the wind veered. Our faithless
boulder no longer gave us shelter; and as we rose to shift our berth,
behold, there was that brilliantly lighted building still shining in
front of us as steadily as before. What could it be, keeping this
night-long vigil when all the rest of the world was asleep? But now the
mist had cleared and our eyes had grown accustomed to the starlight, and
the true solution of the riddle flashed suddenly across our minds. A
dozen miles off at the least, on the further side of the intervening
valley, the thousand windows of the Escorial were staring out
unwinkingly into the night!
The stars seemed to travel very slowly across the zenith as we dozed
through the dog-watches in our chilly nest. But at last a lightening in
the east heralded the approach of dawn; and no sooner was there enough
light to swear by than we were again upon the road, thankful for the
excuse to work some warmth into our shivering limbs. Our teeth fairly
chattered as we dipped into the cold shadowy hollows; but the level rays
of the rising sun caught us as we topped the ridges, and cheered us with
an ample promise of a warm time to come. It was not long before our
troubles were forgotten, and a big bowl of hot coffee at Villalba sent
us to the pass like giants refreshed.
The Puerto de Navacerrada is one thousand feet higher than that of
Guadarrama, and the road, being less frequented, is unfortunately not so
well kept. But for all that it can be cordially recommended to the
traveller, for it boasts far finer scenery as a reward for the extra
toil. To our right the shadowy dome of the Great Iron Head cut a bold
arc of purple out of the glowing eastern sky, while to our front and
left lay the long serrated ridge of the Seven Pikes, a prominent
landmark to travellers across the northern plains. The hillsides were
draped from foot to summit with the rich purple mantle of the flowering
hard-head, variegated with vivid splashes of gold where the broom had
ousted its hardier rival; and every here and there the slope was broken
by groves of pine, or jutting crags of grey granite, with the cool blue
shadows sleeping at their feet. Looking back over our left shoulders
along the southern face of the mountains, our eyes were caught by the
towers of the Escorial rising up nobly from the lower slopes, and
scarcely dwarfed even by their mountain background; while, a little
nearer, the Vigo road--a pyramid of persevering zigzags--was struggling
up the face of the range to reach the Puerto de Guadarrama.
Our own pass rejoices in the possession of a multitude of summits, and
the sixth or seventh of these (upon which we had really pinned our
faith) disappointed us bitterly by abdicating in favour of another,
distant at least an hour away. This last, however, was guaranteed
genuine by the inevitable hall-mark of a _caminero's_ hut, and was,
moreover, on such intimate terms with the Seven Pikes that we felt there
was no room for deception.
The gradient of the northern face is distinctly steeper than the
southern, and the road zigzags down sharply through the shadowy
pine-woods which clothe all this portion of the range. Not a soul
crossed our path as we threaded their silent alleys; and the only house
is a solitary _Venta_ midway down the descent, which rejoices in the
ominous title of Mosquito Tavern. We thought of Polonius at supper and
did not risk a meal. Deep down in the dingle beneath us a mountain
stream was chattering towards the plain; and as we neared the outlet of
the valley, and felt that we had broken the back of our day's journey,
we began to cast envious glances at the inviting waters.
Our bedroom had not proved altogether a success, but our bathroom was
worthy of Diana. The clear cold stream gushed smoothly over its pebbly
bed, and the pines which thronged its mossy banks spread a green network
against the blaze of the noonday sun. A skein of brilliant blue
dragon-flies flashed to and fro across the ripples; and at the head of
the glade a solitary peak rose clear and sharp against the sky. The
beautiful Dorothea cooling her crystal feet in the limpid water was the
sole thing lacking to complete the picture. And even she would have been
an embarrassment from a practical point of view. How much they miss who
travel through Spain by railway, and grumble (legitimately enough) at
the difficulty of obtaining baths at their hotels! The wayfarer has
happier fortune;--but not an Eresma every day!
At the mouth of the valley stands the royal palace of La Granja, built
by Philip IV. as a rival to Versailles. The structure is not nearly so
fine, though the site and the fountains are finer. But who goes to Spain
to see copies of things French? And we swung disdainfully past the
gateway, and headed our course for the great cathedral tower that marks
the position of Segóvia.
[Illustration: SEGÓVIA
Arco San Estéban.]
We were drawing quite close to the city when we overtook a party of
four,--two _carabineros_ and two civilians,--sauntering arm in arm along
the roadway and amicably sharing cigarettes. But a hideous blight
descended upon this innocent idyll when they drew up with us at the
_Fielato_.[44] The _carabineros_ shouldered their rifles and gave an
extra twirl to their mustachios,--the civilians meekly held out their
wrists for the handcuffs,--and Law and Order with their miserable
captives strutted inspiringly into public view. Evidently Segóvia
demanded a certain amount of style, and we two vagabonds eyed each other
dubiously. But the Eresma had given us a "clean slate." No one would
have guessed from our looks that we had spent the night in the open and
ridden across the mountains since the dawn. "Nevertheless," quoth one of
us sententiously, "what with the bad night, and the early start, and the
long ride, and the hot sun, and the bathe, and the pine-woods, and the
_comida_ which we are going to eat, I expect there'll be more _siesta_
than sight-seeing for us this afternoon."
There are a certain number of towns in Europe which form a class by
themselves--a class of professional models for the delectation of the
artist. They do not necessarily possess the most interesting monuments,
but they are blessed with a certain genius for assuming graceful poses,
for wearing harmonious colours, and framing themselves into pictures
from whatever point they are viewed. They are a very select
company,--even Florence and Nuremburg can scarcely be included,--but
Venice is one, and Bruges, and Rothenburg-a-Tauber; and Segóvia ranks
with them.
The principal lion of the city was lying in wait at the gates
thereof,--the huge granite Aqueduct, one of the wonders of Spain. Its
mighty piers go striding like colossi across the valley, and the little
puny houses "peep about under their huge legs." By whom it was built is
a matter of some question; possibly by Augustus,--more probably by
Trajan[45]; so at least say the learned, who are wofully wrong-headed
about such things. The true story is that it was erected by the Devil in
a single night, out of his love and affection for a fair damsel of
Segóvia, to save her the trouble of going down the hill to draw water.
Her townswomen unto this hour are profiting by her sumptuous love-token.
But her poor suitor was not so fortunate. His Delilah found one stone
a-missing, and took advantage of the flaw to repudiate her contract.
Beneath its broad shadow we dived in among the crazy patchwork houses of
the _Azoquejo_, the once disreputable "Little Market" where Don
Quixote's rascally innkeeper had been wont to "practise knight-errantry"
in his callow days. A steep crooked street led us up under the toppling
balconies, past the beautiful Romanesque arcades of the Church of San
Martin, and the heavily rusticated façade of the sombre Palace of Pikes.
Truly this was a captivating city; we made the confession immediately.
And as yet all the grounds of our verdict were a few steps inside the
back door.
Segóvia is Queen of Castilian cities, as Toledo is the King of them. But
Segóvia does not lend her countenance to those who approach from the
south. She sits with her face to the northward towering over the road
from Valladolid:--an unforgettable vision, the fairy city of our dreams.
Spain seems to take a delight in concentrating her fascinations. For
mile after mile she will trail you over a dull and spirit-quelling
country, till all your enthusiasm is properly subdued. Then she will
suddenly overwhelm you with a whole cargo of accumulated perfections, an
extravagance of beauty which leaves admiration aghast. And never was
_coup de théâtre_ more artfully developed than this great spectacle of
Segóvia. A far-distant glimpse of a little group of turrets bristling
upon the base of the mountains at the foot of the Seven Pikes; a tardy
approach up the valley of the Eresma, whose trees and rocks impede all
further view. The valley becomes a trench; and a vision of towers and
cliffs begins to stir our anticipation; while the trench narrows down to
a gullet, with sides so straight and smooth that they might have been
cut by hand. Then comes a sudden turn; the rock gates swing wide open,
and all in a moment the marvel stands revealed.
Perched upon the precipitous cliffs of a long wedge-shaped promontory
between two confluent gorges, Segóvia has been aptly likened to a ship
stranded sidelong on the mountains with its bows slanting towards the
plain. The sharp prow and lofty forecastle are formed by the heights of
the _Alcázar_; a little further aft is the "bridge,"--the high ground
round the _Plaza Mayor_, where stands the cathedral, the central feature
of the whole. And if one is to run the comparison to death, I
suppose the funnel would be represented by the cathedral campanile, and
the stern galleries by the aqueduct arcades. The likeness is undeniable,
but altogether too prim and pedantic. As well might one picture a fairy
in a tailor-made costume.
[Illustration: SEGÓVIA
The Alcázar]
There is something almost life-like in the sweep of the tilted strata as
the great cliff leaps above the summit of the poplars. It seems like the
"station of the herald Mercury";--arrested motion rather than repose;--a
great wave petrified in the act of breaking, with spires and gables for
the spray upon the crest. Beneath it curves the green and fertile
valley, the "terrestrial Paradise" of the Monks of El Parral[46]; and
the richness, brilliance and daring of the whole wonderful composition
form a theme which is the despair both of pen and pencil alike.
The _Alcázar_, which is poised upon the extremity of the precipice, was
gutted by fire some forty years ago, and is consequently largely a
restoration; but it harmonises so admirably with the lines of nature
that one hardly realises that it has not grown of its own accord. It has
always been a royal stronghold, but never played any very important part
in the tumultuous drama of Spanish history; our friend the enemy, with
commendable discretion, having commonly preferred to gather his laurels
from some less inaccessible bough. It has, however, attained a minor
celebrity through the carelessness of a nursemaid. This sounds but a
threadbare method of achieving greatness; but the girl who accidentally
dropped an heir-apparent out of a window of the _Alcázar_ at Segóvia
must be allowed to have fixed the standard at the very highest
conceivable peg.
But the proudest day in its annals was that upon which Isabella the
Catholic (newly apprised of the death of her brother King Henry) rode
forth from its gateway to claim the homage of Castile and Leon. The
moment was critical, for her succession was disputed; but Segóvia stood
firmly in her favour,--a worthy birthplace for the worthiest era of
Spain. The site seems designed for such a pageant; but it bore its own
bane in the setting: for from the little convent of Sta Cruz, below the
gateway of San Estéban, Torquemada was drawn to sway his nobler Queen.
Torquemada was Isabella's evil genius--the demon who was to turn all her
blessings to a curse. It is but just to him to admit that he was honest
in his wrong-headedness; that he believed as sincerely in the
wickedness of an unauthorised conscience as in the righteousness of
persecution, and would have gone to the stake himself in support of his
tenets with as much resolution as any of his victims. It is the standing
puzzle with such men how they could fail to recognise in their own
spirit the condemnation of their own methods. Persecution they would
have derided if applied to them by others. Why should they credit its
efficacy when applied to others by them? And an even saner thought they
might have gleaned from the old essayist[47]:--"When all is done it is
an over-valuing of one's convictions by them to cause that a man be
burned alive."
The cruelty for which we chiefly condemn them is a crime for which they
were not wholly responsible. The age was cruel,--"the most cruel of all
ages," wrote the grave Montaigne:--and the Inquisition did but deal with
heresy as treason was dealt with by the State. Its secrecy was its new
and horrible feature and the one most deeply resented at the time.
For at first, even in Spain, the Inquisition was not tamely accepted;
and some of the noblest churchmen were loudest in its rebuke.[48] It
sinned against the light. It was a thing of devils; an atrocity only to
be paralleled by the witch-doctors of Ashanti and Benin.
These grisly reflections are the inevitable Nemesis of all romantic and
chivalrous associations; but they seem as sadly out of place in this
sunny Eden as the trail of the serpent in its prototype. Isabella was a
generous patroness to the little convent, and her own mottoes and badges
figure in its delicate carving. She needed no such piety to keep her
memory green.
[Illustration: SEGÓVIA
Arco Santiago.]
The Valladolid road skirts the foot of the precipice on the larboard
side and doubles back into the city, where the slope is easiest at the
stern. But the straight path is taken by an irresponsible little
bye-way, which rushes the steep ascent along the feet of the beetling
ramparts, and succeeds in winning a footing inside the Santiago gate.
Here the elegant horse-shoe arches look as if they might have been
borrowed from the Alhambra; and as we issued from under their shadow we
were confronted by the graceful campanile of the Church of San Estéban,
a work of the thirteenth century, and unique in Spanish
architecture, though it may be mated in Provence. _Were_ confronted,
alas! for I fear it now stands no longer. The tower was badly cracked
when first we saw it, and on the occasion of my second visit was being
taken down as dangerous. As to its ultimate destiny it is quite
impossible to prophesy: but Spaniards are capable restorers should they
happen to think it worth while. It may be as reverently revived as the
work at Leon Cathedral, or (_Di meliora!_) razed with as little
compunction as the late leaning tower at Zaragoza.
The gateway of San Estéban is a little abaft the church, and, like its
neighbour of Santiago, has distinctly a Moorish air. Not so the Arco San
Andres, the other great gate, to the starboard. That is uncompromisingly
Gothic, and large and massive enough to balance both the other two.
Upon this side the city is bounded by the little bourn of the Clamores,
a scantier stream than the Eresma, but equally romantic and picturesque.
It flows in a straight-sided gully like a natural moat, the upper
reaches becoming gradually shallower and wider till they expand into the
broad valley which is crossed by the aqueduct arcade. Here the most
prominent feature is the cathedral, which surges up out of the medley
of houses, overtopping even the pinnacles of the _Alcázar_. It is the
latest important Gothic monument ever erected upon Spanish soil, a
sister church to the new cathedral of Salamanca, and, like it, of
imposing and elegant proportions, though its details are less
elaborately ornate.
We are far from exhausting the subject, but it is vain to continue the
catalogue. The true fascination of the town must be felt and not
described. I am afraid that even the Segóvians are not fully
appreciative; for our host considered that we were wasting our time
there, and wished to pack us off to la Granja to see the fountains play.
"It was a shame," he said, "to spend every day in Segóvia."
Segóvia!--where every street corner is worth a wilderness of fountains!
[Illustration: SEGÓVIA
Church of San Estéban.]
When Gil Blas was imprisoned in the "tower of Segóvia," his kind-hearted
gaoler assured him that he would find the view from his window very
fine--when he cared to look. This casual remark gains significance from
the fact that it is about the only allusion to scenery in all that
veracious biography.[49] For any hint to the contrary the
Cantabrian mountains might be mole-hills, and Grenada itself as
commonplace as Valladolid. Le Sage dealt with men, not with scenery, and
no doubt, like Dr Johnson, would have preferred Fleet Street; but
Segóvia wrings a tiny tribute even from him.
Gil Blas, it may be remembered, was not impressed by the prospect. He
had a very bad fit of the blues, and could only observe that there were
nettles by the stream. But doubtless he saw better ere leaving. His
character (never much to boast of) was at least vastly improved by his
involuntary sojourn, and perhaps it is not too fanciful to suggest that
"the view from the window" may deserve some of the credit of the cure.
"There are none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee," sings
Byron to one of his _houris_; and the same whole-hearted allegiance to
Segóvia will be paid by most of those who have once come under her
spell. Grenada, perhaps, may equal her. So does Albarracin, in
tertio-decimo: and the situation of Cuenca is probably the grandest of
all. But even Grenada herself will not steal her admirers from Segovia;
and Cuenca, for all its brilliance, is a gem of fewer facets than this.