"Is all Toledo like this?" I asked again.
"It is all like this," he replied
"Impossible!" I exclaimed.
"You will see," he added.
To tell the truth, I did not believe him. I entered a hotel, dropped my
valise in a room, and ran headlong down the stairs to take a look at
this very strange city. One of the hotel-porters stopped me at the door
and asked with a smile,
"Where are you going, _caballero_?"
"To see Toledo," I replied.
"Alone?"
"Yes; why not?"
"But have you ever been here before?"
"Never."
"Then you cannot go alone."
"And why not?"
"Because you will get lost."
"Where?"
"As soon as you go out."
"For what reason?"
"The reason is this," he answered, pointing to a wall on which hung a
map of Toledo. I approached and saw a network of white lines on a black
background that seemed like one of those flourishes which school-boys
make on their slates to waste the chalk and vex their teacher.
"No matter," said I; "I am going alone, and if I get lost, let them
come and find me."
"You will not go a hundred steps," observed the porter.
I went out and turned down the first street I saw, so narrow that on
extending my arms I touched both walls. After fifty paces I turned into
another street, narrower than the first, and from this passed into a
third, and so on.
I seemed to be wandering not through the streets of the city, but
through the corridors of a building, and I went forward, expecting
momentarily to come out into an open place. It is impossible, I
thought, that the whole city is built in this manner; no one could
live in it. But as I proceeded the streets seemed to grow narrower and
shorter; every moment I was obliged to turn; after a curving street
came a zigzag one, and after this another in the form of a hook, which
led me back into the first, and so I wandered on for a little while,
always in the midst of the same houses. Now and then I came out at a
crossway where several alleys ran off in opposite directions, one of
which would lose itself in the dark shadow of a portico, another would
end blindly in a few paces against the wall of a house, a third in
a short distance would descend, as it were, into the bowels of the
earth, while a fourth would clamber up a steep hill; some were hardly
wide enough to give a man passage; others were confined between two
walls without doors or windows; and all were flanked by buildings of
great height, between whose roofs one could see a narrow streak of sky.
One passed windows defended by heavy iron bars, great doors studded
with enormous nails, and dark courtyards. I walked for some time
without meeting anybody, until I came out into one of the principal
streets, lined with shops and full of peasants, women, and children,
but little larger than an ordinary corridor. Everything is in
proportion to the streets: the doors are like windows, the shops like
niches, and by glancing into them one sees all the secrets of the
house--the table already spread, the babies in the cradle, the mother
combing her hair, and the father changing his shirt; everything is
on the street, and it does not seem like a city, but like a house
containing a single great family.
I turned into a less-frequented street, where I heard only the buzzing
of a fly; my footsteps echoed to the fourth story of the houses and
brought some old women to the windows. A horse passes; it seems like a
squadron; everybody hurries to see what is going on. The least sound
re-echoes in every direction; a book falls in a second story, an old
man coughs in a courtyard, a woman blows her nose in some unknown
place; one hears everything.
Sometimes every sound will suddenly cease; you are alone, you see no
sign of life: you seem to be surrounded by the houses of witches,
crossways made for conspirators, blind alleys for traitors, narrow
doorways suitable for any crime, windows for the whispers of guilty
lovers, gloomy doorways suggestive of blood-stained steps. But yet in
all this labyrinth of streets there are no two alike; each one has
its individuality: here rises an arch, there a column, yonder a piece
of statuary. Toledo is a storehouse of art-treasures. Every little
while the walls crumble, and there are revealed in every part records
of all the centuries--bas-reliefs, arabesques, Moorish windows, and
statuettes. The palaces have doorways defended by plates of engraved
metal, historical knockers, nails with carved heads, 'scutcheons and
emblems; and they form a fine contrast to the modern houses painted
with festoons, medallions, cupids, urns, and fantastic animals.
But these embellishments detract in no way from the severe and gloomy
aspect of Toledo. Wherever you look you see something to remind you of
the city fortified by the Arabs; however little your imagination may
exert itself, it will succeed in rearranging from the relics scattered
here and there the whole fabric of that darkened image, and then the
illusion is complete: you see again the glorious Toledo of the Middle
Ages, and forget the solitude and silence of its streets. But it is a
fleeting illusion, and you soon relapse into sad meditation and see
only the skeleton of the ancient city, the necropolis of three empires,
the great sepulchre of the glory of three races. Toledo reminds you of
the dreams which come to young men after reading the romantic legends
of the Middle Ages. You have seen many a time in your dreams dark
cities encircled by deep moats, frowning walls, and inaccessible rocks;
and you have crossed those draw-bridges and entered those tortuous,
grass-grown streets, and have breathed that damp, sepulchral, prison
air. Well, then, you have dreamed of Toledo.
The first thing to see, after making a general survey of the city, is
the cathedral, which is justly considered one of the most beautiful
cathedrals in the world. The history of this cathedral, according to
popular tradition, dates from the times of the apostle Saint James,
first bishop of Toledo, who selected the place where it should be
erected; but the construction of the edifice as it appears to-day
was begun in 1227, during the reign of San Fernando, and was ended
after twenty-five years of almost continuous labor. The exterior of
this immense church is neither rich nor beautiful, as is that of
the cathedral of Burgos. A little square extends in front of the
façade, and is the only place from which one can get a view of any
considerable part of the building. It is entirely surrounded by a
narrow street, from which, however much you may twist your neck, you
can see only the high outer walls which enclose the church like a
fortress. The façade has three great doorways, the first of which is
named _Pardon_, the second _Inferno_, and the third _Justice_. Over it
rises a substantial tower which terminates in a beautiful octagonal
cupola. Although in walking around the building one may have remarked
its great size, on first entering one is struck by a profound sense of
wonder, which quickly gives place to another keen sense of pleasure,
the result of the freshness, the repose, the soft shadow, and the
mysterious light which steals through the stained glass of innumerable
windows and breaks in a thousand rays of blue, golden, and rosy light
which glides here and there along the arches and columns like the
bands of a rainbow. The church is formed of five great naves divided
by eighty-eight enormous pilasters, each of which is composed of
sixteen turned columns as close together as a bunch of spears. A sixth
nave cuts the other five at right angles, extending from the great
altar to the choir, and the vaulted roof of this principal nave rises
majestically above the others, which seem to be bowing to it as if in
homage. The many-colored light and the clear tone of the stone give
the church an air of quiet cheerfulness which tempers the melancholy
appearance of the Gothic architecture without depriving it of its
austere and serious character. To pass from the streets of the city to
the naves of this cathedral seems like coming out of a dungeon into an
open square: one looks around, draws a deep breath, and begins to live
again.
The high altar, if one wished to examine it minutely, would require
as much time as the interior of a church: it is itself a church--a
miracle of little columns, statuettes, traceries, and ornaments of
endless variety, creeping along the iron frames, rising above the
architraves, winding about the niches, supporting one another, climbing
and disappearing, presenting on every side a thousand outlines, groups,
combinations, effects in gilding and color, every sort of grace that
art can devise--giving to the whole an effect of magnificence, dignity,
and beauty. Opposite the high altar rises the choir, divided into
three orders of stalls, marvellously carved by Philip of Bourgogne
and Berruguete, with bas-reliefs representing historical events,
allegories, and sacred legends--one of the most famous monuments of art.
In the centre, in the form of a throne, stands the seat of the
archbishop surrounded by a circle of enormous jasper columns, with
colossal statues of alabaster resting on the architraves; on either
side rise enormous bronze pulpits provided with two great missals, and
two gigantic organs, one in front of the other, from which it seems
that at any moment a flood of melody may burst forth and make the vault
tremble.
The pleasure of one's admiration in these great cathedrals is almost
always disturbed by importunate guides, who wish at any cost to amuse
you after their fashion. And it was my misfortune to become convinced
that the Spanish guides are the most persistent of their kind. When
one of them has gotten it into his head that you are to spend the day
with him, it is all over. You may shrug your shoulders, refuse to
notice him, let him talk himself hoarse without so much as turning to
look at him, wander about on your own account as though you had not
seen him: it is all the same thing. In a moment of enthusiasm before
some painting or statue a word escapes you, a gesture, a smile: it
is enough. You are caught, you are his, you are the prey of this
implacable human cuttle-fish, who, like the cuttle-fish of Victor Hugo,
does not leave his victim until he has cut off his head. While I stood
contemplating the statuary of the choir I saw one of these cuttle-fish
out of the corner of my eye--a miserable old rake, who approached me
with slow steps sidewise, like a cutthroat with the air of one who was
saying, "Now I have got you!" I continued to look at the statues; the
old man came up to my side, and he too began to look; then he suddenly
asked me, "Do you wish my company?"
"No," I replied, "I don't need you."
And he continued, without any embarrassment,
"Do you know who Elpidius was?"
The question was so remarkable that I could not keep from asking in my
turn,
"Who was he?"
"Elpidius," he replied, "was the second bishop of Toledo."
"Well, what of him?
"'What of him?' It was the bishop Elpidius who conceived the idea of
consecrating the church to the Virgin, and that is the reason why the
Virgin came to visit the church."
"Ah! how do you know that?"
"How do you know it? You see it."
"Do you mean to say that it has been seen?"
"I mean to say that it is still to be seen: have the goodness to come
with me."
So saying, he started off, and I followed him, very curious to
learn what this visible form of the descent of the Virgin might be.
We stopped in front of a sort of chapel close to one of the great
pilasters of the central nave. The guide pointed out a white stone set
in the wall covered by an iron net, and with this inscription running
around it:
"Quando la reina del cielo
Puso los pies en el suelo,
En esta piedra los puso."
"When the Queen of heaven
Descended to the earth,
Her feet rested on this stone."
"Then the Holy Virgin has actually placed her feet on this stone?" I
asked.
"On this very stone," he replied; and, thrusting a finger between the
strands of the iron net, he touched the stone, kissed his finger, made
the sign of the cross, and turned toward me as if to say, "Now it is
your turn."
"My turn?" I replied. "Oh, really, my friend, I cannot do it."
"Why?"
"Because I do not feel myself worthy to touch that sacred stone."
The guide understood, and, looking hard at me with a serious aspect, he
asked, "You do not believe?"
I looked at a pilaster. Then the old man made a sign for me to follow,
and started toward a corner of the church, murmuring with an air of
sadness, "_Cadanno es dueño de su alma_" (Every man is master of his
soul).
A young priest who was standing near, and who had divined the cause of
his words, cast a piercing glance at me, and went off in an opposite
direction, muttering I know not what.
The chapels correspond in style with that of the church: almost all of
them contain some fine monuments. In the chapel of Santiago, behind
the high altar, are two magnificent tombs of alabaster which contain
the remains of the constable Alvaro de Luna and his wife; in the chapel
of San Ildefonso, the tomb of the cardinal Gil Carrillo de Albornoz;
in the chapel of the "New Kings," the tombs of Henry II., John II.,
and Henry III.; in the chapel of the sacristy, a stupendous group of
statues and busts of marble, silver, ivory, and gold, and a collection
of crosses and relics of inestimable value, the remains of Saint
Leucadia and Saint Eugenia preserved in two silver caskets exquisitely
chased.
The Chapel Mozarabe, which is under the tower of the church, and was
erected to perpetuate the tradition of the primitive Christian rite,
is probably the most worthy of attention. One of its walls is entirely
covered with a fresco, in the Gothic style, representing a conflict
between the Moors and the Toledans--marvellously preserved, even to
the most delicate lines. It is a painting worth a volume of history.
In it one sees the Toledo of those times with all its walls and its
houses; the habiliments of the two armies; the arms, faces, everything
portrayed with an admirable finish and an unspeakable harmony of color
which answers perfectly to the vague and fantastic idea which one may
have formed of those centuries and those races. Two other frescoes on
either side of the first represent the fleet which bore the Arabs into
Spain, and they offer a thousand minute details of the mediæval marine
and the very air of those times, if one may so speak, which makes one
think of and see a thousand things not represented in the painting, as
one hears distant music on looking at a landscape.
After the chapels one goes to see the sacristy, where are gathered
enough riches to restore the finances of Spain to a sound basis. There
is, among others, a vast room on the ceiling of which one sees a
fresco by Luca Giordano, which represents a vision of paradise, with
a myriad of angels, saints, and allegorical figures floating in the
air or standing out like statues from the cornices of the walls in a
thousand bold attitudes, with so much action and foreshortening that
one is bewildered. The guide, pointing out this miracle of imagination
and genius, which in the estimation of all artists, to use a very
curious Spanish expression, is a work of _merito atroz_ (of atrocious
merit),--the guide bids you to look attentively at the ray of light
which falls upon the walls from the centre of the vaulted ceiling. You
look at it and then make a circuit of the room, and wherever you find
yourself that ray of light is falling directly upon your head.
From this hall you pass into a room which is also beautifully painted
in fresco by the nephew of Berruguete, and from it into a third, where
a sacristan lays the treasures of the cathedral before your eyes--the
enormous silver candlesticks; the pyxes flashing with rubies; the
golden stands for the elevation of the Host, studded with diamonds;
the damask vestments, embroidered in gold; the robes of the Virgin,
covered with arabesques, garlands of flowers, and stars of pearl, which
at every motion of the cloth flash forth in a thousand rays and colors
and quite dazzle one's eyes. A hour is scarcely sufficient to see
hurriedly all that display of treasures, which would certainly satisfy
the ambition of ten queens and enrich the altars of ten cathedrals;
and when, after he has shown you everything, the sacristan looks in
your eyes for an expression of surprise, he finds only astonishment and
stupefaction, which give evidence of an imagination wandering in far
distant regions--in the realms of the Arabian legends where the kindly
genii gather all the riches dreamed of by the glowing fancy of enamored
sultans.
It was the eve of _Corpus Domini_, and in the sacristy they were
preparing the robes for the processional. Nothing can be more
unpleasant or more at variance with the quiet and noble sadness of
the church than the theatrical hurry-scurry which one sees on such
occasions. It is like being behind the scenes on the evening of a
dress rehearsal. From one room of the sacristy to another half-dressed
boys were coming and going with a great clatter, carrying armfuls
of surplices, stoles, and capes; here a sour-tempered sacristan was
opening and banging the doors of a wardrobe; there a priest, all red
in the face, was calling angrily to a chorister who did not hear him;
yonder other priests were running through the room with their robes
partly on their backs and partly trailing behind them; some laughing,
some screaming, and some shouting from one room to another at the top
of their voices; everywhere one heard a swish of skirts, a breathless
panting, and an indescribable stamping and tramping.
I went to see the cloister, but, as the door was open through which one
reaches it from the church, I saw it before entering. From the middle
of the church one gets a glimpse of a part of the cloister-garden, a
group of fine leafy trees, a little grove, a mass of luxuriant plants
which seem to close the doorway and look as though they are framed
beneath a graceful arch and between the two slender columns of the
portico which extends all around. It is a beautiful sight, which makes
one think of Oriental gardens encircled by the columns of a mosque.
The cloister, which is very large, is surrounded by a colonnade,
graceful, though severe in form; the walls covered with great frescoes.
The guide advised me to rest here a little while before ascending to
the campanile. I leaned against a low wall in the shade of a tree,
and remained there until I felt able to make another expedition, as
the expression is. Meanwhile, my commander extolled in bombastic
language the glories of Toledo, carrying his impudence so far, in his
patriotism, as to call it "a great commercial city" which could buy
and sell Barcelona and Valencia, and a city strong enough, if need be,
to withstand ten German armies and a thousand batteries of Krupp guns.
After each of his exaggerations I kept spurring him on, and the good
man enjoyed himself to the full. What pleasure there is in knowing how
to make others talk! Finally, when the proud Toledan was so swollen
with glory that the cloister could no longer hold him, he said to me,
"We may go now," and led the way toward the door of the campanile.
When we were halfway up we stopped to take breath. The guide knocked at
a little door, and out came a swaggering little sacristan, who opened
another door, and made me enter a corridor where I saw a collection of
gigantic puppets in very strange attire. Four of them, the guide told
me, represented Europe, Asia, America, and Africa, and two others Faith
and Religion; and they were so made that a man could hide in them and
raise them from the ground.
"They take them out on the occasions of the royal fêtes," the sacristan
added, "and carry them around through the city;" and, to show me how
it was done, he crept in under the robes of Asia. Then he led me to
a corner where there was an enormous monster which when touched, I
know not where, stretched out a very long neck and a horrible head
and made a dreadful noise. But he could not tell me what this ugly
creature signified, and so invited me instead to admire the marvellous
imagination of the Spaniards, which creates so "many new things" to
sell in all the known world. I admired, paid, and continued the ascent
with my Toledan cuttle-fish. From the top of the tower one enjoys a
splendid view--the city, the hills, the river, a vast horizon, and,
below, the great mass of the cathedral, which seems like a mountain of
granite. But there is another elevation, a short distance away, from
which one sees everything to a better advantage, and consequently I
remained in the campanile only a few moments, especially as at that
hour the sun was shining very strongly, confusing all the colors of the
city and country in a flood of light.
From the cathedral my guide led me to see the famous church of _San
Juan de los Reyes_, situated on the banks of the Tagus. My mind is
still confused when I think of the windings and turnings which we were
obliged to make in order to reach it. It was mid-day, the streets were
deserted; gradually, as we went farther from the centre of the city,
the solitude became more depressing; not a door or window was open, not
the slightest sound was heard. For a moment I suspected that the guide
was in league with some assassin to entice me into an out-of-the-way
place and rob me; he had a suspicious face, and then he kept glancing
here and there with a suspicious air, like one meditating a crime.
"Is it much farther?" I would ask from time to time, and he would
always answer: "It is right here," and yet we never reached it.
At a certain point my uneasiness changed into fear: in a narrow,
tortuous street a door opened; two bearded men came out, made a sign
to the cuttle-fish, and fell in behind us. I thought it was all over
with me. There was only one way of escape--to strike the guide, knock
him down, jump over his body, and run. But which way? And on the other
side there came into my mind the high praises which Thiers bestows
on the "Spanish legs" in his _History of the War of Independence_;
and I thought that flight would only prove an opportunity to plant a
dagger in my back instead of my stomach, Alas! to die without seeing
Andalusia! To die after taking so many notes, after giving so many
tips--to die with pockets full of letters of introduction, with a purse
fat with doubloons--to die with a passport covered with seals--to die
by treachery! As God willed, the two bearded men disappeared at the
first corner and I was saved. Then, overwhelmed by compunction for
suspecting that the poor old man could be capable of a crime, I came
over to his left side, offered him a cigar, said that Toledo was worth
two Romes, and showed him a thousand courtesies. Finally we arrived at
_San Juan de los Reyes_.
It is a church which seems like a royal palace: the highest part is
covered by a balcony surrounded with a honeycombed and sculptured
breastwork, upon which rises a series of statues of kings, and in the
middle stands a graceful hexagonal cupola which completes the beautiful
harmony of the edifice. From the walls hang long iron chains which were
suspended there by the Christian prisoners released at the conquest of
Granada, and which, together with the dark color of the stone, give
the church a severe and picturesque appearance. We entered, passed
through two or three large, bare rooms, unpaved, cluttered with piles
of dirt and heaps of rubbish, climbed a staircase, and came out upon
a high gallery inside the church, which is one of the most beautiful
and noblest of the monuments of Gothic architecture. It has a single
great nave divided into four vaults, whose arches intersect under rich
rosettes. The pilasters are covered with festoons and arabesques;
the walls ornamented with a profusion of bas-reliefs, with enormous
shields bearing the arms of Castile and Arragon, eagles, dragons,
heraldic animals, trailing vines, and emblematic inscriptions; the
gallery running all around the room is perforated and carved with great
elegance; the choir is supported by a bold arch; the color of the stone
is light gray, and everything is admirably finished and preserved, as
if the church had been built but a few years ago, instead of at the
end of the fifteenth century.
From the church we descended to the cloister, which is, in truth,
a miracle of architecture and sculpture. Graceful slender columns
which could be broken in two by the stroke of a hammer, looking like
the trunks of saplings, support capitals richly adorned like curving
boughs; arches ornamented with flowers, birds, and grotesque animals
in every sort of carving. The walls are covered with inscriptions
in Gothic characters in a framework of leaves and very delicate
arabesques. Wherever one looks one finds grace mingled with riches in
enchanting harmony: it would not be possible to accumulate in an equal
space and with more exquisite art a larger number of the most delicate
and beautiful objects. It is a luxuriant garden of sculpture, a grand
saloon embroidered, quilted, and brocaded in marble, a great monument,
majestic as a temple, magnificent as a palace, delicate as a toy, and
graceful as a flower.
After the cloisters one goes to see a picture-gallery which contains
only some paintings of little value, and then to the convent with its
long corridors, its narrow stairs, and empty cells, almost on the point
of falling into ruins, and in some parts already in ruins; throughout
bare and squalid like a building gutted by fire.
A little way from _San Juan de los Reyes_ there is another monument
well worthy of attention, a curious record of the Judaic period--the
synagogue now known by the name of Santa Maria la Blanca. One enters
an untidy garden and knocks at the door of a wretched-looking house.
The door opens. There is a delightful sense of surprise, a vision of
the Orient, a sudden revelation of another religion and another world.
There are five narrow alleys divided by four long rows of little
octagonal pilasters, which support as many Moorish arches with stucco
capitals of various forms; the ceiling is of cedar-wood divided into
squares, and here and there on the walls are arabesques and Arabic
inscriptions. The light falls from above, and everything is white. The
synagogue was converted into a mosque by the Arabs, and the mosque into
a church by the Christians, so that, properly, it is none of the three,
although it still preserves the character of the mosque, and the eye
surveys it with delight, and the imagination follows from arch to arch
the fleeting images of a sensuous paradise.
When I had seen Santa Maria la Blanca, I had not the strength to see
anything else, and, refusing all the tempting propositions of the
guide, I told him to lead me back to the hotel. After a long walk
through a labyrinth of narrow, deserted streets we arrived there; I put
a _peseta_ and a half in the hand of my innocent assassin, who found
the fee too small, and asked (how I laughed at the word!) for a little
_gratificacion_.
I went into the dining-room to eat a chop or _chuleta_ (which is
pronounced _cuileta_), as the Spanish call it--a name at which they
would turn up their noses in some of the provinces of Italy.
Toward evening I went to see the Alcazar. The name raises expectations
of a Moorish palace, but there is nothing Moorish about it except the
name. The building which one admires to-day was built in the reign of
Charles V. on the ruins of a castle which was in existence as early
as the eighth century, although the notices of it in contemporary
chronicles are vague. This edifice rises upon a height overlooking the
city, so that one sees its walls and towers from every point above the
level of the streets, and the foreigner finds it a sure landmark amid
the confusion and labyrinths of the city. I climbed the height by a
broad winding street, like that one which runs from the plain up to
the city, and found myself in front of the Alcazar. It is an immense
square palace, at whose corners rise four great towers that give it the
formidable appearance of a fortress. A vast square extends in front
of the façade, and all around it runs a chain of embattled bulwarks
of Oriental design. The entire building is of a decided chalky color,
relieved by a thousand varied shades of that powerful painter of
monuments, the burning sun of the South, and it appears even lighter
against the very clear sky upon which the majestic form of the building
is outlined.
The façade is carved in arabesques in a manner at once dignified and
elegant. The interior of the palace corresponds with the exterior: it
is a vast court surrounded by two orders of graceful arches, one above
the other, supported by slender columns, with a monumental marble
staircase starting at the centre of the side opposite the door, and a
little way above the pavement divides into two parts that lead to the
interior of the palace, the one on the right, the other on the left.
To enjoy the beauty of the courtyard it is necessary to stand on the
landing where the staircase separates: from that point one comprehends
at a glance the complete harmony of the edifice, which inspires a sense
of cheerfulness and pleasure, like fine music performed by hidden
musicians.
Excepting the courtyard, the other parts of the building--the
stairways, the rooms, the corridors--everything is in ruins or falling
to ruins. They were at work turning the palace into a military school,
whitewashing the walls, breaking down the partitions to make great
dormitories, numbering the doors, and converting the palace into
a barracks. Nevertheless, they left intact the great subterranean
chambers which were used for stables at the time of Charles V., and
which are still able to hold several thousand horses. The guide made
me approach a window from which I looked down into an abyss that
gave me an idea of their vastness. Then we climbed a series of unsteady
steps into one of the four towers; the guide opened with pincers and a
hammer a window that had been nailed fast, and with the air of one who
was announcing a miracle said to me, "Look, sir!"
[Illustration: _Alcazar and Bridge of San Martin, Toledo_]
It was a wonderful panorama. One had a bird's-eye view of the city of
Toledo, street by street and house by house, as if one were looking at
a map spread upon a table: here the cathedral, rising above the city
like a measureless castle, and making all the buildings around it seem
as small as toy houses; there the balcony of _San Juan de las Reyes_,
crowned with statues; yonder the embattled towers of the New Gate, the
circus, the Tagus running at the foot of the city between its rocky
banks; and beyond the river, opposite the bridge of Alcantara, on a
precipitous crag, the ruins of the ancient castle of San Servando;
still farther off a verdant plain, and then rocks, hills, and mountains
as far as the eye can see; and over all a very clear sky and the
setting sun, which gilded the summits of the old buildings and flashed
on the river like a great silver scarf.
While I was contemplating this magic spectacle the guide, who had
read the _History of Toledo_ and wished me to know the fact, was
telling all sorts of stories with that manner, half poetical and half
facetious, which is distinctive of the Spaniards of the South. Above
all, he wished to explain the history of the work of fortification,
and although, where he said that he saw clear and unmistakable remains
which he pointed out to me, I saw nothing at all, I succeeded,
nevertheless, in learning something about it.
He told me that Toledo had been thrice surrounded by a wall, and that
the traces of all three walls were still clear. "Look!" he said;
"follow the line which my finger indicates: that is the Roman wall,
the innermost one, and its ruins are still visible. Now look a little
farther on: that other one beyond it is the Gothic wall. Now let your
glance describe a curve which embraces the first two: that is the
Moorish wall, the most recent. But the Moors also built an inner wall
on the ruins of the Roman wall: this you can easily see. Then observe
the direction of the streets, which converge toward the highest point
of the city; follow the line of the roofs--here, so; you will see that
all the streets go up zigzag, and they were built purposely in this
manner, so that the city could be defended even after the walls had
been destroyed; and the houses were built so close one against another
in order that it would be possible to jump from roof to roof, you
see; and then the Arabs have left it in their writings. This is the
reason that the Spanish gentlemen from Madrid make me laugh when they
come here and say, 'Pooh! what streets!' You see, they do not know a
particle of history: if they knew the least bit, if they read a little
instead of spending their days on the Prado and in the Recoleto, they
would understand that there is a reason for the narrow streets of
Toledo, and that Toledo is not a city for ignoramuses."