In October of the year 1555 a strange procession passed through a rugged
and hilly region of Spain. At its head rode an alcalde with a posse of
alguazils. Next came a gouty old man in a horse-litter, like a prisoner in
the hands of a convoy of officers of justice. A body of horsemen followed,
and in the rear toiled onward a long file of baggage-mules.
As the train advanced into the more settled regions of the country it
became evident that the personage thus convoyed was not a prisoner, but a
person of the highest consequence. On each side of the road the people
assembled to see him pass, with a show of deep respect. At the towns along
the route the great lords of the neighborhood gathered in his honor, and
in the cities the traveller was greeted by respectful deputations of
officials. When Burgos was approached the great constable of Castile, with
a strong retinue of attendants, came to meet him, and when he passed
through the illuminated streets of that city the bells rang out in merry
peals, while enthusiastic people filled the streets.
It was not a prisoner to the law, but a captive to gout, who thus passed
in slow procession through the lands and cities of Spain. It was the royal
Charles, King of Spain and the Netherlands, Emperor of Germany, and
magnate of America, at that time the greatest monarch in Europe, lord of a
realm greater than that of Charlemagne, who made his way with this small
following and in this simple manner through the heart of his Spanish
dominions. He had done what few kings have done before or since,
voluntarily thrown off his crown in the height of his power,--weary of
reigning, surfeited with greatness,--and retired to spend the remainder of
his life in privacy, to dwell far from the pomp of courts in a simple
community of monks.
The next principal halting-place of the retired monarch was the city of
Valladolid, once the capital of the kingdom and still a rich and splendid
place, adorned with stately public buildings and the palaces of great
nobles. Here he remained for some time resting from his journey, his house
thronged with visitors of distinction. Among these, one day, came the
court fool. Charles touched his cap to him.
"Welcome, brother," said the jester; "do you raise your hat to me because
you are no longer emperor?"
"No," answered Charles, "but because this sorry courtesy is all I have
left to give you."
On quitting Valladolid Charles seemed to turn his back finally on the
world, with all its pomps and vanities. Before leaving he took his last
dinner in public, and bade an affectionate farewell to his sisters, his
daughter, and his grandson, who had accompanied him thus far in his
journey. A large train of nobles and cavaliers rode with him to the gates
of the city, where he courteously dismissed them, and moved onward
attended only by his simple train.
"Heaven be praised!" said the world-weary monarch, as he came nearer his
place of retreat; "after this no more visits of ceremony, no more
receptions!"
But he was not yet rid of show and ostentation. Spending the night at
Medina del Campo, at the house of a rich banker named Rodrigo de Duenas,
the latter, by way of display, warmed the emperor's room with a brazier of
pure gold, in which, in place of common fuel, sticks of cinnamon were
burned. Neither the perfume nor the ostentation was agreeable to Charles,
and on leaving the next morning he punished his over-officious host by
refusing to permit him to kiss his hand, and by causing him to be paid for
the night's lodging like a common inn-keeper.
This was not the first time that cinnamon had been burned in the emperor's
chamber. The same was done by the Fuggers, the famous bankers of Germany,
who had loaned Charles large sums for his expedition against Tunis, and
entertained him at their house on his return. In this case the emperor was
not offended by the odor of cinnamon, since it was modified by a different
and more agreeable perfume. The bankers, grateful to Charles for breaking
up a pestilent nest of Barbary pirates, threw the receipts for the money
they had loaned him into the fire, turning their gold into ashes in his
behalf. This was a grateful sacrifice to the emperor, whose war-like
enterprises consumed more money than he could readily command.
The vicinity of Yuste was reached late in November. Here resided a
community of Jeronymite monks, in whose monastery he proposed to pass the
remainder of his days. There were two roads by which it could be
reached,--one an easy, winding highway, the other a rugged mountain-pass.
But by the latter four days would be saved, and Charles, tired of the long
journey, determined to take it, difficult as it might prove.
He had been warned against the mountain pathway, and found it fully as
formidable as he had been told. A body of hardy rustics were sent ahead,
with pikes, shovels, and other implements, to clear the way. But it was
choked here and there with fallen stones and trunks of trees which they
were unable to move. In some localities the path wound round dizzy
precipices, where a false step would have been fatal. To any traveller it
would have been very difficult; to the helpless emperor it was frightfully
dangerous. The peasants carried the litter; in bad parts of the way the
emperor was transferred to his chair; in very perilous places the vigorous
peasants carried him in their arms.
Several hours of this hard toil passed before they reached the summit. As
they emerged from the dark defiles of the _Puerto Nuevo_--now known as "The
Emperor's Pass"--Charles exclaimed, "It is the last pass I shall go through
in this world, save that of death."
The descent was much more easy, and soon the gray walls of Yuste, half
hidden in chestnut-groves, came in sight. Yet it was three months before
the traveller reached there, for the apartments preparing for him were far
from ready, and he had to wait throughout the winter in the vicinity, in a
castle of the Count of Oropesa, and in the midst of an almost continual
downpour of rain, which turned the roads to mire, the country almost to a
swamp, and the mountains to vapor-heaps. The threshold of his new home was
far from an agreeable one.
Charles V. had long contemplated the step he had thus taken. He was only
fifty-five years of age, but he had become an old man at fifty, and was
such a victim to the gout as to render his life a constant torment and the
duties of royalty too heavy to be borne. So, taking a resolution which few
monarchs have taken before or since, he gave up his power and resolved to
spend the remainder of his life in such quiet and peace as a retired
monastery would give. Spain and its subject lands he transferred to his
son Philip, who was to gain both fame and infamy as Philip II. He did his
best, also, to transfer the imperial crown of Germany to his fanatical and
heartless heir, but his brother Ferdinand, who was in power there, would
not consent, and he was obliged to make Ferdinand emperor of Germany, and
break in two the vast dominion which he had controlled.
Charles had only himself to thank for his gout. Like many a man in humbler
life, he had abused the laws of nature until they had avenged themselves
upon him. The pleasures of the table with him far surpassed those of
intellectual or business pursuits. He had an extraordinary appetite, equal
to that of any royal _gourmand_ of whom history speaks, and, while leaving
his power behind him, he brought this enemy with him into his retirement.
[Illustration: CHARLES V. APPROACHING YUSTE.]