THE SPANISH BROTHERS.
THE
SPANISH BROTHERS
A·TALE·OF·THE·SIXTEENTH·CENTURY.
[Illustration: THE ALGUAZILS PRODUCING THEIR WARRANT FOR ARREST.
_page 215_]
T. NELSON AND SONS
_LONDON, EDINBURGH AND NEW YORK._
THE
SPANISH BROTHERS.
A Tale of the Sixteenth Century.
_By the Author of
"THE CZAR: A TALE OF THE FIRST NAPOLEON."
&c. &c._
* * * * *
"Thy loving-kindness is better than life."
* * * * *
London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
* * * * *
1888.
CONTENTS.
I. BOYHOOD, 9
II. THE MONK'S LETTER, 18
III. SWORD AND CASSOCK, 22
IV. ALCALA DE HENAREZ, 28
V. DON CARLOS FORGETS HIMSELF, 34
VI. DON CARLOS FORGETS HIMSELF STILL FURTHER, 44
VII. THE DESENGANO, 49
VIII. THE MULETEER, 58
IX. EL DORADO FOUND, 70
X. DOLORES, 78
XI. THE LIGHT ENJOYED, 88
XII. THE LIGHT DIVIDED FROM THE DARKNESS, 91
XIII. SEVILLE, 105
XIV. THE MONKS OF SAN ISODRO, 116
XV. THE GREAT SANBENITO, 124
XVI. WELCOME HOME, 131
XVII. DISCLOSURES, 138
XVIII. THE AGED MONK, 148
XIX. TRUTH AND FREEDOM, 152
XX. THE FIRST DROP OF A THUNDER SHOWER, 160
XXI. BY THE GUADALQUIVIR, 166
XXII. THE FLOOD-GATES OPENED, 173
XXIII. THE REIGN OF TERROR, 181
XXIV. A GLEAM OF LIGHT, 191
XXV. WAITING, 198
XXVI. DON GONSALVO'S REVENGE, 205
XXVII. MY BROTHER'S KEEPER, 217
XXVIII. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND, 226
XXIX. A FRIEND AT COURT, 233
XXX. THE CAPTIVE, 248
XXXI. MINISTERING ANGELS, 255
XXXII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, 260
XXXIII. ON THE OTHER SIDE, 271
XXXIV. FRAY SEBASTIAN'S TROUBLE, 282
XXXV. THE EVE OF THE AUTO, 290
XXXVI. "THE HORRIBLE AND TREMENDOUS SPECTACLE," 300
XXXVII. SOMETHING ENDED AND SOMETHING BEGUN, 307
XXXVIII. NUERA AGAIN, 313
XXXIX. LEFT BEHIND, 321
XL. "A SATISFACTORY PENITENT," 329
XLI. MORE ABOUT THE PENITENT, 338
XLII. QUIET DAYS, 347
XLIII. EL DORADO FOUND AGAIN, 357
XLIV. ONE PRISONER SET FREE, 367
XLV. TRIUMPHANT, 374
XLVI. IS IT TOO LATE? 382
XLVII. THE DOMINICAN PRIOR, 390
XLVIII. SAN ISODRO ONCE MORE, 399
XLIX. FAREWELL, 409
THE SPANISH BROTHERS.
I.
Boyhood.
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
LONGFELLOW.
On one of the green slopes of the Sierra Morena, shaded by a few
cork-trees, and with wild craggy heights and bare brown wastes
stretching far above, there stood, about the middle of the sixteenth
century, a castle even then old and rather dilapidated. It had once
been a strong place, but was not very spacious; and certainly,
according to our modern ideas of comfort, the interior could not have
been a particularly comfortable dwelling-place. A large proportion
of it was occupied by the great hall, which was hung with faded,
well-repaired tapestry, and furnished with oaken tables, settles, and
benches, very elaborately carved, but bearing evident marks of age.
Narrow unglazed slits in the thick wall admitted the light and air;
and beside one of these, on a gloomy autumn morning, two boys stood
together, watching the rain that poured down without intermission.
They were dressed exactly alike, in loose jackets of blue cloth,
homespun, indeed, but so fresh and neatly-fashioned as to look more
becoming than many a costlier dress. Their long stockings were of
silk, and their cuffs and wide shirt-frills of fine Holland, carefully
starched and plaited. The elder--a very handsome lad, who looked
fourteen at least, but was really a year younger--had raven hair,
black sparkling eager eyes, good but strongly-marked features, and
a complexion originally dark, and well-tanned by exposure to sun
and wind. A broader forehead, wider nostrils, and a weaker mouth,
distinguished the more delicate-looking younger brother, whose hair was
also less dark, and his complexion fairer.
"Rain--rain! Will it rain for ever?" cried, in a tone of impatience,
the elder, whose name was Juan; or rather, his proper style and title
(and very angry would he have felt had any part been curtailed or
omitted) was Don Juan Rodrigo Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya. He
was of the purest blood in Spain; by the father's side, of noblest
Castilian lineage; by the mother's, of an ancient Asturian family. Well
he knew it, and proudly he held up his young head in consequence, in
spite of poverty, and of what was still worse, the mysterious blight
that had fallen on the name and fortunes of his house, bringing poverty
in its train, as the least of its attendant evils.
"'Rising early will not make the daylight come sooner,' nor watching
bring the sunshine," said the quick-witted Carlos, who, apt in learning
whatever he heard, was already an adept in the proverbial philosophy
which was then, and is now, the inheritance of his race.
"True enough. So let us fetch the canes, and have a merry play. Or,
better still, the foils for a fencing match."
Carlos acquiesced readily, though apparently without pleasure. In all
outward things, such as the choice of pursuits and games, Juan was
the unquestioned leader; Carlos never dreamed of disputing his fiat.
Yet in other, and really more important matters, it was Carlos who,
quite unconsciously to himself, performed the part of guide to his
stronger-willed but less thoughtful brother.
Juan now fetched the carefully guarded foils with which the boys were
accustomed to practise fencing; either, as now, simply for their own
amusement, or under the instructions of the gray-haired Diego, who had
served with their father in the Emperor's wars, and was now mayor-domo,
butler, and seneschal, all in one. He it was, moreover, from whom
Carlos had learned his store of proverbs.
"Now stand up. Oh, you are too low; wait a moment." Juan left the hall
again, but quickly returned with a large heavy volume, which he threw
on the floor, directing his brother to take his stand upon it.
Carlos hesitated. "But what if the Fray should catch us using our great
Horace after such a fashion?"
"I just wish he might," answered Juan, with a mischievous sparkle in
his black eyes.
The matter of height being thus satisfactorily adjusted, the game
began, and for some time went merrily forward. To do the elder brother
justice, he gave every advantage to his less active and less skilful
companion; often shouting (with very unnecessary exertion of his lungs)
words of direction or warning about fore-thrust, side-thrust, back-hand
strokes, hitting, and parrying. At last, however, in an unlucky moment,
Carlos, through some awkward movement of his own in violation of the
rules of the game, received a blow on the cheek from his brother's
foil, severe enough to make the blood flow. Juan instantly sprang
forward, full of vexation, with an "Ay de mi!" on his lips. But Carlos
turned away from him, covering his face with both hands; and Juan, much
to his disgust, soon heard the sound of a heavy sob.
"You little coward!" he exclaimed, "to weep for a blow. Shame--shame
upon you."
"Coward yourself, to call me ill names when I cannot fight you,"
retorted Carlos, as soon as he could speak for weeping.
"That is ever your way, little tearful. _You_ to talk of going to find
our father! A brave man you would make to sail to the Indies and fight
the savages. Better sit at home and spin, with Mother Dolores."
Far too deeply stung to find a proverb suited to the occasion, or
indeed to make any answer whatever, Carlos, still in tears, left the
hall with hasty footsteps, and took refuge in a smaller apartment that
opened into it.
The hangings of this room were comparatively new and very beautiful,
being tastefully wrought with the needle; and the furniture was much
more costly than that in the hall. There was also a glazed window, and
near this Carlos took his stand, looking moodily out on the falling
rain, and thinking hard thoughts of his brother, who had first hurt him
so sorely, then called him coward, and last, and far worst of all, had
taunted him with his unfitness for the task which, child as he was, his
whole heart and soul were bent on attempting.
But he could not quarrel very seriously with Juan, nor indeed could he
for any considerable time do without him. Before long his anger began
to give way to utter loneliness and discomfort, and a great longing to
"be friends" again.
Nor was Juan much more comfortable, though he told himself he was
quite right to reprove his brother sharply for his lack of manliness;
and that he would be ready to die for shame if Carlos, when he went
to Seville, should disgrace himself before his cousins by crying when
he was hurt, like a baby or a girl. It is true that in his heart he
rather wished he himself had held his peace, or at least had spoken
more gently; but he braved it out, and stamped up and down the hall,
singing, in as cheery a voice as he could command,--
"The Cid rode through the horse-shoe gate, Omega like it stood,
A symbol of the moon that waned before the Christian rood.
He was all sheathed in golden mail, his cloak was white as shroud;
His vizor down, his sword unsheathed, corpse still he rode,
and proud."
"Ruy!" Carlos called at last, just a little timidly, from the next
room--"Ruy!"
Ruy is the Spanish diminutive of Rodrigo, Juan's second name, and the
one by which, for reasons of his own, it pleased him best to be called;
so the very use of it by Carlos was a kind of overture for peace.
Juan came right gladly at the call; and having convinced himself, by
a moment's inspection, that his brother's hurt signified nothing, he
completed the reconciliation by putting his arm, in familiar boyish
fashion, round his neck. Thus, without a word spoken, the brief quarrel
was at an end. It happened that the rain was over also, and the sun
just beginning to shine out again. It was, indeed, an effect of the
sunlight which had given Carlos a pretext for calling Juan again to his
side.
"Look, Ruy," he said, "the sun shines on our father's words!"
These children had a secret of their own, carefully guarded, with the
strange reticence of childhood, even from Dolores, who had been the
faithful nurse of their infancy, and who still cast upon their young
lives the only shadow of motherly love they had ever known--a shadow,
it is true, pale and faint, yet the best thing that had fallen to their
lot: for even Juan could remember neither parent; while Carlos had
never seen his father's face, and his mother had died at his birth.
Yet it happened that in the imaginary world which the children had
created around them, and where they chiefly lived, their unknown father
was by far the most important personage. All great nations in their
childhood have their legends, their epics, written or unwritten, and
their hero, one or many of them, upon whose exploits Fancy rings its
changes at will during the ages when national language, literature, and
character are in process of development. So it is with individuals.
Children of imagination--especially if they are brought up in
seclusion, and guarded from coarse and worldly companionship--are sure
to have their legends, perhaps their unwritten epic, certainly their
hero. Nor are these dreams of childhood idle fancies. In their time
they are good and beautiful gifts of God--healthful for the present,
helpful for after-years. There is deep truth in the poets words, "When
thou art a man, reverence the dreams of thy youth."
The Cid Campeador, the Charlemagne, and the King Arthur of our youthful
Spanish brothers, was no other than Don Juan Alvarez de Menaya, second
and last Conde de Nuera. And as the historical foundation of national
romance is apt to be of the slightest--nay, the testimony of credible
history is often ruthlessly set at defiance--so it is with the romances
of children; nor did the present instance form any exception. All the
world said that their father's bones lay bleaching on a wild Araucanian
battle-field; but this went for nothing in the eyes of Juan and
Carlos Alvarez. Quite enough to build their childish faith upon was a
confidential whisper of Dolores--when she thought them sleeping--to the
village barber-surgeon, who was helping her to tend them through some
childish malady: "Dead? Would to all the Saints, and the blessed Queen
of Heaven, that we only had assurance of it!"
They had, however, more than this. Almost every day they read and
re-read those mysterious words, traced with a diamond by their father's
hand--as it never entered their heads to doubt--on the window of the
room which had once been his favourite place of retirement:--
"El Dorado
Yo hé trovado."
"I have found El Dorado."
No eyes but their own had ever noticed this inscription; and marvellous
indeed was the superstructure their fancy contrived to raise on the
slight and airy foundation of its enigmatical five words. They had
heard from the lips of Diego many of the fables current at the period
about the "golden country" of which Spanish adventurers dreamed so
wildly, and which they sought so vainly in the New World. They were
aware that their father in his early days had actually made a voyage to
the Indies: and they had thoroughly persuaded themselves, therefore, of
nothing less than that he was the fortunate discoverer of El Dorado;
that he had returned thither, and was reigning there as a king, rich
and happy--only, perhaps, longing for his brave boys to come and join
him. And join him one day they surely would, even though unheard of
dangers (of which giants twelve feet high and fiery dragons--things in
which they quite believed--were among the least) might lie in their
way, thick as the leaves of the cork-trees when the autumn winds swept
down through the mountain gorges.
"Look, Ruy," said Carlos, "the light is on our father's words!"
"So it is! What good fortune is coming now? Something always comes to
us when they look like that."
"What do you wish for most?"
"A new bow, and a set of real arrows tipped with steel. And you?"
"Well--the 'Chronicles of the Cid,' I think."
"I should like that too. But I should like better still--"
"What?"
"That Fray Sebastian would fall ill of the rheum, and find the mountain
air too cold for his health; or get some kind of good place at his
beloved Complutum."
"We might go farther and fare worse, like those that go to look for
better bread than wheaten," returned Carlos, laughing. "Wish again,
Juan; and truly this time--your wish of wishes."
"What else but to find my father?"
"I mean, next to that."
"Well, truly, to go once more to Seville, to see the shops, and the
bull-fights, and the great Church; to tilt with our cousins, and dance
the cachuca with Doña Beatriz."
"That would not I. There be folk that go out for wool, and come home
shorn. Though I like Doña Beatriz as well as any one."
"Hush! here comes Dolores."
A tall, slender woman, robed in black serge, relieved by a neat white
head-dress, entered the room. Dark hair, threaded with silver, and
pale, sunken, care-worn features, made her look older than she really
was. She had once been beautiful; and it seemed as though her beauty
had been burned up in the glare of some fierce agony, rather than had
faded gradually beneath the suns of passing years. With the silent
strength of a deep, passionate heart, that had nothing else left to
cling to, Dolores loved the children of her idolized mistress and
foster-sister. It was chiefly her talent and energy that kept together
the poor remains of their fortune. She surrounded them with as many
inexpensive comforts as possible; still, like a true Spaniard, she
would at any moment have sacrificed their comfort to the maintenance of
their rank, or the due upholding of their dignity. On this occasion she
held an open letter in her hand.
"Young gentlemen," she said, using the formal style of address no
familiarity ever induced her to drop, "I bring your worships good
tidings. Your noble uncle, Don Manuel, is about to honour your castle
with his presence."
"Good tidings indeed! I am as glad as if you had given me a satin
doublet. He may take us back with him to Seville," cried Juan.
"He might have stayed at home, with good luck and my blessing,"
murmured Carlos.
"Whether you go to Seville or no, Señor Don Juan," said Dolores,
gravely, "may very probably depend on the contentment you give your
noble uncle respecting your progress in your Latin, your grammar, and
your other humanities."
"A green fig for my noble uncle's contentment!" said Juan,
irreverently. "I know already as much as any gentleman need, and ten
times more than he does himself."
"Ay, truly," struck in Carlos, coming forward from the embrasure of the
window; "my uncle thinks a man of learning--except he be a fellow of
college, perchance--not worth his ears full of water. I heard him say
such only trouble the world, and bring sorrow on themselves and all
their kin. So, Juan, it is you who are likely to find favour in his
sight, after all."
"Señor Don Carlos, what ails your face?" asked Dolores, noticing now
for the first time the marks of the hurt he had received.
Both the boys spoke together.
"Only a blow caught in fencing; all through my own awkwardness. It is
nothing," said Carlos, eagerly.
"I hurt him with my foil. It was a mischance. I am very sorry," said
Juan, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder.
Dolores wisely abstained from exhorting them to greater carefulness.
She only said,--
"Young gentlemen who mean to be knights and captains must learn to give
hard blows and take them." Adding mentally--"Bless the lads! May they
stand by each other as loyally ten or twenty years hence as they do
now."
II.
The Monk's Letter.
"Quoth the good fat friar,
Wiping his own mouth--'twas refection time."
R. BROWNING.
Fray Sebastian Gomez, to the Honourable Señor Felipe de Santa Maria,
Licentiate of Theology, residing at Alcala de Henarez, commonly called
Complutum.
"Most Illustrious and Reverend Señor,--
"In my place of banishment, amidst these gloomy and inhospitable
mountains, I frequently solace my mind by reflections upon the
friends of my youth, and the happy period spent in those ancient
halls of learning, where in the morning of our days you and I
together attended the erudite prelections of those noble and most
orthodox Grecians, Demetrius Ducas and Nicetus Phaustus, or sat
at the feet of that venerable patriarch of science, Don Fernando
Nuñez. Fortunate are you, O friend, in being able to pass your days
amidst scenes so pleasant and occupations so congenial; while I,
unhappy, am compelled by fate, and by the neglect of friends and
patrons, to take what I may have, in place of having what I might
wish. I am, alas! under the necessity of wearing out my days in
the ungrateful occupation of instilling the rudiments of humane
learning into the dull and careless minds of children, whom to
instruct is truly to write upon sand or water. But not to weary
your excellent and illustrious friendship with undue prolixity,
I shall briefly relate the circumstances which led to my sojourn
here."
(The good friar proceeds with his personal narrative, but by no means
briefly; and as it has, moreover, little or nothing to do with our
story, it may be omitted with advantage.)
"In this desert, as I may truly style it" (he continues),
"nutriment for the corporeal frame is as poor and bare as nutriment
for the intellectual part is altogether lacking. Alas! for the
golden wine of Xerez, that ambery nectar wherewith we were wont
to refresh our jaded spirits! I may not mention now our temperate
banquets: the crisp red mullet, the succulent pasties, the
delicious ham of Estremadura, the savoury olla podrida. Here beef
is rarely seen, veal never. Our olla is of lean mutton (if it be
not rather of the flesh of goats), washed down with bad vinegar,
called wine by courtesy, and supplemented by a few naughty figs or
roasted chestnuts, with cheese of goat's milk, hard as the heads
of the rustics who make it. Certainly I am experiencing the truth
of the proverb, 'A bad cook is an inconvenient relation.' And
marvellously would a cask of Xerez wine, if, through the kindness
of my generous friends, it could find its way to these remote
mountains, mend my fare, and in all probability prolong my days.
The provider here is an antiquated, sour-faced duenna, who rules
everything in this old ruin of a castle, where poverty and pride
are the only things to be found in plenty. She is an Asturian, and
came hither in the train of the late unfortunate countess. Like all
of that race, where the very shepherds style themselves nobles,
she is proud; but it is just to add that she is also active,
industrious, and thrifty to a miracle.
"But to pass on to affairs of greater importance. I have presumed,
on the part of my illustrious friend, some acquaintance with the
sorrowful history of my young pupils' family. You will remember
the sudden shadow that fell, like the eclipse of one of the bright
orbs of heaven, upon the fame and fortunes of the Conde de Nuera,
known, some fifteen years ago or more, as a brilliant soldier and
courtier, and personal favourite of his Imperial Majesty. There
was a rumour of some black treason, I know not what, but men said
it even struck at the life of the great Emperor, his friend and
patron. It is supposed that the Emperor (whom God preserve!), in
his just wrath remembered mercy, and generously saved the honour,
while he punished the crime, of his ungrateful servant. At all
events, the world was told that the Count had accepted a command in
the Indies, and that he sailed thither from some port in the Low
Countries to which the Emperor had summoned him, without returning
to Spain. It is believed that, to save his neck from the axe and
his name from dire disgrace, he signed away, by his own act, his
large property to the Emperor and to Holy Church, reserving only
a pittance for his children. One year afterwards, his death, in
battle with the Araucanian savages, was announced, and, if I am
not mistaken, His Majesty was gracious enough to have masses said
for his soul. But, at the time, the tongue of rumour whispered a
far more dreadful ending to the tale. Men hinted that, upon the
discovery of his treason, he despaired alike of human and divine
compassion, and perished miserably by his own hand. But all
possible pains were taken, for the sake of the family, to hush up
the affair; and nothing certain has ever, or probably will ever,
transpire. I am doubtful whether I am not a transgressor in having
committed to paper what is written above. Still, as it is written,
it shall stand. With you, most illustrious and honourable friend,
all things are safe.
"The youths whom it is my task to instruct are not deficient in
parts. But the elder, Don Juan, is idle and insolent; and withal,
of so fiery a temper, that he will brook no manner of correction.
The younger, Don Carlos, is more toward in disposition, and really
apt at his humanities, were it not that his good-for-nothing
brother is for ever leading him into mischief. Don Manuel Alvarez,
their uncle and guardian, who is a shrewd man of the world, will
certainly cause him to enter the Church. But I pray, as I am
bound in Christian charity, that it may not occur to him to make
the lad a Minorite friar, since, as I can testify from sorrowful
experience, such go barely enough through this wicked and miserable
world.
"In conclusion, I entreat of you, most illustrious friend, with
the utmost despatch and carefulness, to commit this writing to the
flames; and so I pray our Lady and the blessed St. Luke, upon whose
vigil I write, to have you in their good keeping.--
Your unworthy brother, "SEBASTIAN."
Thus, with averted face, or head shaken doubtfully, or murmured "Ay de
mi," the world spoke of him, of whom his own children, happy at least
in this, knew scarce anything, save words that seemed like a cry of
joy.
III.
Sword and Cassock.
"The helmet and the cap make houses strong."
SPANISH PROVERB.
Don Manuel Alvarez stayed for several days at Nuera, as the half-ruined
castle in the Sierra Morena was styled. Grievous, during this period,
were the sufferings of Dolores, and unceasing her efforts to provide
suitable accommodation, not merely for the stately and fastidious guest
himself, but also for the troop of retainers he saw fit to bring with
him, comprising three or four personal attendants, and half a score of
men-at-arms--the last perhaps really necessary for a journey through
that wild district. Don Manuel scarcely enjoyed the situation more than
did his entertainers, but he esteemed it his duty to pay an occasional
visit to the estate of his orphan nephews, to see that it was properly
taken care of. Perhaps the only member of the party quite at his ease
was the worthy Fray Sebastian, a good-natured, self-indulgent friar,
with a better education and more refined tastes than the average
of his order; fond of eating and drinking, fond of gossip, fond of
a little superficial literature, and not fond of troubling himself
about anything. He was comforted by the improved fare Don Manuel's
visit introduced; and was, moreover, soon relieved from his very
natural apprehensions that the guardian of his pupils might express
discontent at the slowness of their progress. He speedily discovered
that Don Manuel did not care to have his nephews made good scholars:
he only cared to have them ready, in two or three years, to go to the
University of Complutum, or to that of Salamanca, where they might
remain until they were satisfactorily provided for--one in the Army,
the other in the Church.
As for Juan and Carlos, they felt, with the sure instinct of children,
in this respect something like that of animals, that their uncle had
little love for them. Juan dreaded, more than under the circumstances
he need have done, too careful inquiries into his progress; and
Carlos, while he stood in great outward awe of his uncle, all the time
contrived to despise him in his heart, because he neither knew Latin,
nor could repeat any of the ballads of the Cid.
On the third day of his visit, after dinner, which was at noon,
Don Manuel solemnly seated himself in the great carved armchair
that stood on the estrada at one end of the hall, and summoned his
nephews to his side. He was a tall, wiry-looking man, with a narrow
forehead, thin lips, and a pointed beard. His dress was of the finest
mulberry-coloured cloth, turned back with velvet; everything about him
was rich, handsome, and in good keeping, but without extravagance. His
manner was dignified, perhaps a little pompous, like that of a man bent
upon making the most of himself, as he had unquestionably made the most
of his fortune.
He first addressed Juan, whom he gravely reminded that his father's
_imprudence_ had left him nothing save that poor ruin of a castle,
and a few barren acres of rocky ground, at which the boy's eyes
flashed, and he shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip. Don Manuel then
proceeded, at some length, to extol the noble profession of arms as
the road to fame and fortune. This kind of language proved much more
acceptable to his nephew, and looking up, he said promptly, "Yes,
señor my uncle, I will gladly be a soldier, as all my fathers were."
"Well spoken. And when thou art old enough, I promise to use my
influence to obtain for thee a good appointment in His Imperial
Majesty's army. I trust thou wilt honour thine ancient name."
"You may trust me," said Juan, in slow, earnest tones. Then raising his
head, he went on more rapidly: "Beside his own name, Juan, my father
gave me that of Rodrigo, borne by the Cid Ruy Diaz, the Campeador,
meaning no doubt to show--"
"Peace, boy!" Don Miguel interrupted, cutting short the only words
that his nephew had ever spoken really from his heart in his presence,
with as much unconsciousness as a countryman might set his foot on a
glow-worm. "Thou wert never named Rodrigo after thy Cid and his idle
romances. Thy father called thee so after some madcap friend of his
own, of whom the less spoken the better."
"My father's friend must have been good and noble, like himself," said
Juan proudly, almost defiantly.
"Young man," returned Don Manuel severely, and lifting his eyebrows as
if in surprise at his audacity, "learn that a humbler tone and more
courteous manners would become thee in the presence of thy superiors."
Then turning haughtily away from him, he addressed himself to Carlos:
"As for thee, nephew Carlos, I hear with pleasure of thy progress in
learning. Fray Sebastian reports of thee that thou hast a good ready
wit and a retentive memory. Moreover, if I mistake not, sword cuts
are less in thy way than in thy brother's. The service of Holy Mother
Church will fit thee like a glove; and let me tell thee, boy, for thou
art old enough to understand me, 'tis a right good service. Churchmen
eat well and drink well--churchmen sleep soft--churchmen spend their
days fingering the gold other folk toil and bleed for. For those who
have fair interest in high places, and shuffle their own cards deftly,
there be good fat benefices, comfortable canonries, and perhaps--who
knows?--a rich bishopric at the end of all; with a matter of ten
thousand hard ducats, at the least, coming in every year to save or
spend, or lend, if you like it better."
"Ten thousand ducats!" said Carlos, who had been gazing in his
uncle's face, his large blue eyes full of half-incredulous,
half-uncomprehending wonder.
"Ay, my son, that is about the least. The Archbishop of Seville has
sixty thousand every year, and more."
"Ten thousand ducats!" Carlos repeated again in a kind of awe-struck
whisper. "That would buy a ship."
"Yes," said Don Manuel, highly pleased with what he considered an
indication of precocious intelligence in money matters. "And an
excellent thought that is of thine, my son. A good ship chartered for
the Indies, and properly freighted, would bring thee back thy ducats
_well perfumed_.[1] For a ship is sailing while you are sleeping. As
the saying is, Let the idle man buy a ship or marry a wife. I perceive
thou art a youth of much ingenuity. What thinkest thou, then, of the
Church?"
[1] With good interest.
Carlos was still too much the child to say anything in answer except,
"If it please you, señor my uncle, I should like it well."
And thus, with rather more than less consideration of their tastes and
capacities than was usual at the time, the future of Juan and Carlos
Alvarez was decided.
When the brothers were alone together, Juan said, "Dolores must have
been praying Our Lady for us, Carlos. An appointment in the army is
the very thing for me. I shall perform some great feat of arms, like
Alphonso Vives, for instance, who took the Duke of Saxony prisoner; I
shall win fame and promotion, and then come back and ask my uncle for
the hand of his ward, Doña Beatriz."
"Ah, and I--if I enter the Church, I can never marry," said Carlos
rather ruefully, and with a vague perception that his brother was to
have some good thing from which he must be shut out for ever.
"Of course not; but you will not care."
"Never a whit," said the boy of twelve, very confidently. "I shall
ever have thee, Juan. And all the gold my uncle says churchmen win so
easily, I will save to buy our ship."
"I will also save, so that one day we may sail together. I will be the
captain, and thou shalt be the mass-priest, Carlos."
"But I marvel if it be true that churchmen grow rich so fast. The cura
in the village must be very poor, for Diego told me he took old Pedro's
cloak because he could not pay the dues for his wife's burial."
"More shame for him, the greedy vulture. Carlos, you and I have each
half a ducat; let us buy it back."
"With all my heart. It will be worth something to see the old man's
face."
"The cura is covetous rather than poor," said Juan. "But poor or no, no
one dreams of _your_ being a beggarly cura like that. It is only vulgar
fellows of whom they make parish priests in the country. You will get
some fine preferment, my uncle says. And he ought to know, for he has
feathered his own nest well."
"Why is he rich when we are poor, Juan? Where does he get all his
money?"
"The saints know best. He has places under Government. Something about
the taxes. I think, that he buys and sells again."
"In truth, he's not one to measure oil without getting some on his
fingers. How different from him our father must have been."
"Yes," said Juan. "_His_ riches, won by his own sword and battle-axe,
and his good right hand, will be worth having. Ay, and even worth
seeing; will they not?"
So these children dreamed of the future--that future of which nothing
was certain, except its unlikeness to their dreams. No thing was
certain; but what was only too probable? That the brave, free-hearted
boy, who had never willingly injured any one, and who was ready to
share his last coin with the poor man, would be hardened and brutalized
into a soldier of fortune, like those who massacred tribes of trusting,
unoffending Indians, or burned Flemish cities to the ground, amidst
atrocities that even now make hearts quail and ears tingle. And yet
worse, that the fair child beside him, whose life still shone with
that child-like innocence which is truly the dew of youth, as bright
and as fleeting, would be turned over, soul and spirit, to a system of
training too surely calculated to obliterate the sense of truth, to
deprave the moral taste, to make natural and healthful joys impossible,
and unlawful and degrading ones fearfully easy and attainable; to teach
the strong nature the love of power, the mean the love of money, and
all alike falsehood, cowardice, and cruelty.
IV.
Alcala de Henarez.
"Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,
Her tears and her smiles are worth evening's best light."
MOORE.
Few are the lives in which seven years come and go without witnessing
any great event. But whether they are eventful or no, the years that
change children into men must necessarily be important. Three years of
these important seven, Juan and Carlos Alvarez spent in their mountain
home; the remaining four at the University of Alcala, or Complutum.
The university training was of course needful for the younger brother,
who was intended for the Church. That the elder was allowed to share
the privilege, although destined for the profession of arms, was the
result of circumstances. His guardian, Don Manuel Alvarez, although
worldly and selfish, still retained a lingering regard for the memory
of that lost brother whose latest message to him had been, "Have my
boy carefully educated." And, moreover, he could scarcely have left
the high-spirited youth to wear out the years that must elapse before
he could obtain his commission in the dreary solitude of his mountain
home, with Diego and Dolores for companions, and for sole amusement, a
horse and a few greyhounds. Better that he should take his chance at
Alcala, and enjoy himself there as best he might, with no obligation
to severe study, and but one duty strongly impressed on him--that of
keeping out of debt.
He derived real benefit from the university training, though no
academic laurels rested on his brow, nor did he take a degree. Fray
Sebastian had taught him to read and write, and had even contrived to
pass him through the Latin grammar, of which he afterwards remembered
scarcely anything. To have urged him to learn more would have required
severity only too popular at the time; but this Fray Sebastian was too
timid, perhaps too prudent, to employ; while of interesting him in his
studies he never thought. At Alcala, however, he _was_ interested.
He did not care, indeed, for the ordinary scholastic course; but
he found in the college library all the books yet written in his
native language, and it was then the palmy age of Spanish literature.
Beginning with the poems and romances relating to the history of his
country, he read through everything; poetry, romance, history, science,
nothing came amiss to him, except perhaps theology. He studied with
especial care all that had reference to the story of the New World,
whither he hoped one day to go. He attended lectures; he even acquired
Latin enough to learn anything he really wanted to know, and could not
find except in that language.
Thus, at the end of his four years' residence, he had acquired a good
deal of useful though somewhat desultory information; and he had gained
the art of expressing himself in the purest Castilian, by tongue or
pen, with energy, vigour, and precision.
The sixteenth century gives us many specimens of such men--and
not a few of them were Spaniards--men of intelligence and general
cultivation, whose profession was that of arms, but who can handle the
pen with as much ease and dexterity as the sword; men who could not
only do valiant deeds, but also describe them when done, and that often
with singular effectiveness.
With his contemporaries Juan was popular, for his pride was
inaggressive, and his fiery temper was counterbalanced by great
generosity of disposition. During his residence at Alcala he fought
three duels; one to chastise a fellow-student who had called his
brother "Doña Carlotta," the other two on being provoked by the far
more serious offence of covert sneers at his father's memory. He also
caned severely a youth whom he did not think of sufficient rank to
honour with his sword, merely for observing, when Carlos won a prize
from him, "Don Carlos Alvarez unites genius and industry, as he would
need to do, who is the _son of his own good works_." But afterwards,
when the same student was in danger, through poverty, of having to give
up his career and return home, Juan stole into his chamber during his
absence, and furtively deposited four gold ducats (which he could ill
spare) between the leaves of his breviary.
Far more outwardly successful, but more really disastrous, was the
academic career of Carlos. As student of theology, most of his days,
and even some of his nights, were spent over the musty tomes of the
Schoolmen. Like living water on the desert, his young bright intellect
was poured out on the dreary sands of scholastic divinity (little else,
in truth, than "bad metaphysics"), to no appreciable result, except its
own utter waste. The kindred study of casuistry was even worse than
waste of intellect; it was positive defilement and degradation. It was
bad enough to tread with painful steps through roads that led nowhere;
but it became worse when the roads were miry, and the mud at every step
clung to the traveller's feet. Though here the parallel must cease; for
the moral defilement, alas! is most deadly and dangerous when least
felt or heeded.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, according as we look on the things seen
or the things not seen, Carlos offered to his instructors admirable
raw material out of which to fashion a successful, even a great
Churchman. He came to them a stripling of fifteen, innocent, truthful,
affectionate. He had "parts," as they styled them, and singularly good
ones. He had just the acute perception, the fine and ready wit, which
enabled him to cut his way through scholastic subtleties and conceits
with ease and credit. And, to do his teachers justice, they sharpened
his intellectual weapon well, until its temper grew as exquisite as
that of the scimitar of Saladin, which could divide a gauze kerchief by
the thread at a single blow. But how would it fare with such a weapon,
and with him who, having proved no other, could wield only that, in the
great conflict with the Dragon that guarded the golden apples of truth?
The question is idle, for truth was a luxury of which Carlos was not
taught to dream. To find truth, to think truth, to speak truth, to act
truth, was not placed before him as an object worth his attainment. Not
the _True_, but the _Best_, was always held up to him as the mark to be
aimed at: the best for the Church, the best for his family, the best
for himself.
He had much imagination, he was quick in invention and ready in
expedients; good gifts in themselves, but very perilous where the
sense of truth is lacking, or blunted. He was timid, as sensitive and
reflective natures are apt to be, perhaps also from physical causes.
And in those rough ages, the Church offered almost the only path in
which the timid man could not only escape infamy, but actually attain
to honour. In her service a strong head could more than atone for
weak nerves. Power, fame, wealth, might be gained in abundance by
the Churchman without stirring from his cell or chapel, or facing a
single drawn sword or loaded musket. Always provided that his subtle,
cultivated intellect could guide the rough hands that wielded the
swords, or, better still, the crowned head that commanded them.
There may have been even then at that very university (there certainly
were a few years earlier), a little band of students who had quite
other aims, and who followed other studies than those from which Carlos
hoped to reap worldly success and fame. These youths really desired
to find the truth and to keep it; and therefore they turned from
the pages of the Fathers and the Schoolmen to the Scriptures in the
original languages. But the "Biblists," as they were called, were few
and obscure. Carlos did not, during his whole term of residence, come
in contact with any of them. The study of Hebrew, and even of Greek,
was by this time discouraged; the breath of calumny had blown upon it,
linking it with all that was horrible in the eyes of Spanish Catholics,
summed up in the one word, heresy. Carlos never even dreamed of any
excursion out of the beaten path marked out for him, and which he was
travelling so successfully as to distance nearly all his competitors.
Both Juan and Carlos still clung fondly to their early dream; though
their wider knowledge had necessarily modified some of its details.
Carlos, at least, was not quite so confident as he had once been about
the existence of El Dorado; but he was as fully determined as Juan to
search out the mystery of their father's fate, and either to clasp his
living hand, or to stand beside his grave. The love of the brothers,
and their trust in each other, had only strengthened with their years,
and was beautiful to witness.
Occasional journeys to Seville, and brief intervals of making holiday
there, varied the monotony of their college life, and were not without
important results.
It was the summer of 1556. The great Carlos, so lately King and Kaiser,
had laid down the heavy burden of sovereignty, and would soon be on his
way to pleasant San Yuste, to mortify the flesh, and prepare for his
approaching end, as the world believed; but in reality to eat, drink,
and enjoy himself as well as his worn-out body and mind would allow
him. Just then our young Juan, healthy, hearty, hopeful, and with the
world before him, received the long wished-for appointment in the army
of the new King of all the Spains, Don Felipe Segunde.
The brothers have eaten their last temperate meal together, in their
handsome, though not very comfortable, lodging at Alcala. Juan pushes
away the wine-cup that Carlos would fain have refilled, and toys
absently with the rind of a melon. "Carlos," he says, without looking
his brother in the face, "remember that thing of which we spoke;"
adding in lower and more earnest tones, "and so may God remember thee."
"Surely, brother. You have, however, little to fear."
"Little to fear!" and there was the old quick flash in the dark eyes.
"Because, forsooth, to spare my aunt's selfishness and my cousin's
vanity, she must not be seen at dance, or theatre, or bull-feast? It is
enough for her to show her face on the Alameda or at mass to raise me
up a host of rivals."
"Still, my uncle favours you; and Doña Beatriz herself will not be
found of a different mind when you come home with your promotion and
your glory, as you will, my Ruy!"
"Then, brother, watch thou in my absence, and fail not to speak the
right word at the right moment, as thou canst so well. So shall I hold
myself at ease, and give my whole mind to the noble task of breaking
the heads of all the enemies of my liege lord the king."
Then, rising from the table, he girt on his new Toledo sword with its
embroidered belt, threw over his shoulders his short scarlet cloak, and
flung a gay velvet montero over his rich black curls. Don Carlos went
out with him, and mounting the horses a lad from their country-home
held in readiness, they rode together down the street and through the
gate of Alcala; Don Juan followed by many an admiring gaze, and many a
hearty "Vaya con Dios,"[2] from his late companions.
[2] Go with God.
V.
Don Carlos forgets himself.
"A fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind."
E.B. BROWNING.
Don Carlos Alvarez found Alcala, after his brother's departure,
insupportably dull; moreover, he had now almost finished his brilliant
university career. As soon, therefore, as he could, he took his degree
as Licentiate of Theology. He then wrote to inform his uncle of the
fact; adding that he would be glad to spend part of the interval that
must elapse before his ordination at Seville, where he might attend
the lectures of the celebrated Fray Constantino Ponce de la Fuente,
Professor of Divinity in the College of Doctrine in that city. But, in
fact, a desire to fulfil his brother's last charge weighed more with
him than an eagerness for further instruction; especially as rumours
that his watchfulness was not unnecessary had reached his ears at
Alcala.
He received a prompt and kind invitation from his uncle to make his
house his home for as long a period as he might desire. Now, although
Don Manuel was highly pleased with the genius and industry of his
younger nephew, the hospitality he extended to him was not altogether
disinterested. He thought Carlos capable of rendering what he deemed an
essential service to a member of his own family.
That family consisted of a beautiful, gay, frivolous wife, three sons,
two daughters, and his wife's orphan niece, Doña Beatriz de Lavella.
The two elder sons were cast in their father's mould; which, to speak
truth, was rather that of a merchant than of a cavalier. Had he been
born of simple parents in the flats of Holland or the back streets of
London, a vulgar Hans or Thomas, his tastes and capabilities might have
brought him honest wealth. But since he had the misfortune to be Don
Manuel Alvarez, of the bluest blood in Spain, he was taught to look on
industry as ineffably degrading, and trade and commerce scarcely less
so. Only one species of trade, one kind of commerce, was open to the
needy and avaricious, but proud grandee. Unhappily it was almost the
only kind that is really degrading--the traffic in public money, in
places, and in taxes. "A sweeping rain leaving no food," such traffic
was, in truth. The Government was defrauded; the people, especially the
poorer classes, were cruelly oppressed. No one was enriched except the
greedy jobber, whose birth rendered him infinitely too proud to work,
but by no means too proud to cheat and steal.
Don Manuel the younger, and Don Balthazar Alvarez, were ready and
longing to tread in their father's footsteps. Of the two pale-faced
dark-eyed sisters, Doña Inez and Doña Sancha, one was already married,
and the other had also plans satisfactory to her parents. But the
person in the family who was not of it was the youngest son, Don
Gonsalvo. He was the representative, not of his father, but of his
grandfather; as we so often see types of character reproduced in the
third generation. The first Conde de Nuera had been a wild soldier of
fortune in the Moorish wars, fierce and fiery, with strong unbridled
passions. At eighteen, Gonsalvo was his image; and there was scarcely
any mischief possible to a youth of fortune in a great city, into
which he had not already found his way. For two years he continued to
scandalize his family, and to vex the soul of his prudent and decorous
father.
Suddenly, however, a change came over him. He reformed; became
quiet and regular in his conduct; gave himself up to study, making
extraordinary progress in a very short time; and even showed what those
around him called "a pious disposition." But these hopeful appearances
passed as suddenly and as unaccountably as they came. After an interval
of less than a year, he returned to his former habits, and plunged even
more madly than ever into all kinds of vice and dissipation.