[Illustration: The Darro and Torre de Comares.]
[Illustration: decoration]
OLD COURT
LIFE IN SPAIN
BY
FRANCES ELLIOT
AUTHOR OF “OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE,” ETC.
[Illustration: colophon]
_ILLUSTRATED_
VOLUME II.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I.--FIESTA OF THE CORPUS DOMINI 1
II.--DON PEDRO.--MARIA DE PADILLA.--ALBUQUERQUE 9
III.--BLANCHE DE BOURBON 22
IV.--DON FADIQUE’S DECLARATION OF LOVE 31
V.--MARRIAGE AT VALLADOLID 38
VI.--CLOISTER, VALLADOLID.--CASTLE OF TALAVERA 57
VII.--DON PEDRO AND MARIA DE PADILLA 69
VIII.--DON FADIQUE GOES TO SEVILLE 80
IX.--MURDER OF DON FADIQUE 84
X.--DON PEDRO.--ALCAZAR.--THE QUEEN-MOTHER.--MARIA DE PADILLA 95
XI.--A NEW KING.--ENRIQUE DE TRASTAMARE 108
XII.--DON ENRIQUE AND ALBUQUERQUE IN COUNCIL 116
XIII.--QUEEN BLANCHE IN SANCTUARY 126
XIV.--DON ENRIQUE WELCOMES QUEEN BLANCHE TO TOLEDO 131
XV.--TAKING OF TOLEDO BY DON PEDRO.--DEATH OF QUEEN BLANCHE 137
XVI.--DEATH OF MARIA DE PADILLA.--DON JUAN DE MAÑARA 149
XVII.--DON ENRIQUE AGAIN CROWNED KING.--FLIGHT OF DON PEDRO 168
XVIII.--DON PEDRO APPEALS TO EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE TO REPLACE HIM ON
THE THRONE 175
XIX.--THE BLACK PRINCE DEFEATS DON ENRIQUE AND REINSTATES DON
PEDRO.--DON ENRIQUE MURDERS DON PEDRO.--DEATH OF DON ENRIQUE 190
XX.--JUAN I.--ENRIQUE EL ENFERMO 203
XXI.--JUAN II. AND DOÑA ISABEL OF PORTUGAL.--EXECUTION OF THE CONDE DE
LUNA 234
XXII.--ENRIQUE IV. EL IMPOTENTE 268
XXIII.--FERDINAND AND ISABEL 288
XXIV.--LOS REYES CATOLICOS 302
XXV.--THE SIEGE OF GRANADA 311
XXVI.--THE END OF THE MOORS 330
XXVII.--DEATH OF ISABEL 339
ILLUSTRATIONS IN PHOTOGRAVURE
PAGE
THE DARRO AND TORRE DE COMARES _Frontispiece_
PUERTA DEL VINO IN THE PLAZA DE LOS ALGIBES, ALHAMBRA 24
PATIO DE LOS LEONES, THE COURT OF THE LIONS, ALHAMBRA 68
THE HALL OF JUSTICE, ALHAMBRA 112
DEATH OF “EL GRAN CAPITAN” From a painting by M. Crespo, National
Exhibition of Fine Arts, Madrid, 1884 156
SURRENDER OF GRANADA From a modern painting by F. Pradilla, in the
Palacio del Senado, Madrid 200
PORTRAIT OF BOABDIL EL CHICO The Generalife, Granada 244
VIEW OF THE ALHAMBRA AND THE SIERRA NEVADA, FROM THE CHURCH OF SAN
NICHOLAS, ON THE ALBAICIN 286
ILLUSTRATIONS OTHER THAN PHOTOGRAVURE
A GATE OF THE COURT OF THE ORANGES, SEVILLE CATHEDRAL 12
A VIEW IN TOLEDO 34
A STREET IN TOLEDO From an etching by Chas. A. Platt 46
A VIEW IN ALCANTARA 56
CHARLES V.--1519 78
A VIEW IN ARANJUEZ 90
ON THE DARRO From an etching by Samuel Colman 100
A VIEW OF GRANADA 122
A WINDOW IN THE ALHAMBRA 134
THE AQUEDUCT NEAR GRANADA 144
THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE, GRANADA 164
THE INTERIOR OF THE MOSQUE, ALHAMBRA 178
A VIEW IN SEGOVIA From the engraving by D. Roberts, after the painting
by J. Cousin 190
A VIEW IN GRANADA Engraving by James B. Allen from a drawing by D.
Roberts 212
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 222
THE PORT, QUAY, AND CATHEDRAL, MALAGA 230
THE GATE OF BARCELONA From an etching by Charles A. Platt 254
QUEEN ISABELLA DICTATING HER WILL From the painting by E. Rosales in the
National Museum, Madrid 266
FERNANDO THE CATHOLIC 278
PORTRAIT OF QUEEN ISABEL THE CATHOLIC 300
THE TOWN GATE OF THE CARMEN AT ZARAGOZA (Left as a permanent memorial of
the Siege.) 310
THE HARBOUR OF CADIZ 322
TOWER AND HOTEL OF SIETE SUELOS, THE ALHAMBRA, GRANADA Photo by
Valentine 334
GENERAL VIEW OF RONDA Photo by J. Laurent, Madrid 340
Old Court Life in Spain
CHAPTER I
Fiesta of the Corpus Domini
The time is early summer; the sky an unbroken sphere of blue, as deep
and smooth as a turquoise, canopying the blanched domes and pinnacles of
the cathedral and illuminating with ineffable splendour the elegant
galleries of the Giralda tower. No shade anywhere, on plaza, _patio_, or
river bank; nothing but a blazing sun, making golden motes; the thinly
leaved palms scarcely leaving a reflection on the hot earth.
It is the Fiesta of the Corpus Domini. The whole city of Seville is
astir, the procession is passing, Don Pedro following bareheaded,
attended by Don Juan de Mañara, Ferran de Castro, Don Garcia Padilla,
and many others, under a gorgeous canopy, and so delicately fair and
flaxen-haired does he look, he is more like a young saint than a king.
Behind him walk the archbishop wearing a jewelled mitre, and the chapter
in rich copes and robes, followed by the knights of the military orders
of Santiago and Calatrava, the cross upon their breasts, armed
_cap-à-pie_, with nodding plumes, each knight with his flag and
cognisance borne by page and esquire; a magnificent procession, set off
by the sombre background of monks, penitents, choristers, and chanting
canons intoning the offices of the Church.
Now all who have seen a religious procession in Spain will understand
the splendour of it. The mediæval magnificence of the robes, wrought in
plaques of solid gold and incrusted with priceless jewels, the brilliant
glow of sacred banners, the sheen of the steel caps and armour; and
above all the amazing glitter of the gigantic dolls (or _pasos_), larger
than life, dressed in the most gorgeous robes, representing the Saviour,
the Virgin, and saints and martyrs. To the sound of trumpets, drums, and
cymbals they advance in a blaze of tapers and torches, carried on
platforms of wood, through the narrow streets, over which silken awnings
are drawn from house to house, every soul present, from the king down to
the last of _los pobres_, prostrate on the stones.
The Virgin first, diamond-crowned, of gigantic height, with deep-set
glassy eyes, one big hand ablaze with rings, raised in benediction; San
Fernando, habited in steel, his helmet raised to display his glistening
visage, his royal mantle sewn with the emblem of the _Nodo_ of Castile
and Leon; the local saints, Justina and Rufina, who, refusing to
worship the Phœnician idol Salambo in her temple in Triana, suffered
martyrdom; San Tomas and San Lazarus, and the imaginary Santiago, as a
heavenly knight, Protector of Spain, clad in the white mantle of his
order, a broadsword by his side, and a glory round his casque, carrying
the baton of command.
From the balconies and the _miradores_ float damask draperies, striped
Moorish stuffs, and wreaths of feathers and flowers; fans wave
incessantly in the heavy air, and long black mantillas fall over eyes
lustrous under meshes of coal black hair--to the wild ringing of every
bell in the city, led by the boom of the Giralda, and petards exploding
as of a city taken by assault.
As the procession passes the stone balcony of the Palacio del
Ayuntamiento, Don Pedro’s mistress, Maria de Padilla, flashes forth, a
dark vision of beauty, crowned with a regal circlet as though she were a
queen, by her side her little son Alonso, dark-eyed as she is herself.
Such a sight causes the archbishop to tremble lest a speedy judgment
should follow on himself. Yet, spite of the chanting and the prayer, the
sacred _pasos_ with their hard unearthly eyes reflecting, as it were,
the horror expressed by the archbishop, Don Pedro at once arrests the
procession, and with a gracious gesture signs to Maria to descend and
take her place beside him. And so godless is he in the eyes of all men,
he would insist, but for the confusion which ensues by the sudden
stopping of such a crowd and the screaming and cries of those who were
pressed together,--when, in the confusion, the glove which he carries in
his hand, worked with the arms of Castile, drops on the ground.
Don Juan de Mañara, who is nearest to Don Pedro, rushes to pick it up,
but is forestalled by one of the chapter, a stalwart young priest, by
name Don Jaime de Colminares. As he is in the very act, on bended knee,
of returning the glove, a youth all aflame with passion rushes forth and
stabs him in the breast.
A gleam, a cry, a quiver, and all is over. Not a voice is raised, not a
hand stirs. Even the archbishop is mute in presence of the king, but his
pallid face and the terrified glances of the chapter say more than
words.
Not so Don Pedro, who stamps his foot with wrath as he faces the
assassin, the least moved among them all.
“Who are you?” asks the king, his voice trembling with rage, “who dare
to assume my prerogative of life and death?”
“My name, my lord, is Emanuel Perez,” is the prompt answer as he meets
Don Pedro’s furious glance with honest eyes.
“Why have you killed this man?” demands the king, maddened at his
coolness, his hand on the hilt of a wrought dagger at his waist, while
the archbishop and the chapter draw round to listen.
“My lord,” answers Emanuel, falling on his knees, for the majesty of the
king has subdued him, “I had my reasons. Ask me not to speak evil of
dignitaries,” and he gazes round at the rampart of glaring eyes.
“Speak,” answers the king; “the dead is silent, the living man must tell
the tale. Speak, or tortures shall make you. Were it even myself you had
to accuse, I command you, speak. The crime is public, so shall be the
punishment. I live before my people.”
Cries of “Castila! Castila!” come from the excited crowd. Caps are flung
in the air and loud _vivas!_ come from the beggars and ruffians of the
street.
Behind Don Pedro rises the Moorish arch of the Puerta del Perdon, a
sheet of delicate carving, white as snow, framing his figure as in a
picture. Above rises the cathedral, a gigantic pile of richly carved
cornices and tier above tier of carved parapets and domes, the walls
ornamented with innumerable niched figures, bosses, roses, and stars. On
one side of the street lies the murdered priest in his sacerdotal robes,
the painted dolls on the other, the stately form of the archbishop
between, his hands folded, his eyes cast down in prayer, the affrighted
chapter gathering about him in purple robes, and behind the populace
eagerly pressing round the king.
Then Emanuel speaks: “Sire, my father is a _zapatero_ (shoemaker); I
follow the same trade. We are poor but honest, no one reviles us. My
lord, I had a sister,” as the word passes his lips he quivers all over,
and looking down on the canon’s blood, which has made for itself a
little runnel among the stones, he savagely stamps on it, while at the
word “sister” a cynical smile passes over the king’s lips and the
majesty of his attitude relaxes.
“She was _hermosa_,” continues Emanuel, not noticing the change, “_muy
hermosa_. Every one looked at her. She went to confession in the
cathedral at the altar near the image of Santo Cristoforo, twice, three
times--we could not think why she went so often--then she disappeared.
We sought her everywhere, in the market, the stalls, the exchange, by
the river, in the narrow alleys, and at the gates. No one had seen her.
After some days her body was found in a deep ditch near the river. Then
we knew the truth, and who had dealt with her. Of the foul deed and who
had done it we spoke. Three days after, my father’s body was brought to
us, stabbed to the heart. Then, upon the wounds of Christ, I swore an
oath to kill the beast who wore the robe of God to defile it, and I have
kept my word.”
In the tumult of his soul, Emanuel forgot the presence of the king, the
crowd, the occasion, all but his passion of vengeance.
“And if the crime was so public,” asks the king, whose attention has
deepened as he proceeded, “and your father talked so loud that he was
stabbed for it, what punishment did the archbishop and the chapter
impose on the canon?”
“His punishment!” cries Emanuel. “Ha! that is just it. His punishment!
_Por Dios!_”--and such a volley of words comes he can scarcely
articulate--“The chapter! Yes, the chapter held a court in the sacristy
with closed doors, the villains! and condemned him _not to say Mass for
one year_!!”
“Then,” cries Don Pedro, in his harsh voice and a bitter smile on his
face, for the young man’s courage pleases him, and his honest eyes, “I
condemn you, Emanuel _el zapatero_, to pass one year without making
shoes.”
A loud shout of applause rises from the _pobres_. Those near the steps
of the cathedral repeat it to others farther off, the people in the
streets shout it to those at the windows, and these to the crowds
pressed on the terrace-roofs, so that the king’s justice is known to
all.
“Yes, my lord archbishop,” speaks the king, resuming in a moment all the
dignity of the sovereign, as he turns to where he stood carrying in his
hand the pastoral staff, a wonder of ancient workmanship--“yes, my lord
archbishop, and most venerable chapter, from whose ranks so notable a
light has been extinguished, I have spoken, I am _El Rey Justiciar_.
Rich or poor, prince or beggar are the same to me. As to you, Emanuel,”
turning to the young man, “I believe you are worthy of better things.
From this day I name you a soldier, and attach you among the Alguazils
who guard my person. Be as faithful for my honour as you have been for
your own and you shall soon be promoted to a command.”