The feeble and ungrateful king (Juan II.) survived his favourite little more than a year, and died at the convent of San Pablo, which had been his usual abode. Valladolid remained steadily loyal to his miserable successor, Enrique IV., when scarcely another town in his dominions would harbour him. Yet, strangely enough, it was in this city, in the house of Juan Vivero (where the Audiencia now stands), that the king’s sister Isabel, in defiance of his wishes, celebrated in secret, but with great ceremony, her marriage with Ferdinand of Aragon. This was on October 18, 1469—an auspicious night for Spain. But the city was too full of Enrique’s partisans to afford a safe asylum to the newly-wedded pair, who immediately betook themselves to Dueñas.
Valladolid, always on the side of authority, accepted ‘the Catholic Kings’ on the death of Enriqùe, to the exclusion of Juana, whom a modern writer inexplicably calls that monarch’s illegitimate daughter. She was barred from the succession on the ground that she was not his daughter at all. The vigorous but hardly beneficent rule of Ferdinand and Isabel was celebrated in 1489 by eighteen persons being burned alive in the Plaza Mayor, while a few years after the city was emptied of its Jewish inhabitants. A whole quarter left tenantless, deserted homes, and smoking human sacrifices marked the inauguration of the New Monarchy in Valladolid. Yet the city prospered, and was too busy to notice the worn-out adventurer, the Admiral of the Indies, the immortal Christopher Columbus, who died within its walls on May 20, 1506. But all their prosperity could not reconcile the sturdy citizens to the arbitrary government of Charles V.’s regents. Valladolid threw in her lot with the Comunidad. Her sons bled in the cause of liberty beside Padilla on the fatal field of Villalar; and when the Flemish emperor proclaimed an amnesty on visiting the city in 1522, many of her townsmen found themselves among the three hundred specially excluded from its operation.
Philip II. was born here on May 21, 1527; here he was married to his first and Portuguese wife; here also she died in giving birth to his luckless son Carlos. Yet it was this native of Valladolid who reduced it to the rank of a provincial city, and in the year 1560 definitely declared Madrid to be the unica corte, the official capital of Spain. This measure has been variously criticised, but it is certainly difficult to perceive the advantages which the new capital possessed over the old, or over Toledo or Zaragoza. This loss of dignity was followed by a more dreadful catastrophe. Valladolid was devastated by a fire in the night of September 21, 1561, four hundred and forty houses being destroyed, though only three persons lost their lives. The silversmiths, for whom the city was renowned, saved their wares by throwing them into the wells. The conflagration was caused by the sparks blown from a fire lit by some beggars in the shadow of a wall. Possibly the citizens were reminded of those other flames so frequently kindled in their midst by the abominable Inquisition, when men and women were roasted to death in the presence and with the approval of His Catholic Majesty Philip II. The furious element was less destructive than the Holy Office.
The city was practically rebuilt by order of the despot, and as a mark of his favour he persuaded the Pope to erect it into a diocese in the last years of the sixteenth century. His successor, with a judgment of which he rarely gave proof, reinstated Valladolid in its rank of capital of the monarchy, and resided here in the palace facing San Pablo (now the Audiencia). Here Anne of Austria and Philip IV. were born. Cervantes lived here in one of the houses in the Rastro behind the Campo Grande, where he finished the first part of Don Quixote. His experience of the city was unfortunate. He was, together with his family, imprisoned on the charge of being implicated in a night brawl, wherein as a matter of fact he had simply played the part of Good Samaritan. His brother wits and the literati unceasingly assailed Valladolid as unworthy the residence of the court, and after five years Philip III. was obliged, professedly because the city was unhealthy, to restore Madrid to its pre-eminence. The abandoned capital was hit very hard. Industry and commerce languished, nothing but the religious vocation flourished. The project of rendering the Duero and Pisuerga navigable for large vessels was given up, and, to crown all, the Moriscos to the number of one thousand were expelled, taking the silk industry with them. Inundations and all sorts of calamities followed in quick succession. Whatever money men earned in moribund Castile, they used to build churches and convents. The city’s attachment to the Bourbon cause in the War of the Spanish Succession disposed Philip V. to transfer the court hither a second time; but the pre-eminence of Madrid was too firmly established to permit this. The French invaders, a hundred years ago, found the place ruined and stagnant. Since then Valladolid has awakened from her sleep. The opening of the North of Spain Railway, and the establishment here of the company’s loco-motive works, gave a great impetus to her progress, and she is now an important commercial town, the centre of the corn trade of Castile. No Spanish city north of the Guadarrama gives such promise as Valladolid.
THE CITY
A city which was so long the capital of the monarchy—the city where Columbus died and Cervantes lived—whose streets are haunted by the immortal creature of Le Sage’s genius—can be no unworthy goal for a pilgrimage. It has memories far more stirring than Madrid, which in physiognomy it rather resembles. A cold, formal town it seems at first sight, with modern-looking squares, straight streets, and severe, imposing buildings; but behind these you find the old city of Juan II. and Enrique IV., a labyrinth of tortuous lanes, gloomy palaces, and ruinous monastic houses.
The handsome Accra de Recoletos, which looks across the spacious Campo Grande—the city’s principal park—leads from the triumphal Puerta del Carmen, commemorating the reign of Charles III., to the majestic Arch of Santiago. We pass through, and presently reach the Plaza Mayor, now called the Plaza de la Constitucion, the focus of the city’s life.
A minor Puerta del Sol, Ford calls this regular, symmetrically planned open space, designed after the great fire of 1561 by Francisco Salamanca. The houses enclosing it are of uniform architecture, with three tiers of balconies in the three Grecian orders, capable, it is said, of accommodating 24,000 spectators. The portico is supported by massive granite columns of a bluish tinge, each a monolith. On the north side is the ungraceful Ayuntamiento (Town Hall), with weather-vanes on its towers and martial trophies surmounting the town clock. The space is as lively and gay as any in Spain. The sun shines brightly, the birds fly as freely overhead as across the innocent plains; here there is no deeper shadow than elsewhere, no abiding gloom or ghostly chill. Yet if ever a spot deserved to be called accursed it is this. Let us project ourselves back into the past, to a bright morning in May in the year 1559. The balconies have not yet been built, but stands and tiers of seats have been constructed round the Plaza. There is a grand display of bunting, and the richest draperies are hung from the crowded windows—silks and cloth of gold and silver, damasks and brocades. On a daïs are seen the little prince, Don Carlos, and his aunt the Infanta Juana. The civic dignitaries of the town are here, the craftsmen in their liveries; but making the bravest show of all are the bishop and the clergy, arrayed in full canonicals, as befits the solemn Act of Faith at which they are about to assist. The square is packed with a vast multitude—men have come from far and near to see this thing—and people are pouring down the narrow streets, an unceasing stream. All eyes are fixed on the platform in the centre of the Plaza, whereon faggots and brushwood are neatly piled round fourteen pillars, and busy varlets are bestirring themselves. A subdued murmur betokens the approach of the procession. For the alguazils who clear the way, for the horribly clad familiars of the Holy Office who stalk before, the spectators have no eyes: the gaze of those thousands is levelled on the fourteen men and women walking slowly to their awful doom. Were ever creatures so shockingly grotesque? They wear a perfectly ridiculous headgear, like an elongated nightcap, or a hat such as our grenadiers wore in days gone by; a sort of smock covers their bodies, an ugly flame-coloured garment, painted with figures of dancing and grimacing devils. You can hardly restrain a smile. I’ll wager those gallants yonder are cracking some clever jokes at their expense, for the Latin is by nature a wag. We all know who they are, these wretches. Not long before Valladolid was thrilled by the rumour that a Lutheran conventicle had been discovered here in the heart of His Most Catholic Majesty’s capital. A holy woman, suspicious of her husband’s orthodoxy, had followed him one day, found him in the midst of this heretical assembly, and denounced him to the Holy Office. That is the man, Juan Garcia, a goldsmith whom all the townsmen have known and dealt with this many a year. Where’s his wife? somewhere in the crowd, doubtless, praying for his soul. Virtue like hers is worthy of heroines or devils. Most notable of the heretical crew is the Doctor Cazalla, one of the king’s most notable preachers; but the Holy Inquisitors are no respecters of persons. They would drag you from behind the throne. The priest with the Doctor is his brother Francisco. The woman is his sister, Doña Beatriz. Burn a woman? Ay, surely. There are four more, one of them a serving-wench. That black-avised fellow is a mere Jew from Lisbon—there is little sympathy for him. Then there are four gentlemen, and—hold!—one has a gag in his mouth. It is the Bachelor, Antonio Herrerruelo, an obstinate fellow, who will not recede one hair’s-breadth from his heretical opinions or concede one iota. The sixteen that follow interest us less. They have been reconciled with Mother Church, and for them no worse fate is reserved than the confiscation of all their goods and solitary confinement for life. Ha! one of them has fainted. It is the youthful daughter of the Marqués de Alcañias, Doña Ana Enriques. They say that one of this batch is an Englishman. Perhaps he has seen Catholics hanged, drawn, and quartered in his own land, and can forgive the Spaniard.
The learned Dominican in the pulpit reads the sentences of the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition, and we may be sure his voice shakes with paternal tenderness when he absolves those who are passing into the shadow of perpetual imprisonment. As for those fourteen others—the Church has done with them, and in sorrow, not in anger, she hands them over to the secular arm.
Now who will face the flames? for even the secular arm is merciful at the eleventh hour. Thousands of eyes are strained towards the scaffold. What is passing? Cazalla is making a farewell speech. Is he obdurate? No; from mouth to mouth the rumour runs that he professes penitence, that he abjures his errors. His brothers, the women—look at their blanched faces!—mutter some such words. Their necks are encircled by the collars of the garrote—they stand on the well-laid pyre. But it is not lighted yet. Swiftly the executioner steps from one post to the other. A quiet turn of the screw, and the souls of the heretics have fled, and the flames may have their corpses.