Yet those who have heard Aránjuez described as a Garden of Eden in the midst of a desolate wilderness are likely to find themselves somewhat disillusioned by the reality. True, a tree is always a welcome object in verdureless Castile; but the English elms which are the boast of King Philip’s oasis, “they grow best at home in the North{195} Countree”; and though they wear a brave face, they must envy the ample glades and rich green turf which their brethren enjoy in the parks of England. That the much-vaunted palace itself should prove rather a failure need surprise no one. The Spanish nobles are town-dwellers, and a country seat such as Haddon, or Hatfield, or Burleigh, is quite beyond their ken. Aránjuez was a first attempt, and is not the right plant for the soil. Perhaps Hampton Court, enlarged and remodelled in the style of an Alexandra Palace, might convey some notion of its cheap tea-gardeny air: but even the river is uninteresting—a reproach that can seldom be levelled at the Tagus!
I had been cheering my flagging spirits by the anticipation of a nice shady road down the Tagus banks to Toledo: but now an old muleteer regretfully mentioned that the road was dead, and truly it was the spectre of a road to which he introduced me. The ox-carts had been wallowing in it axle deep throughout the winter, and the spring sun had baked it into a chaos of seracs and crevasses which might have been practicable for a goat. It was wide and straight indeed, and it boasted a noble avenue; but its sole saving feature, from a practical standpoint, was a grassy footpath at the{196} side. So long as the avenue continued, the track maintained some semblance of coherency; but when that also defaulted, it frankly abandoned all further interest in life. As a guide it was luckily needless; I had simply to follow the valley, and as there were no walls or hedges I could make a bee-line if I chose. Moreover, on the further side of the river a lofty detached hill, with a ruined castle on the summit, formed a prominent landmark by which to gauge my progress; and with plenty of time before me, I was bound to arrive in the end.
A sympathetic bandit, who found me hauling my bicycle across a ploughed field, dispassionately suggested that I might find the railroad better. This opinion was loyally endorsed by Second Bandit a mile or so to the rearward; and Third Bandit (ever the most practical of the trio) fairly marched me up the embankment and launched me along the permanent way. They were quite right—it was better; but sleepers and ballast are not a desirable cycle track, and my well-regulated English mind revolted against the scandalous impropriety of the whole proceeding. However, it is sheer waste of one’s scruples to squander them over the infraction of Spanish bye-laws. They are humoured so long as convenient; but for everything there is{197} a season: and nobody dreams of enforcing them if they chance to be inopportune. There was a wayside station to pass before I reached Toledo; there was a train drawn up at the platform, with all the officials en evidence, and the passengers, as usual, profiting by the stoppage to indulge in a stroll and cigarettes. I dismounted perforce at the points; but through the station I rode unblushingly: and no one seemed to regard the circumstance as the least unusual or reprehensible. No doubt from Aránjuez to Toledo all bicyclists travel that way.
Meanwhile I had been making fair progress, and my goal was nearly gained. My castellated beacon had dropped out of sight behind me; and in front, at the end of the valley, silhouetted against the western sky, rose the great rocky knoll which is the seat of imperial Toledo. A bend of the river had brought its waters within easy reach, and having washed off the dust of travel, I was indulging in a few minutes’ idleness before resuming the road. Suddenly a herd of cattle plashed down into the river a few yards away from me; and their diminutive Corydon—a little brown wisp of humanity in the costume of a second-hand scarecrow—came pattering happily at their heels. An English yokel{198} would have been hopelessly flabbergasted by such an unlooked-for encounter; but not so my little Castilian. He bowed, sat down beside me, and launched out into conversation with the most delicious confidence and self-possession, as if it were all the most natural occurrence in the world. He accepted a cigarette with becoming gravity, and made sympathetic murmurs when the matches refused to light. Our final success was acknowledged with a prim little “Blessed be God!” At the end of our chat he escorted me back to the pathway, and made his adieu with a quaint courtliness that conferred a dignity on his rags. Yet probably he had never set foot outside his village, nor set eyes on a stranger in his life. Good manners, like good looks, are sometimes bred in the bone.