The gradient of the northern face is distinctly steeper than the southern, and the road zigzags down sharply through the shadowy pine-woods which clothe all this portion of the range. Not a soul crossed our path as we threaded their silent alleys; and the only house is a solitary Venta midway down the descent, which rejoices in the ominous title of Mosquito Tavern. We thought of Polonius at supper and did not risk a meal. Deep down in the dingle beneath us a mountain stream was chattering towards the plain; and as we neared the outlet of the valley, and felt that we had broken the back of our day’s journey, we began to cast envious glances at the inviting waters.
Our bedroom had not proved altogether a{244} success, but our bathroom was worthy of Diana. The clear cold stream gushed smoothly over its pebbly bed, and the pines which thronged its mossy banks spread a green network against the blaze of the noonday sun. A skein of brilliant blue dragon-flies flashed to and fro across the ripples; and at the head of the glade a solitary peak rose clear and sharp against the sky. The beautiful Dorothea cooling her crystal feet in the limpid water was the sole thing lacking to complete the picture. And even she would have been an embarrassment from a practical point of view. How much they miss who travel through Spain by railway, and grumble (legitimately enough) at the difficulty of obtaining baths at their hotels! The wayfarer has happier fortune;—but not an Eresma every day!
At the mouth of the valley stands the royal palace of La Granja, built by Philip IV. as a rival to Versailles. The structure is not nearly so fine, though the site and the fountains are finer. But who goes to Spain to see copies of things French? And we swung disdainfully past the gateway, and headed our course for the great cathedral tower that marks the position of Segóvia.
We were drawing quite close to the city when{245} we overtook a party of four,—two carabineros and two civilians,—sauntering arm in arm along the roadway and amicably sharing cigarettes. But a hideous blight descended upon this innocent idyll when they drew up with us at the Fielato.[44] The carabineros shouldered their rifles and gave an extra twirl to their mustachios,—the civilians meekly held out their wrists for the handcuffs,—and Law and Order with their miserable captives strutted inspiringly into public view. Evidently Segóvia demanded a certain amount of style, and we two vagabonds eyed each other dubiously. But the Eresma had given us a “clean slate.” No one would have guessed from our looks that we had spent the night in the open and ridden across the mountains since the dawn. “Nevertheless,” quoth one of us sententiously, “what with the bad night, and the early start, and the long ride, and the hot sun, and the bathe, and the pine-woods, and the comida which we are going to eat, I expect there’ll be more siesta than sight-seeing for us this afternoon.”
There are a certain number of towns in Europe which form a class by themselves—a class of professional models for the delectation of the artist.{246} They do not necessarily possess the most interesting monuments, but they are blessed with a certain genius for assuming graceful poses, for wearing harmonious colours, and framing themselves into pictures from whatever point they are viewed. They are a very select company,—even Florence and Nuremburg can scarcely be included,—but Venice is one, and Bruges, and Rothenburg-a-Tauber; and Segóvia ranks with them.