CHAPTER V.
A LEAR OF CITIES.—GOTHIC, ROMAN, AND MOORISH REMAINS.—COMMENTARIES ON STREET’S GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE, AND ON TOLEDAN LANDLORDS.—TILES, AND A DISCOURSE THEREON.
HE railway journey from Madrid to Toledo is easy enough, occupying about eight hours. Time is given for refreshment on the way, and you are almost certain to be alone if you travel first-class, which, if you are a wise traveller, you will be sure to do. Every one knows how much easier it is to take long journeys in an uncrowded vehicle, and by following this precaution always we saved up strength for future ordeal.
Toledo looks imposing from the railway station, but it is the dirtiest, dreariest, most uncomfortable town in the world. We were driven from the station at a furious rate in the diligence drawn by four mules, and the driver lashed them so furiously and vociferated so franticly that we thought he must be mad or drunk. Over the bridge we went at a galloping rate, and so on, up-hill, down-hill, till we reached the town. Here, at least, I thought, we should stop in our mad career, for the streets of Toledo, like all Moorish streets, are mere bridle-tracks, paved with flint-stone; and as the town, like Rome, is built on seven hills, you are always ascending or descending. But our driver never slackened whip or reins for one moment; and, wonderful to say, the cumbersome vehicle emerged safely from break-neck alleys which looked hardly wide enough for a wheelbarrow. With such dash, indeed, did we drive into the court-yard of the Hôtel de Leno that we had taken the flattering unction to our souls that we were very welcome guests. But on alighting no one took any notice of us; and, though the master of the house, with a staff of waiters and maids, were standing about, it never seemed to occur to them that we needed their services. There we stood in the midst of our luggage—two portmanteaus and ten packages of smaller dimensions—for about a quarter of an hour, when the landlord came up and with a civil manner conducted us to our rooms. This apparent uncourteousness meant nothing more than Spanish indifference, as we afterwards found out, for never were we better treated than in this same Fonda de Leno. Finding that we objected to dine in the smoky salle-à-manger, the master himself served us in our rooms, and served us, I believe, to the best of his ability. He was a heavy-looking man, and his manners at first were a little disconcerting, but we liked him on better acquaintance, and he chatted a good deal about English travellers. I think our patience and smattering of “Castellano” won his good graces. The house was scrupulously clean, and the food, though ultra-Spanish, quite good enough for any one excepting an epicure.
Toledo boasts of an excellent guide, without whom the traveller would fare ill there, despite clean beds and wholesome food. What a debt of gratitude do we not owe to you, good Señor Cabezas, for having guided us so well through this more than Cretan myth—not I am sure from gain’s sake only, but from an honest antiquarian love of it! “I am a son of Toledo, hijo de Toledo,” he said to us; “and there is not a stone of the place unknown to me:” and this speech was made without any self-arrogance or vanity. It was the simple truth. There is this good trait about the Spaniard of the lower ranks, that he never affects, and is consequently never a snob. He treats you—a little too familiarly, I daresay, to please aristocratic palates—but always with a quiet dignity and self-possession, reminding you of the Arabs, and most likely inherited from them. How much, indeed, has not the Spaniard inherited from the Arab?
Señor Cabezas is a slightly-built, prematurely old man, with eyes of extraordinary vivacity, very small hands and feet (a veritable cosa de España), and a chronic cough that makes one think the climate of Toledo does not suit her son. He carries a stick, with which he points out any precious relic that comes in the way, and is so peremptory and so like a schoolmaster in making you understand the history of it, that you dread lest the stick should descend upon your knuckles or shoulders if guilty of inattention. But only really idle people would deserve the stick, for Cabezas thoroughly understands what he is talking about, and, like all wise men, reserves his talk for occasions worthy of it. You are never wearied by him, but follow his eyes and the point of the stick with unflagging interest.
Cabezas is always busy, and we had to accept thankfully as much of his time as he could spare.
“I have engaged myself this afternoon,” he said, “to an old French gentleman, a silk-merchant bound to Murcia, but, if you like, you can accompany us in our rounds.” This we did, and the silk-merchant proved not only an inoffensive, but a very amusing person.