The poor man seemed so tormented with the idea of seeing all the sights of Toledo that one would have fancied he was thereby doing penance for his sins. When he found himself in the Cathedral, his melancholy became overwhelming. The beautiful painted windows, the richly-carved stalls of the choir, the exquisite Retablo, the chapels, each so full of monuments and treasures, the pictures, relics, and jewels of the Sacristy, and the coup d’œils of the whole interior, could only elicit from him a dreary expression of regret that there was so much to see.
As we were led from chapel to chapel, he raised his hands and repeated, “Il y a trop à voir, il y a trop à voir”—which was perfectly true. There is too much to see, but then why not accept the fact cheerfully? To see every part of the Cathedral of Toledo would indeed require weeks, and to describe it, even in general terms, would fill a volume. I advise all travellers who have no time for a series of visits, or a scrupulous reading of many books, to go into the Cathedral alone and read nothing about it whatever. By following this plan you obtain one distinct and ineffaceable impression, whilst a hurried visit, with a garrulous cicerone at your heels, and a guide-book in your hands, results in very little but mortification. Grateful as we felt to good Señor Cabezas for his painstaking services, we were never so happy in the grand old place, as when we stole in by ourselves at early morning and twilight. Nothing then marred the prevailing impression of splendour and beauty; and we wandered up and down the quiet aisles, and looked at the tiers of gorgeously-coloured windows, lost in a rapture of wonder and delight.
I do not remember to have seen any finer sight in Europe than the interior of Toledo Cathedral; the whole is so magnificent, the detail so harmonious, the colouring so beautiful; such an impression never fades from the mind’s eye, but remains “a thing of joy,” and a storehouse of beauty, for ever.
It is a great pity that the exquisite chapels are so disfigured with images and altars dressed up in every form and fashion of tinsel. You are taken too to see the jewels and wardrobe of the Virgin—the strangest sight. It is difficult to reconcile the character of the lowly Mother of Christ with these gorgeous robes of velvet and brocade, stiff with gold and pearls, with these necklets, rings, and bracelets; with these tiaras of diamonds and emeralds. But everywhere you see the same thing, only on a smaller scale; the Virgin is petted and pampered with costly gifts as if she were something below an ordinary woman, since even ordinary women aspire to higher things than a fine toilette.
There was a homely German lady in the Sacristy with us, who had surveyed the aisles very calmly, but went into raptures over these jewelled mantles and petticoats.
“Himmel!” she said, touching the rich stuffs gingerly with her fingers, “what a pity such beautiful things are not worn; the silks must have cost six thalers a-yard at least.”
Putting aside the idea of profanity, no one can help enjoying the blaze of so many gems. It is like walking in Aladdin’s enchanted garden. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls, sapphires, rubies, are here collected in such masses, that one’s eyes get too dazzled and blinded at last to see any more. Nor does the treasure-house of the Cathedral stop here. There is a fabulous amount of gold and silver in the form of candelabras, urns, reliquaries and incensarios, or vessels for holding incense; there is an altar composed of pure amber; there are banners heavy with gold and precious stones, relics of saints more precious to the good Catholic than any jewels, and last, not least, illuminated Bibles and missals blazing with gold.
Well might the silk-merchant raise his hands and sigh, “There is too much to see!” I think it would take a month to see all these wonderful things fairly, and more than that to master their history. Then there are the sacred legends which would, doubtless, outnumber the Virgin’s pearls and diamonds, and are of infinite more comfort to the humblest of her worshippers. And how beautiful and tender are some of them! that, for instance, of the shrine of San Ildefonso. San Ildefonso was the primate of Toledo, and one day the Virgin came down from heaven to attend matins at the Cathedral. It all happened on a sudden, as miracles do. A moment before, the place had been empty, now it was filled—by whom? Could it be any other than the Mother of God, with those sweet eyes, that golden hair, that shining aureole around her head? Think of the awe, and bewilderment, and pious joy of the people worshipping there, especially the poor, who thrill with pride at sight of an earthly Queen. How they must have wept and wondered then! how they must have wept and smiled at repeating the story afterwards!
It is thirteen hundred years since this took place; the marble slab where the Virgin’s feet alighted has been hollowed with the kisses of thousands of worshippers, and the story moves to tears of joy still. No one can help feeling the enduring power of these old church legends before such evidence, and no one can help being, for the time, carried away by their simple pathos or burning faith. You should never travel in Spain without a book about the saints and martyrs. Every step you take leads across some way watered with holy blood and tears. Every town is peopled with the sorrowful ghosts of men and women whom the Church has tried and crowned; and only those who are obstinately blind can deny the influence exercised by their names still. Often and often have I found myself, as in the convent of Las Huelgas, realising the religious spirit of the middle ages in its vigour and purity. But, alas! only for a little while, and I think the most devout Romanist would hardly find Spain the country of his expectation.
Excepting the Cathedral, nearly all the glories of Toledo are Moorish. The Moors, those true artists and most conscientious workers, have here left an Alcazar, gateways, bridges, mosques, palaces, and towers, to perpetuate their golden age; and though the grand old metropolitan church remains the crowning jewel of the desolate old city (a Lear of cities, deaf, blind, decaying), all these anticipate the marvels of Cordova and Granada. But the Cathedral takes you back to quite another epoch of art and religion. Pass along the tortuous street called the Calle de la Chapinerier, and enter the north transept, and you might fancy yourself in one of the early Gothic churches of France.