Sun and Shadow in Spain

by Maud Howe Elliott

The Visigoths’ legacy to Spain was immaterial and immortal. Search for traces of the blue-eyed northmen, and you will find ideals that still survive in the Spaniards’ deep inborn sense of the equality of all men (at least of all Spaniards), and in the Spanish woman’s honesty. The Visigoths treated their wives as their equals, expected them to do their share of fighting the enemy and of providing food for the family, gave them control of their own property, and a right to half the common household stock. They only obeyed their King so long as they approved of him. “King shalt thou be as long as thou dost right. If thou dost not right, no King shalt thou be.”

The influence of this immortal spiritual gift, these ideals of the independence of the individual and the equality of the wife with the husband, survive to-day in the temper of the modern Spaniard. I found them in Pedra’s mother, Antonina, the washerwoman who so frankly shook hands with me on our first meeting; in the fact that in Spain to-day no man may leave more than half his fortune away from his wife; that the Grandee is free to wear his hat in the presence of the King, his wife to sit in the presence of the Queen. The legacy of the Goth survives in the ideals and the virtues of the race. The Spaniard has the virtues of the north as well as the ideals; he is truthful, honest, clean and, above all, he is independent.

The sketches were nearly done; we all had settled into silence, and worked, or dreamed half the morning away, looking out across that green vega or down at the old Moorish mills, far below in the Tagus, until Patsy, whose sketch was finished first, declared he could not live another hour unless he was possessor of a Toledo blade. Wandering in search of one, down into the lower part of the town, we soon lost ourselves in a labyrinth of narrow winding streets with high Oriental looking houses. At every corner we were brought to a standstill by some picturesque doorway, church or tower. These straight curving lanes, with scarcely one open square or space, must make Toledo a comfortable summer city. One has but to pass July in the modern quarter of Rome to know the folly of laying out a southern city with wide avenues and open squares, because they have proved comfortable and suitable for Paris or London. Every town has to reckon either with heat or cold as its chief enemy. Where heat is the more to be feared, as in Toledo or Rome, narrow streets with tall houses, where the shadows lie cool, are the best.

“Do you believe,” asked Patsy, “that I shall find a blade ‘with so fine a temper that it can be curled up like the mainspring of a watch?’”

Don Luis would not promise, but he guided us to the shop where we could buy the best wares for our money. The dealer welcomed us and invited us to examine his stock of swords, daggers, cuchillos, long pointed knives, navajas, clasp knives, and puñalicos, little deadly knives worn in the garter: one bore the motto, “I serve a lady.”

Patsy had little money to spend; the edge of his enjoyment in spending it was keen as the blades he turned over so carefully. We were the only customers; the dealer seemed in no hurry, the shop—cool, comfortable and smelling of fresh mint—was a pleasant place. The sunlight, streaming through the windows, glinted on the weapons. Patsy handled the deadly things as skillfully as he had handled the scythe at Seville Fair. The dreadful inherited knowledge of killing was in his fingers; that strong, nervous hand could, if need be, use that rapier as it could use the scythe.

“How much for this dagger?” Patsy asked at last.

The dealer named a moderate price for the beautiful weapon. The handle and sheath were of iron, finely damascened with gold. The blade, sharp and flexible, as the dealer proved by bending it double, was of shining steel, a “Toledo trusty” such as Mercutio says a soldier dreams of. Patsy read the motto on the hilt; “Who lacks courage need place no faith in me!”

“Do you realize,” he said, “that since the days of the Romans these Toledo blades ‘with the ice-brook’s temper’ have been the most famous weapons in the world?” Then, in spite of my murmured, “Whatever will you do with it,” he offered half the price that had been asked. We had done little shopping in Spain, and had come from a long stay in a land where the same article has many prices. The dealer stroked his pointed beard with a white well-kept hand, as if to hide the chilly smile that curved his thin lips, and politely repeated his price. Though he was willing to show his wares, he did not seem anxious to sell them.

“I had forgotten we were in Spain,” murmured the crestfallen Patsy; “in Toledo, the ‘Heart of Spain!’” Without more ado he bought the dagger and a lady’s pocketknife with two sharp blades.