From the cathedral Gregorio took us to the Archbishop’s palace, connected with it by a covered bridge, high up in the air, like the Bridge of Sighs at Venice.
“The Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, Primate of Spain, lives here,” said Gregorio. “He passes through that bridge when he goes from the palace to the cathedral. I would take you to call upon him, but we should not find him at home. He goes every afternoon to the new convent he has founded, to see how the workmen are getting on.”
“Let us follow him to the convent,” said Don Luis, an adorable cicerone, bent on showing us all sorts and conditions of men and works. After a little coaxing, Gregorio agreed to take us to see the Archbishop. We must not object, he stipulated, to stopping for a lady, he mentioned her name.
“You will be doing our friends a great service,” said Don Luis, “for she is not only very distinguished and beautiful, but exceedingly kind.”
She was all Don Luis said, and more! Among the visions that arise when the magical name Toledo is spoken, none is more vivid than Engracia’s dark, mobile face. She was one of those women born to command. From the moment she appeared to us, standing on the steps of the old Toledan palace, daintily holding up her white linen skirt, embroidered with purple grapes, we all, even Gregorio, obeyed her.
We drove directly to the convent where we were promptly admitted by one of the sisters of the new order founded by the Cardinal. She wore a simple black gown with a thin lace veil, not unlike those of Spanish women of the lower class,—the best dressed women in the world to-day, from the artist’s standpoint. The sister showed us into the parlor, and went to announce our visit to the Cardinal. From the adjoining room came the sound of sweet high voices singing the rosary; we caught a glimpse of rows of little girls sitting demurely with folded hands.
Gregorio explained that this was a teaching sisterhood. He wished to interest Engracia in the convent. There was still room for a few more novices. Each novice must bring a dot of four thousand dollars, which insured her support for the rest of her life. While Gregorio was describing the joys of life in a Toledo convent, the Cardinal sent for us. We found him in the garden, attended by his secretary and the Lady Superior. They had been inspecting some mason work. The Cardinal was a fine subtle-faced old man with an authoritative manner, and a straighter, more dominating eye than any Roman cleric I know. Though he wore a simple black habit, with only a thread of scarlet and the scarlet moire skullcap under the shovel hat, I recognized him at once as the splendid prelate in the vermilion robes who had officiated at the Infanta’s marriage, and who would, Gregorio said, celebrate the marriage of the King.
Imperious Engracia knelt before the Cardinal, and kissed his emerald ring. He asked about her husband and parents, whom he had known, and then began to talk with her about his convent. He had founded this new order to resist the teaching of socialism and atheism to the masses. He had talked the plan over with Leo XIII, “a fine, great pope,” who had sympathized deeply with his scheme. Pope Leo, however, had feared it would be difficult to carry out the plan. It was a moment when convents and religious orders were being broken up everywhere; those already existing could only be maintained with the greatest fostering. He hoped, however, that the Cardinal might succeed, and blessed his undertaking. The whole idea of the new order was to teach the true value of the Church. The sisters were to have far greater liberty in coming and going than in the older orders. This was borne out by the free and frank bearing of the five or six sisters we saw. I was struck by the simplicity and directness of their manners. Compared to the Abbess of Ronda, who might have belonged to the time of Santa Teresa, the Superior of the Toledo Convent seemed a modern person belonging to our epoch. Was she? To this day I cannot make up my mind! Can we pour new wine into old bottles, and mend the old garment with new cloth? That is the question!
We parted with the Cardinal at sunset. He shook hands kindly with us, and with old-fashioned courtesy invited us to come and see him again if we should return to Toledo.
We spent much of our too short time in Toledo in studying the pictures of that strange and interesting painter, Domenico Theotocopulos, called El Greco because he was a Greek, a native of Crete. The portraits in the little Museum of San Juan de Los Reyes are among the best examples of his individual and peculiar manner. Greco is a realist; he paints what he sees with splendid fidelity