Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

The brazen warrior intimated that he assented to the request, by ceasing to strike the earth with his mace. It was now easy to see the various objects in the chamber, and, before long, a chest was found with the following inscription on the lid:—"He who opens me will behold marvels." Seeing the quietness of the statue, the king's companions, having recovered from their fright, and being encouraged by the inscription, which seemed to promise well, began making ready their pockets and mantles, under the idea that they should fill them with gold; but all they found in the chest was a roll of cloth. On it were painted troops of Arabs, some on horseback and others on foot, with turbans on their heads, and shields and lances in their hands. There was also an inscription to the following effect:—"He who penetrates thus far, and opens the chest, will lose Spain, and be vanquished by nations similar to this one." King Rodrigo attempted to conceal the disagreeable impression produced on him, in order not to augment the sadness of his followers, and continued his search, in the hope of finding something to compensate him for this disastrous prophecy. On raising his eyes, Rodrigo perceived on the wall, to the left of the statue, a cartouche, on which were the words, "Poor king! To your misfortune is it that you have entered here!" and to the right there was another, with the words, "You will be ejected from your possessions by foreign nations, and your people will be heavily chastised!" Behind the statue there was written, "I invoke the Arabs," and before it, "I do my duty."

The king and his courtiers withdrew, filled with anxiety and gloomy presentiments. The very same night there was a furious tempest, and the ruins of the Tower of Hercules fell to the ground with the most awful noise. It was not long before the prophecies of the magic grotto were borne out by circumstances; the Arabs painted on the roll of cloth in the chest really did show their strange-shaped turbans, shields, and lances, on the unhappy soil of Spain, and all because Rodrigo looked at Florinda's leg, and went down into a cavern.

But night is setting in; we must return to the fonda, sup, and retire to bed, for we leave to-morrow evening, and have yet to visit the Hospital of the Cardinal Don Pedro Gonzales de Mendoza, the Manufactory of Arms, the remains of the Roman Amphitheatre, and a thousand other curiosities. As for myself, I am so fatigued by the diamond-edged pavement, that I feel inclined to reverse my position, and walk about a little upon my hands, like the clowns, in order to rest my aching feet. O hackney-coaches of civilization! omnibuses of progress! I called upon you with a sinking heart—but then of what use would you have been in the streets of Toledo?

The cardinal's Hospital is a large building, of broad and severe proportions, which would take too long for me to describe here. We will cross rapidly over the courtyard, surrounded by columns and arcades, and containing nothing remarkable save two air-shafts, with white marble kerbs, and at once enter the church, to examine the cardinal's tomb, executed in alabaster by that prodigy, Berruguete, who lived more than eighty years, covering his country with masterpieces in various styles, but all equally perfect. The cardinal is stretched out upon his tomb in his pontifical habits. Death has pinched his nose with its skinny fingers, and the last contraction of the muscles, in their endeavour to retain the soul about to leave the body for ever, puckers up the corners of the mouth, and lengthens the chin: never was there a cast taken after death more horribly true; and yet the beauty of the work is such, that you forget any amount of repulsiveness that the subject may possess. Little children in attitudes of grief support the plinth and the cardinal's coat of arms. The most supple and softest clay could not be more easy, or more pliant; it is not carved, it is kneaded!

There are also in this church two pictures by Domenico Theotocopouli, called El Greco, an extraordinary and strange artist, who is scarcely known, save in Spain. He was absurdly afraid, as you are aware, of being accused of imitating Titian, whose pupil he had been; this fear of his caused him to have recourse to the strangest expedients and caprices.

One of these pictures, that which represents the "Holy Family," must have made the poor Greco very miserable, for, at first sight, it would be taken for a genuine Titian. The ardent colouring, the vivid tone of the drapery, and that beautiful reflex of yellow amber, which imparts warmth even to the coolest shades of the Venetian artist, all concur to deceive the most practised eye; the touch alone is less bold and less broad. The little reason that El Greco still possessed must have been altogether swallowed up in the sombre ocean of madness, after he had completed this masterpiece. There are not many artists, now-a-days, capable of going mad for a similar reason.

The other picture, the subject of which is, the "Baptism of our Saviour," belongs entirely to El Greco's second style. It is remarkable for the abuse of black and white in it, for its violent contrasts, singular tints, laboured attitudes, and abrupt, sharp disposition of the drapery, but there is a certain air of depraved energy, a sort of morbid power about it, which reveals the great artist and the madman of genius. Very few paintings interest me so much as those of El Greco, for his very worst have always something unexpected, something that exceeds the bounds of possibility, that causes astonishment, and affords matter for reflection.

From the Hospital, we proceeded to the Manufactory of Arms, which is a vast, symmetrical, and pleasing edifice, founded by Charles III., whose name is to be found on all buildings of public utility. It is erected close to the Tagus, the water of that stream being used to temper the sword-blades and move the machinery. The workshops run along a large courtyard, surrounded by porticoes and arcades, like almost all the courtyards in Spain. In one room the iron is heated, in another it is submitted to the hammer, while farther on it is tempered. In one place are the stones for sharpening and grinding, in another are made the sheaths and handles. We will not extend the investigation further, as it would not teach our readers anything peculiarly new; we will only state that these blades, so justly celebrated, are partly manufactured out of the old shoes of horses and mules, that are carefully collected for the purpose.

To convince us that the Toledo blades were still worthy of their ancient reputation, we were conducted to the proving-room, where a workman, of commanding stature and colossal strength, took a weapon of the most ordinary kind, a straight cavalry sabre, fixed the point in a pig of lead fastened to the wall, and made the blade bend about in every possible way, like a switch, so that the handle almost touched the hilt; the elasticity and suppleness of the steel were such that it was able to stand this test without snapping. The man then placed himself opposite an anvil, and gave so vigorous a blow that the blade entered about half an inch; this feat of strength made me think of the scene in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels, where Richard Cœur-de-Lion and king Saladin amuse themselves by cutting pillows and iron bars.