"Why do you turn in here?" I asked the driver.

He laughed and answered, "Because there is no wider street."

"Is all Toledo like this?" I asked again.

"It is all like this," he replied

"Impossible!" I exclaimed.

"You will see," he added.

To tell the truth, I did not believe him. I entered a hotel, dropped my valise in a room, and ran headlong down the stairs to take a look at this very strange city. One of the hotel-porters stopped me at the door and asked with a smile,

"Where are you going, caballero?"

"To see Toledo," I replied.

"Alone?"

"Yes; why not?"

"But have you ever been here before?"

"Never."

"Then you cannot go alone."

"And why not?"

"Because you will get lost."

"Where?"

"As soon as you go out."

"For what reason?"

"The reason is this," he answered, pointing to a wall on which hung a map of Toledo. I approached and saw a network of white lines on a black background that seemed like one of those flourishes which school-boys make on their slates to waste the chalk and vex their teacher.

"No matter," said I; "I am going alone, and if I get lost, let them come and find me."

"You will not go a hundred steps," observed the porter.

I went out and turned down the first street I saw, so narrow that on extending my arms I touched both walls. After fifty paces I turned into another street, narrower than the first, and from this passed into a third, and so on.

I seemed to be wandering not through the streets of the city, but through the corridors of a building, and I went forward, expecting momentarily to come out into an open place. It is impossible, I thought, that the whole city is built in this manner; no one could live in it. But as I proceeded the streets seemed to grow narrower and shorter; every moment I was obliged to turn; after a curving street came a zigzag one, and after this another in the form of a hook, which led me back into the first, and so I wandered on for a little while, always in the midst of the same houses. Now and then I came out at a crossway where several alleys ran off in opposite directions, one of which would lose itself in the dark shadow of a portico, another would end blindly in a few paces against the wall of a house, a third in a short distance would descend, as it were, into the bowels of the earth, while a fourth would clamber up a steep hill; some were hardly wide enough to give a man passage; others were confined between two walls without doors or windows; and all were flanked by buildings of great height, between whose roofs one could see a narrow streak of sky.

One passed windows defended by heavy iron bars, great doors studded with enormous nails, and dark courtyards. I walked for some time without meeting anybody, until I came out into one of the principal streets, lined with shops and full of peasants, women, and children, but little larger than an ordinary corridor. Everything is in proportion to the streets: the doors are like windows, the shops like niches, and by glancing into them one sees all the secrets of the house—the table already spread, the babies in the cradle, the mother combing her hair, and the father changing his shirt; everything is on the street, and it does not seem like a city, but like a house containing a single great family.

I turned into a less-frequented street, where I heard only the buzzing of a fly; my footsteps echoed to the fourth story of the houses and brought some old women to the windows. A horse passes; it seems like a squadron; everybody hurries to see what is going on. The least sound re-echoes in every direction; a book falls in a second story, an old man coughs in a courtyard, a woman blows her nose in some unknown place; one hears everything.

Sometimes every sound will suddenly cease; you are alone, you see no sign of life: you seem to be surrounded by the houses of witches, crossways made for conspirators, blind alleys for traitors, narrow doorways suitable for any crime, windows for the whispers of guilty lovers, gloomy doorways suggestive of blood-stained steps. But yet in all this labyrinth of streets there are no two alike; each one has its individuality: here rises an arch, there a column, yonder a piece of statuary. Toledo is a storehouse of art-treasures. Every little while the walls crumble, and there are revealed in every part records of all the centuries—bas-reliefs, arabesques, Moorish windows, and statuettes. The palaces have doorways defended by plates of engraved metal, historical knockers, nails with carved heads, 'scutcheons and emblems; and they form a fine contrast to the modern houses painted with festoons, medallions, cupids, urns, and fantastic animals.

But these embellishments detract in no way from the severe and gloomy aspect of Toledo. Wherever you look you see something to remind you of the city fortified by the Arabs; however little your imagination may exert itself, it will succeed in rearranging from the relics scattered here and there the whole fabric of that darkened image, and then the illusion is complete: you see again the glorious Toledo of the Middle Ages, and forget the solitude and silence of its streets. But it is a fleeting illusion, and you soon relapse into sad meditation and see only the skeleton of the ancient city, the necropolis of three empires, the great sepulchre of the glory of three races. Toledo reminds you of the dreams which come to young men after reading the romantic legends of the Middle Ages. You have seen many a time in your dreams dark cities encircled by deep moats, frowning walls, and inaccessible rocks; and you have crossed those draw-bridges and entered those tortuous, grass-grown streets, and have breathed that damp, sepulchral, prison air. Well, then, you have dreamed of Toledo.

The first thing to see, after making a general survey of the city, is the cathedral, which is justly considered one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world. The history of this cathedral, according to popular tradition, dates from the times of the apostle Saint James, first bishop of Toledo, who selected the place where it should be erected; but the construction of the edifice as it appears to-day was begun in 1227, during the reign of San Fernando, and was ended after twenty-five years of almost continuous labor. The exterior of this immense church is neither rich nor beautiful, as is that of the cathedral of Burgos. A little square extends in front of the faÇade, and is the only place from which one can get a view of any considerable part of the building. It is entirely surrounded by a narrow street, from which, however much you may twist your neck, you can see only the high outer walls which enclose the church like a fortress. The faÇade has three great doorways, the first of which is named Pardon, the second Inferno, and the third Justice. Over it rises a substantial tower which terminates in a beautiful octagonal cupola. Although in walking around the building one may have remarked its great size, on first entering one is struck by a profound sense of wonder, which quickly gives place to another keen sense of pleasure, the result of the freshness, the repose, the soft shadow, and the mysterious light which steals through the stained glass of innumerable windows and breaks in a thousand rays of blue, golden, and rosy light which glides here and there along the arches and columns like the bands of a rainbow. The church is formed of five great naves divided by eighty-eight enormous pilasters, each of which is composed of sixteen turned columns as close together as a bunch of spears. A sixth nave cuts the other five at right angles, extending from the great altar to the choir, and the vaulted roof of this principal nave rises majestically above the others, which seem to be bowing to it as if in homage. The many-colored light and the clear tone of the stone give the church an air of quiet cheerfulness which tempers the melancholy appearance of the Gothic architecture without depriving it of its austere and serious character. To pass from the streets of the city to the naves of this cathedral seems like coming out of a dungeon into an open square: one looks around, draws a deep breath, and begins to live again.

The high altar, if one wished to examine it minutely, would require as much time as the interior of a church: it is itself a church—a miracle of little columns, statuettes, traceries, and ornaments of endless variety, creeping along the iron frames, rising above the architraves, winding about the niches, supporting one another, climbing and disappearing, presenting on every side a thousand outlines, groups, combinations, effects in gilding and color, every sort of grace that art can devise—giving to the whole an effect of magnificence, dignity, and beauty. Opposite the high altar rises the choir, divided into three orders of stalls, marvellously carved by Philip of Bourgogne and Berruguete, with bas-reliefs representing historical events, allegories, and sacred legends—one of the most famous monuments of art.

In the centre, in the form of a throne, stands the seat of the archbishop surrounded by a circle of enormous jasper columns, with colossal statues of alabaster resting on the architraves; on either side rise enormous bronze pulpits provided with two great missals, and two gigantic organs, one in front of the other, from which it seems that at any moment a flood of melody may burst forth and make the vault tremble.

The pleasure of one's admiration in these great cathedrals is almost always disturbed by importunate guides, who wish at any cost to amuse you after their fashion. And it was my misfortune to become convinced that the Spanish guides are the most persistent of their kind. When one of them has gotten it into his head that you are to spend the day with him, it is all over. You may shrug your shoulders, refuse to notice him, let him talk himself hoarse without so much as turning to look at him, wander about on your own account as though you had not seen him: it is all the same thing. In a moment of enthusiasm before some painting or statue a word escapes you, a gesture, a smile: it is enough. You are caught, you are his, you are the prey of this implacable human cuttle-fish, who, like the cuttle-fish of Victor Hugo, does not leave his victim until he has cut off his head. While I stood contemplating the statuary of the choir I saw one of these cuttle-fish out of the corner of my eye—a miserable old rake, who approached me with slow steps sidewise, like a cutthroat with the air of one who was saying, "Now I have got you!" I continued to look at the statues; the old man came up to my side, and he too began to look; then he suddenly asked me, "Do you wish my company?"

"No," I replied, "I don't need you."

And he continued, without any embarrassment,

"Do you know who Elpidius was?"

The question was so remarkable that I could not keep from asking in my turn,

"Who was he?"

"Elpidius," he replied, "was the second bishop of Toledo."

"Well, what of him?

"'What of him?' It was the bishop Elpidius who conceived the idea of consecrating the church to the Virgin, and that is the reason why the Virgin came to visit the church."

"Ah! how do you know that?"

"How do you know it? You see it."

"Do you mean to say that it has been seen?"

"I mean to say that it is still to be seen: have the goodness to come with me."

So saying, he started off, and I followed him, very curious to learn what this visible form of the descent of the Virgin might be. We stopped in front of a sort of chapel close to one of the great pilasters of the central nave. The guide pointed out a white stone set in the wall covered by an iron net, and with this inscription running around it:

"Then the Holy Virgin has actually placed her feet on this stone?" I asked.

"On this very stone," he replied; and, thrusting a finger between the strands of the iron net, he touched the stone, kissed his finger, made the sign of the cross, and turned toward me as if to say, "Now it is your turn."

"My turn?" I replied. "Oh, really, my friend, I cannot do it."

"Why?"

"Because I do not feel myself worthy to touch that sacred stone."

The guide understood, and, looking hard at me with a serious aspect, he asked, "You do not believe?"

I looked at a pilaster. Then the old man made a sign for me to follow, and started toward a corner of the church, murmuring with an air of sadness, "Cadanno es dueÑo de su alma" (Every man is master of his soul).

A young priest who was standing near, and who had divined the cause of his words, cast a piercing glance at me, and went off in an opposite direction, muttering I know not what.

The chapels correspond in style with that of the church: almost all of them contain some fine monuments. In the chapel of Santiago, behind the high altar, are two magnificent tombs of alabaster which contain the remains of the constable Alvaro de Luna and his wife; in the chapel of San Ildefonso, the tomb of the cardinal Gil Carrillo de Albornoz; in the chapel of the "New Kings," the tombs of Henry II., John II., and Henry III.; in the chapel of the sacristy, a stupendous group of statues and busts of marble, silver, ivory, and gold, and a collection of crosses and relics of inestimable value, the remains of Saint Leucadia and Saint Eugenia preserved in two silver caskets exquisitely chased.

The Chapel Mozarabe, which is under the tower of the church, and was erected to perpetuate the tradition of the primitive Christian rite, is probably the most worthy of attention. One of its walls is entirely covered with a fresco, in the Gothic style, representing a conflict between the Moors and the Toledans—marvellously preserved, even to the most delicate lines. It is a painting worth a volume of history. In it one sees the Toledo of those times with all its walls and its houses; the habiliments of the two armies; the arms, faces, everything portrayed with an admirable finish and an unspeakable harmony of color which answers perfectly to the vague and fantastic idea which one may have formed of those centuries and those races. Two other frescoes on either side of the first represent the fleet which bore the Arabs into Spain, and they offer a thousand minute details of the mediÆval marine and the very air of those times, if one may so speak, which makes one think of and see a thousand things not represented in the painting, as one hears distant music on looking at a landscape.

After the chapels one goes to see the sacristy, where are gathered enough riches to restore the finances of Spain to a sound basis. There is, among others, a vast room on the ceiling of which one sees a fresco by Luca Giordano, which represents a vision of paradise, with a myriad of angels, saints, and allegorical figures floating in the air or standing out like statues from the cornices of the walls in a thousand bold attitudes, with so much action and foreshortening that one is bewildered. The guide, pointing out this miracle of imagination and genius, which in the estimation of all artists, to use a very curious Spanish expression, is a work of merito atroz (of atrocious merit),—the guide bids you to look attentively at the ray of light which falls upon the walls from the centre of the vaulted ceiling. You look at it and then make a circuit of the room, and wherever you find yourself that ray of light is falling directly upon your head.

From this hall you pass into a room which is also beautifully painted in fresco by the nephew of Berruguete, and from it into a third, where a sacristan lays the treasures of the cathedral before your eyes—the enormous silver candlesticks; the pyxes flashing with rubies; the golden stands for the elevation of the Host, studded with diamonds; the damask vestments, embroidered in gold; the robes of the Virgin, covered with arabesques, garlands of flowers, and stars of pearl, which at every motion of the cloth flash forth in a thousand rays and colors and quite dazzle one's eyes. A hour is scarcely sufficient to see hurriedly all that display of treasures, which would certainly satisfy the ambition of ten queens and enrich the altars of ten cathedrals; and when, after he has shown you everything, the sacristan looks in your eyes for an expression of surprise, he finds only astonishment and stupefaction, which give evidence of an imagination wandering in far distant regions—in the realms of the Arabian legends where the kindly genii gather all the riches dreamed of by the glowing fancy of enamored sultans.

It was the eve of Corpus Domini, and in the sacristy they were preparing the robes for the processional. Nothing can be more unpleasant or more at variance with the quiet and noble sadness of the church than the theatrical hurry-scurry which one sees on such occasions. It is like being behind the scenes on the evening of a dress rehearsal. From one room of the sacristy to another half-dressed boys were coming and going with a great clatter, carrying armfuls of surplices, stoles, and capes; here a sour-tempered sacristan was opening and banging the doors of a wardrobe; there a priest, all red in the face, was calling angrily to a chorister who did not hear him; yonder other priests were running through the room with their robes partly on their backs and partly trailing behind them; some laughing, some screaming, and some shouting from one room to another at the top of their voices; everywhere one heard a swish of skirts, a breathless panting, and an indescribable stamping and tramping.

I went to see the cloister, but, as the door was open through which one reaches it from the church, I saw it before entering. From the middle of the church one gets a glimpse of a part of the cloister-garden, a group of fine leafy trees, a little grove, a mass of luxuriant plants which seem to close the doorway and look as though they are framed beneath a graceful arch and between the two slender columns of the portico which extends all around. It is a beautiful sight, which makes one think of Oriental gardens encircled by the columns of a mosque. The cloister, which is very large, is surrounded by a colonnade, graceful, though severe in form; the walls covered with great frescoes. The guide advised me to rest here a little while before ascending to the campanile. I leaned against a low wall in the shade of a tree, and remained there until I felt able to make another expedition, as the expression is. Meanwhile, my commander extolled in bombastic language the glories of Toledo, carrying his impudence so far, in his patriotism, as to call it "a great commercial city" which could buy and sell Barcelona and Valencia, and a city strong enough, if need be, to withstand ten German armies and a thousand batteries of Krupp guns. After each of his exaggerations I kept spurring him on, and the good man enjoyed himself to the full. What pleasure there is in knowing how to make others talk! Finally, when the proud Toledan was so swollen with glory that the cloister could no longer hold him, he said to me, "We may go now," and led the way toward the door of the campanile.

When we were halfway up we stopped to take breath. The guide knocked at a little door, and out came a swaggering little sacristan, who opened another door, and made me enter a corridor where I saw a collection of gigantic puppets in very strange attire. Four of them, the guide told me, represented Europe, Asia, America, and Africa, and two others Faith and Religion; and they were so made that a man could hide in them and raise them from the ground.

"They take them out on the occasions of the royal fÊtes," the sacristan added, "and carry them around through the city;" and, to show me how it was done, he crept in under the robes of Asia. Then he led me to a corner where there was an enormous monster which when touched, I know not where, stretched out a very long neck and a horrible head and made a dreadful noise. But he could not tell me what this ugly creature signified, and so invited me instead to admire the marvellous imagination of the Spaniards, which creates so "many new things" to sell in all the known world. I admired, paid, and continued the ascent with my Toledan cuttle-fish. From the top of the tower one enjoys a splendid view—the city, the hills, the river, a vast horizon, and, below, the great mass of the cathedral, which seems like a mountain of granite. But there is another elevation, a short distance away, from which one sees everything to a better advantage, and consequently I remained in the campanile only a few moments, especially as at that hour the sun was shining very strongly, confusing all the colors of the city and country in a flood of light.

From the cathedral my guide led me to see the famous church of San Juan de los Reyes, situated on the banks of the Tagus. My mind is still confused when I think of the windings and turnings which we were obliged to make in order to reach it. It was mid-day, the streets were deserted; gradually, as we went farther from the centre of the city, the solitude became more depressing; not a door or window was open, not the slightest sound was heard. For a moment I suspected that the guide was in league with some assassin to entice me into an out-of-the-way place and rob me; he had a suspicious face, and then he kept glancing here and there with a suspicious air, like one meditating a crime.

"Is it much farther?" I would ask from time to time, and he would always answer: "It is right here," and yet we never reached it.

At a certain point my uneasiness changed into fear: in a narrow, tortuous street a door opened; two bearded men came out, made a sign to the cuttle-fish, and fell in behind us. I thought it was all over with me. There was only one way of escape—to strike the guide, knock him down, jump over his body, and run. But which way? And on the other side there came into my mind the high praises which Thiers bestows on the "Spanish legs" in his History of the War of Independence; and I thought that flight would only prove an opportunity to plant a dagger in my back instead of my stomach, Alas! to die without seeing Andalusia! To die after taking so many notes, after giving so many tips—to die with pockets full of letters of introduction, with a purse fat with doubloons—to die with a passport covered with seals—to die by treachery! As God willed, the two bearded men disappeared at the first corner and I was saved. Then, overwhelmed by compunction for suspecting that the poor old man could be capable of a crime, I came over to his left side, offered him a cigar, said that Toledo was worth two Romes, and showed him a thousand courtesies. Finally we arrived at San Juan de los Reyes.

It is a church which seems like a royal palace: the highest part is covered by a balcony surrounded with a honeycombed and sculptured breastwork, upon which rises a series of statues of kings, and in the middle stands a graceful hexagonal cupola which completes the beautiful harmony of the edifice. From the walls hang long iron chains which were suspended there by the Christian prisoners released at the conquest of Granada, and which, together with the dark color of the stone, give the church a severe and picturesque appearance. We entered, passed through two or three large, bare rooms, unpaved, cluttered with piles of dirt and heaps of rubbish, climbed a staircase, and came out upon a high gallery inside the church, which is one of the most beautiful and noblest of the monuments of Gothic architecture. It has a single great nave divided into four vaults, whose arches intersect under rich rosettes. The pilasters are covered with festoons and arabesques; the walls ornamented with a profusion of bas-reliefs, with enormous shields bearing the arms of Castile and Arragon, eagles, dragons, heraldic animals, trailing vines, and emblematic inscriptions; the gallery running all around the room is perforated and carved with great elegance; the choir is supported by a bold arch; the color of the stone is light gray, and everything is admirably finished and preserved, as if the church had been built but a few years ago, instead of at the end of the fifteenth century.

From the church we descended to the cloister, which is, in truth, a miracle of architecture and sculpture. Graceful slender columns which could be broken in two by the stroke of a hammer, looking like the trunks of saplings, support capitals richly adorned like curving boughs; arches ornamented with flowers, birds, and grotesque animals in every sort of carving. The walls are covered with inscriptions in Gothic characters in a framework of leaves and very delicate arabesques. Wherever one looks one finds grace mingled with riches in enchanting harmony: it would not be possible to accumulate in an equal space and with more exquisite art a larger number of the most delicate and beautiful objects. It is a luxuriant garden of sculpture, a grand saloon embroidered, quilted, and brocaded in marble, a great monument, majestic as a temple, magnificent as a palace, delicate as a toy, and graceful as a flower.

After the cloisters one goes to see a picture-gallery which contains only some paintings of little value, and then to the convent with its long corridors, its narrow stairs, and empty cells, almost on the point of falling into ruins, and in some parts already in ruins; throughout bare and squalid like a building gutted by fire.

A little way from San Juan de los Reyes there is another monument well worthy of attention, a curious record of the Judaic period—the synagogue now known by the name of Santa Maria la Blanca. One enters an untidy garden and knocks at the door of a wretched-looking house. The door opens. There is a delightful sense of surprise, a vision of the Orient, a sudden revelation of another religion and another world. There are five narrow alleys divided by four long rows of little octagonal pilasters, which support as many Moorish arches with stucco capitals of various forms; the ceiling is of cedar-wood divided into squares, and here and there on the walls are arabesques and Arabic inscriptions. The light falls from above, and everything is white. The synagogue was converted into a mosque by the Arabs, and the mosque into a church by the Christians, so that, properly, it is none of the three, although it still preserves the character of the mosque, and the eye surveys it with delight, and the imagination follows from arch to arch the fleeting images of a sensuous paradise.

When I had seen Santa Maria la Blanca, I had not the strength to see anything else, and, refusing all the tempting propositions of the guide, I told him to lead me back to the hotel. After a long walk through a labyrinth of narrow, deserted streets we arrived there; I put a peseta and a half in the hand of my innocent assassin, who found the fee too small, and asked (how I laughed at the word!) for a little gratificacion.

I went into the dining-room to eat a chop or chuleta (which is pronounced cuileta), as the Spanish call it—a name at which they would turn up their noses in some of the provinces of Italy.

Toward evening I went to see the Alcazar. The name raises expectations of a Moorish palace, but there is nothing Moorish about it except the name. The building which one admires to-day was built in the reign of Charles V. on the ruins of a castle which was in existence as early as the eighth century, although the notices of it in contemporary chronicles are vague. This edifice rises upon a height overlooking the city, so that one sees its walls and towers from every point above the level of the streets, and the foreigner finds it a sure landmark amid the confusion and labyrinths of the city. I climbed the height by a broad winding street, like that one which runs from the plain up to the city, and found myself in front of the Alcazar. It is an immense square palace, at whose corners rise four great towers that give it the formidable appearance of a fortress. A vast square extends in front of the faÇade, and all around it runs a chain of embattled bulwarks of Oriental design. The entire building is of a decided chalky color, relieved by a thousand varied shades of that powerful painter of monuments, the burning sun of the South, and it appears even lighter against the very clear sky upon which the majestic form of the building is outlined.

The faÇade is carved in arabesques in a manner at once dignified and elegant. The interior of the palace corresponds with the exterior: it is a vast court surrounded by two orders of graceful arches, one above the other, supported by slender columns, with a monumental marble staircase starting at the centre of the side opposite the door, and a little way above the pavement divides into two parts that lead to the interior of the palace, the one on the right, the other on the left. To enjoy the beauty of the courtyard it is necessary to stand on the landing where the staircase separates: from that point one comprehends at a glance the complete harmony of the edifice, which inspires a sense of cheerfulness and pleasure, like fine music performed by hidden musicians.

Excepting the courtyard, the other parts of the building—the stairways, the rooms, the corridors—everything is in ruins or falling to ruins. They were at work turning the palace into a military school, whitewashing the walls, breaking down the partitions to make great dormitories, numbering the doors, and converting the palace into a barracks. Nevertheless, they left intact the great subterranean chambers which were used for stables at the time of Charles V., and which are still able to hold several thousand horses. The guide made me approach a window from which I looked down into an abyss that gave me an idea of their vastness. Then we climbed a series of unsteady steps into one of the four towers; the guide opened with pincers and a hammer a window that had been nailed fast, and with the air of one who was announcing a miracle said to me, "Look, sir!"