Maud Howe Elliott

OUR winter in Madrid wore pleasantly away; we basked in the Sun of To-day, gave hardly a thought to the Shadow of Yesterday. Fate wove the thread of our existence into her tapestry of life in the Spanish capital in the year 1906; a many-toned fabric with touches of gold and silver, sinister crimson and sombre black. Now that the web is finished and hung up in the hall of memory, I see that in the earlier part rose color is the predominating tone.

“It’s as good for a nation as it is for a person, after they have been in mourning, to come out into the world again and take an interest in other people’s affairs,” said Patsy. “The Conference, whatever it may do for Morocco, is being very good for Spain.”

The two absorbing topics of conversation were the Algeciras Conference and the King’s marriage. From our friends in the diplomatic world we heard a deal of talk about what was going on at Algeciras, where the representatives of thirteen Powers were discussing the vexed questions of the State Bank of Morocco which it was proposed to establish under European control, the policing of the unhappy country by France and Spain, the administration of customs, and the various reforms proposed to the Sultan. On all sides we heard compliments for our representative, Mr. Henry White, par excellence the peacemaker of the Conference. I was told by a distinguished diplomat that Mr. White’s exquisite tact and good feeling “saved the situation more than once.”[3] Besides keeping the peace, the American delegate put in a good word for the Jews, asking that they might have religious tolerance in Morocco. His plea was seconded by Sir Arthur Nicholson, the English delegate, and the Duke of Almodovar who, ignoring the little detail of the expulsion of the Jews from Spain, reminded the delegates that his country had an especial interest in the Hebrews of Morocco, who still spoke the Castilian language, and were the descendants of Spanish Jews. The English, seconded by the Americans, made a plea for the gradual abolition of slavery in Morocco, against the public sale of men and women in the slave markets of the interior, and for the improvement of the prisons. It was pleasant to see England and the United States aiding and abetting each other in all these humane efforts.

The Moroccan delegate, Sid Hach el Mokri, Ancient Inspector of Weights and Measures at Fez, and his colleague did little but protest against the reforms the Powers proposed to institute at the expense of Morocco and under the direction of the Diplomatic Corps at Tangiers. Hach el Mokri cried out that he was there to see Morocco’s income increased, not decreased, and that many of the proposed reforms had not been included in the programme of the Conference. Patsy, who had seen Sid Mokri and made an excellent photograph of the old man in his white bournous, with his long white beard and piercing eyes, had a sneaking sympathy for him.

“After all, the world will be a tame place when there are telephones and electric cars everywhere,” he said. “If Morocco does not want to be civilized our way, or any other way, why should she be?” The Powers are cutting and carving the revenues, the commerce, the future of that unfortunate country as if they were masters of the situation. They are a long way from it! Before France gets the little Germany means to let her have, she must pay dear for it, even if England stands by to see fair play.

I had a sudden vision of the garden in Tangiers and the strange old man who had talked with me of Moroccan affairs. I seemed to hear his brooding voice utter, as if in prophecy, “Keep your ear to the ground; the end of Islam is not yet!”

Our Spanish friends were naturally even more interested in Don Alfonzo’s affairs than in those of the Sultan of Morocco. It was wonderful how the courtship of one pair of lovers made a whole nation in love with life! There was a delicate thrill of expectation in the air. Spain drank deep of the three great cordials, youth, hope and love, forgot the old pain in the new rapture. Every detail of the King’s wooing was eagerly discussed. The news that the Princess Ena had been received into the Church of Rome and renounced the errors of the Protestant faith was a “world event.” Her decision to take the names, Victoria Eugenie, gave great satisfaction. It was rumored that the Empress Eugenie had given her a wedding present of a million pesetas, and would make the future Queen of Spain her heir. Older people recalled the poor young Prince Imperial’s early attachment to Princess Beatrice, Princess Ena’s mother.

“The Empress was a Spaniard,” Candalaria reminded me; “a Montijo of Malaga. My parents knew the family. It is quite natural she should wish her money to come back to Spain. My father was at the funeral of her son, the Prince Imperial. He saw the great English Queen, Victoria, and her daughter, Princess Beatrice, when they drove over to Chiselhurst to lay a golden laurel wreath on the coffin of the young Prince Napoleon IV, as they called him, killed in the Zulu war, fighting for the English.”

We had all become so absorbed in the pleasant social life of Madrid, so taken up with current matters of public and private interest, that the many journeys we had planned were put off and put off. Had it not been for a chance question of Patsy’s, we might never even have seen Toledo, we were living—except for those golden hours in the Prado—so completely in To-day. One brilliant March afternoon Don Jaime greeted me at the door of the Museum with his cheery “Good day, Missis.” The Don liked to go with us to the Prado; he was interested in Patsy’s art education and, if neither Villegas nor Don Luis were present, would hold forth on the merits of the pictures.

“Good afternoon, Don,” said Patsy; “what’s the news?”

“There are very few news. You receive some lollipops?” The Don’s intercourse with English-speaking people, broken off when he left school, led him to suppose that to be happy they must be continually fed with lollipops.

“Nuns of Concepcion Convent has secret of preparing those sweets, same like Benedictines’ liquor secret.”

Knowing his poverty, I was troubled by the little presents he was forever making one or other of us, of which Patsy’s lollipops were an example.

“It’s his way of keeping his end up,” Patsy maintained. “The Don expects to die rich, to leave his family rolling in money. He has an invention for a flying machine half worked out. On his paternal heredad—a piece of waste land in the Sierra Rondina—there’s a rich iron mine, and a spring of sparkling mineral water, better, he says, than apollinaris. The joke of it all is, I believe what he says is perfectly true. He will never ‘realize’ on spring or mine, though perhaps Candalaria’s eleven may!”

“You look festive this morning, Don; where did that sporty rose come from?” Patsy asked. The Don always had a flower in his buttonhole, though he often had not a dollar in his pocket.

“It is monthly roses,” said the Don, settling the bud in his coat; “they give every moon. Let us now to the parlor of the great Velasquez.”

We always began with the Velasquez room, studying some one picture, and passing the rest in review. Don Jaime professed great admiration for the portrait of the Fool of Coria, one of the hombres de placer—literally, men of pleasure—of the court. The fool is seated on a stone, with a gourd on either side; his hands rest idly on his knee. It is a wonderfully pathetic picture, with a heartache in it for those who have some knowledge of those weakest of our brothers, the feeble-minded.

“How dreary Philip’s court must have been,” sighed Patsy, “if that pitiful creature could add to its gaiety.”

“Claro,” said Don Jaime, “but, Canastos! It is a most fine portrait. Look again, you will see in the face the idiotness of that man.”

Canastos, baskets, was the Don’s favorite oath; it was the only exclamation of impatience either he or Candalaria had ever heard their mother use. That morning the Don insisted on our looking more carefully at Ribera’s pictures than suited Patsy. The Don himself felt little sympathy with them, but, as a Spaniard, it was his duty to interest us in all the well-known painters of the Spanish school. Ribera—we knew him better by his Italian nickname, Spagnoletto, little Spaniard—the Don said, painted for the Church. He was in no sense a court painter, was probably prejudiced against all court people on account of Don John of Austria’s unhandsome treatment of his daughter in their unfortunate love affair. The Church at that time was under the sway of the Inquisition, where we must lay the blame, if the Ribera room was, as Patsy insisted, a little like the chamber of horrors.

“This painter,” said Don Jaime, “lived in one epoca of inquisition and hell influences. In all his paintings are seen foreheads full of wrinkles for pain, eyes terrified by the fear, and naked flesh teared, or sullen martyrs, saints and gloomy friars.”

“Why couldn’t he always paint like that?” said Patsy, pausing before a fine poetic Magdalen. “The drawing is as good, the modelling as astonishing, the color as rich as in those morbid cruel pictures. The mission of art is to inspire, not to terrify; you can never make me like Ribera, Don.”

The Don himself was more depressed than any of us by what he had seen. He mopped his bald ivory poll with his silk handkerchief—it was scented with orris—and sighed as we left the room:

“Everything it is so truthful, so to make fear, that everybody feel a relief, a joy of living, when he is gone from that parlor.”

“Now let’s go and play with the Venetians, as a reward of merit,” said Patsy. “I have not seen those lovely Titians for a week.” Patsy’s beloved Venetians can be studied better in the Prado than anywhere outside of Venice. The Don, filled with a sudden access of zeal for the Spanish school, would not let us go until we had given some time to the work of El Greco.

“Here are seven paintings of the lifes of saints by El Greco,” he said. “Every one so thin and transparent and of so greenish tones that they looks more than saints, like spirits who took the human form, notwithstanding they keep their impalpables. The intelligent people say that in this consist the worth of this painter, because he translated on the cloth the asceticismo of his epoca.”

“You will never convince me that Greco is one of the world’s great painters, however important he may have been to the development of the Spanish school,” said Patsy. “A man who paints people eight feet high, who makes his angels goblins, his saints lunatics, is not sane; and without sanity there can be no great art.”

“You must go to Toledo,” said Don Luis, who had joined us, “before you can judge El Greco. You see his sacred pictures at a great disadvantage in a museum. They need the dim religious light of the churches or monasteries, for which they were painted. Only the portraits look well here; those, you must admit, are among the great portraits of the world.”

Patsy was not quite ready to agree to this yet, Don Jaime meanwhile acknowledged that fashion in art is as capricious as it is in dress; perhaps the people who have made El Greco the fashion, not to say the rage of the moment, claimed too much for him. In spite of this, like Don Luis, Jaime considered El Greco among the first of portrait painters.

“Speaking of fashion in dress,” said Patsy, stopping before an anonymous portrait of a lady in a yellow turban, “at what period did they wear that extraordinary headgear?”

“It must have been in the time of King Wamba,” laughed Don Luis, as much as to say, “before the flood.”

The name of King Wamba was like the kiss of the faithful hound on the cheek of the enchanted prince. Patsy awoke from the enchantment of To-day and remembered Yesterday, remembered Wamba and Wamba’s capital, Toledo, remembered that all the records of that wonderful life of many yesterdays we call history was waiting for him to read, not three hours away from Madrid.

“I would not go to Toledo for the sake of El Greco,” Patsy declared, “but for King Wamba’s sake, and to buy a Toledo blade, I would go twice as far!”

So our trip to Toledo—one of the best of our Spanish adventures—came about. We cancelled all engagements, gave up seats for the opera, and the very next day started with little Don Luis for Toledo. The train took us past a small hillock, on which stands a church marking the exact geographical centre of Spain. Toledo is a walled town, built, like Rome, on seven hills. It stands high above the plain, surrounded on three sides by the Tagus, a rushing yellow river (Martial says its sands are of gold) that girdles the city, and keeps the vega around it a lovely green oasis in the arid Castilian plain. The road from the station passes through a rocky gorge and leads to the imposing bridge of Alcantara. From here the view of the stern fortress city is superb. We drove round the walls (Wamba’s walls) and saw the towers, the splendid gates, with the portcullis in more than one still perfect; and finally climbed the height, to the commanding ruin of the Alcazar.

The hill of the Alcazar dominates Toledo, as the Acropolis dominates Athens. The Alcazar is an immense square building, with four towers surmounted by pointed roofs. Time, the supreme colorist, has laid on his matchless glazes of sun and shadow; the darker parts are rich saffron, the lightest, mellow gold. Seen from the distance, it is a broad imposing mass, simple, strong, overpowering all other architectural features of the city by its size and its situation. When you enter the splendid ruin, and stand in the patio with its fine double arcade of Corinthian columns, you are reminded of the courtyard of the Farnese palace in Rome, designed by Michaelangelo.

“If we could know the history of this old ruin,” said Patsy, “we should know the history of Toledo. Here, where we stand, on the very highest point of this granite rock, the Romans built their castellum. From its ruins rose the Visigoths’ citadel, and, still later, the Moors’ Alcazar! The word means the palace of CÆsar: that shows the Moors did not forget! Kaiser means CÆsar, too; how many other things did the great Julius give his name to? I wonder. Think of the people who have lived between these four walls, and have looked out upon this glorious view! The Cid, Ferdinand and Isabel, Charles V and Philip II, just to mention a few stars.”

As in some families the youngest child who can speak “asks the blessing,” it fell to Patsy, youngest and most ardent of the party, to impart all inevitable information. The plan worked well, in spite of J.’s occasional restive “Use your eyes!” It was never necessary to tell him what to look at.

“That,” said Patsy, map in hand, pointing to the lower levels of the town, “is the Bridge of Alcantara, literally the bridge of the bridge.”

The great bridge leaps boldly across the river, supported by one large and one small arch. There

TOLEDO BY MOONLIGHT.

is a rugged watch-tower on the Toledo side; the tower that for so many centuries stood opposite has disappeared.

“The Bridge of San Martin is on the other side of the town. When you cross it, please cry out, ‘My eye, Betty Martin,’—Yankee for mihi Beato Martino, to me blessed Martin, an old crusading war cry heard in Toledo before. The walls of Wamba extend from the Bridge of Alcantara to the Bridge of San Martin. The river runs round three sides of the city; the walls on the fourth make it impregnable.”

“We may as well have Wamba’s story now; we shall have to hear it some time,” sighed J. “I want to sketch the bridge from here. Fire away, boy!” Patsy, loaded and primed with information, fired.

“There isn’t much to tell! I always liked Wamba because, for a long time, I confused him with Wamba, son of Witless the Jester, in Ivanhoe,” Patsy confessed.

“That’s the way he always begins his longest yarns,” J. groaned.

According to Patsy’s yarn, this real Wamba was the last of the great Gothic kings, who, in spite of the tricks of his enemies, the churchmen, has left his mark on Toledo and on Spain. Wamba was an old soldier who lived just at the time when the Gothic power was on the wane, and Rome, for a second time, was becoming mistress of Spain. When the Gothic nobles elected him King, Wamba at first refused the throne. Then they gave him his choice of death or kingship, and he was finally forced to accept. He taught his people what they had almost forgotten, ‘to fight the good fight’; in his time there was a last flicker of the old Gothic spirit. But Wamba was too free and independent to suit the churchmen, and they contrived to give him a sleeping draught that threw him into so deep a trance that his followers thought the King was dead. He was prepared for burial, as is still the fashion for great personages, as if he had been a monk, and a tonsure was shaved on his head. When he came to himself, the churchmen maintained that a man who had worn the dress and the tonsure of a monk could never again reign as King. So, having reigned against his will, wisely and too well, he was forced to abdicate against his will, and retire to a monastery where he ended his days. Staunch old fellow that he was, the Church was too strong for him, as it has been for most political reformers from that day to this.

The Visigoths laid hold upon our imagination at Toledo as the Romans had at Italica, and the Moors at Cordova. Those fair northmen came to Spain when Rome had grown old and feeble, her iron hand relaxed. The Romans had come as conquerors, carrying the eagles through Spain. They marched rapidly; twenty miles a day was their average. They smote Spain—Iberia they called it—hard, and left their imperishable mark upon her. The coming of the Visigoths was more a vast migration than a conquest. They moved slowly, wandered rather than marched, encumbered with women and children, flocks and herds. They wandered over Europe, crossed the Pyrenees and settled the Peninsula. The impress they have left on Spain is as different from the Roman as their coming differed from the triumphal progress of the Romans.

“It is not so easy to find traces of the Visigoths in Spain as of the Roman or the Moor,” little Don Luis had assured us.

“That is a pity,” was Patsy’s answer, “for the Visigoths were the nicest people who ever came to Spain!”

They have not left so strong a mark on things material as Roman or Arab; they seem never to have held the land as firmly. Was it because they brought their wives with them, and neglected the dark-eyed Iberian women, skillful, like the dancing girls of Gades, in the dance with the castanets? To find traces of the Gothic occupation do not look for vast ruins of temple, circus, aqueduct or bridge. A few capitals in the Mosque of Cordova, the bas-relief of a hunting scene in the Museum, the city walls and the ruins of the palace of Wamba at Toledo—we saw little else to remind us of the Gothic rule in Spain, as far as material things go. The crown of King Swinthila at Madrid was the most impressive relic of the Visigoths we saw. It is of gold, surrounded by rosettes of pearls and sapphires, in a delicate red paste cloisonnÉ setting.

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.

While the trade was making, I studied the tradesman. He might have been descended from one of the Toledan hidalgos, immortalized by El Greco’s portraits. He had a thin nervous face, with great hollow eyes and a large sharp-cut nose. We got to know the type well before we left Toledo, for the citizens are of a distinct type. Just as in Seville we were always meeting Murillo Madonnas walking about the streets, and in Madrid Velasquez portraits, in Toledo we were continually meeting the hidalgos of El Greco.

From the shop where weapons are sold, we went to the Military Academy where soldiers are made. The cadets were just coming out from recitation as we looked into the courtyard to see the fountain cast from captured guns. They were gallant looking lads, full of pranks and tricks, as they streamed down the long staircase into the patio and out into the calle, past the wonderful carved stone doorway of the Hospital Santa Cruz. Don Luis sent in a message begging that a certain young cadet, Candalaria’s son, might have leave of absence to lunch with us. Leave was granted, and the cadet, his name was PepÉ, as smart a young blade as you could see, escorted us through the confusing labyrinth of narrow calles that lay between the Military Academy and our hotel. PepÉ was well known at the hotel; after his visit we were even better treated than before.

“What is best worth seeing in Toledo, after the Academy?” Patsy asked.

“The Fabrica de Espadas, where your dagger was made,” said PepÉ promptly. So after lunch J. and Patsy, escorted by PepÉ, went off to the Weapon Factory, leaving Don Luis and me to run lightly over “the chief attractions.”

“Look up my brother, Gregorio,” PepÉ flung back over his shoulder, as they swung off together. “He is free this afternoon; he knows all about churches and museums, if you care for such dull things.”

“Yes,” said Don Luis, “we will look up Gregorio. He knows a good deal about Toledo.”

Gregorio, Candalaria’s eldest son, was unlike any other member of that interesting family. He was small and fragile, with piercing brown eyes. He came, rather unwillingly, to show us the cathedral.

“Gregorio wished to go into the Church,” Don Luis told us. “His father and Candalaria did not like the idea. They never opposed the boy, but sent him to Toledo to spend a year with a priest cousin, who is the greatest bore in the family; the plan was that old fox Jaime’s, it’s working out well. From what PepÉ says, Gregorio is not so bent on taking orders now as he once was.”

Gregorio took us to the cathedral, a fine building, so hemmed about by smaller ones that we could get no view of the whole. The exterior of a stone originally white, is now tanned by sun and weather to a delicious mellow tone. The ruddy tower faintly recalls that greater glory, the Giralda. Some parts of the cathedral are in severe Gothic style, some very florid; this shows that it was a long time in building. The main entrance is perfectly gorgeous, the stone fretted and carved like so much petrified lace; the outer gate is only opened to admit the reigning sovereign. The interior is marred, like Seville and Cordova, by the coro. The stained glass is sumptuous. Over the main door is a thirty-foot rose window, in each transept a smaller rose. The afternoon sun, pouring through these and the graceful pointed windows in the different parts of the church, did much to counteract the cold, whitewashed walls. The vast white stone columns, with their prodigal carving, were stained ruby, amber, emerald, the seven colors of the rainbow, by the sunlight falling through those jewel windows. The cathedral is a museum in itself. One of the treasures is a small carved wooden statuette of St. Francis, by Alonzo Cano. The saint stands with his arms folded; the marvellous face of carven ivory, the agate eyes, look at you from the dark shadow of his cowl. Eyes and face reminded us of a pair of Egyptian statues at Cairo, whose discovery Marriatt Bey described: the workman who first entered the tomb where they were found came hurrying out in terror, crying, “There are live people in there; I saw the shining of their eyes!”

Our first visit to the cathedral, with Gregorio to protect us, was the best. When we went back without him, we were harried by the silencieros, vulgarly called dog-beaters, fierce beadles with long staves who pursued us, would not let us look at what we wanted to see, and tried to make us look at things we did not care for.

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

and power. His most famous picture, the Funeral of Count Orgaz, in the church of San TomÉ, is a fine illustration both of his strength and his weakness. In the lower part of the canvas we have the dead Count, with the priests and the mourners about him. Here all is real; the dead man in his armor, the Bishop in his mitre and gorgeous robes, the long line of attendants and mourners, and the lovely head of the young boy are all portrait studies. In the upper part, where the heavenly vision is painted, Greco has left the realm of the real and entered that of the ideal. Instead of raising us to the seventh heaven, he lets us down upon the earth. Saints Augustine and Stephen, who appear in the clouds as a heavenly vision attended by a heavenly host—things imagined and not seen—are grotesque, almost ridiculous.

Don Luis was right; it is only at Toledo that one can really understand El Greco. The religious pictures at the Prado had offended us; they had seemed the work of a madman. At Toledo one gets a true understanding of his original and extraordinary personality. He neither saw nor painted as other men see and paint. There was much that was morbid, something that was mad in his vision; but there was, besides, much that was sincere, honest and lucid. El Greco, who is now ranked as second only to Velasquez by many critics, by some as his equal if not superior, seems to have become so thoroughly saturated with the Spanish sentiment that, though his name is a constant reminder of his nationality, he is invariably spoken of as if he were in truth a Spaniard. The strange and wayward genius, who has so touched and influenced the imagination of Velasquez, of Sargent and so many other famous painters, was a true son of Hellas. To Greece belong his glory and his laurels.