  THE Esla valley runs down broad and level from Leon towards the south; a monotonous umber-coloured valley, very different from the wild glens whence its waters are derived. The road is straight and featureless, though its newly-planted acacia avenues give some promise of ultimate redemption; and the mud-built wayside villages have a forlorn and collapsible air. Occasionally one lights upon a regular troglodyte settlement, a group of bee-hive cellars excavated in the hillside, with the chimneys struggling out among the sparse herbage which covers them. These caves have no windows, and are lit only through the open doors, yet they continued to be the homes of the peasantry till within comparatively recent days. Indeed, in some few instances they are still inhabited; but generally they are utilised only as storehouses and stables, while the popula The Esla itself is the most interesting item in the scenery. It flows parallel with the road some two or three miles to the left, close under the crumbling yellow cliffs which overlook the vale. Its course is marked by trees and greenery, chiefly the inevitable poplar; and its thin line of verdure, shot with flashes of sparkling water, is a welcome relief to the dun and dusty plain. The riverside hamlets plastered upon the face of the cliffs are so weather-nibbled and irregular, and so exactly the colour of the grounding, that they might be taken for some weird growth of parasitic fungus; and the whole scene has a most convincingly Nilotic air. A short distance from Benavente occurred one of the few mishaps which it was our lot to occasion. An old countryman was jogging sleepily along the road before us with a mule and a donkey, when the animals suddenly took fright at our approach. A Spaniard is commonly a good horseman—when he is riding a horse. But he does not think it worth while to ride a donkey, so he merely sits on it,—sans reins, sans stirrups, with both his legs on one side, and no more control over his mount than Benavente stands upon a tongue of high ground between the Esla and Orbigo valleys. The extreme tip is occupied by the old castle of the Counts of Benavente, one of whom is immortalized by Velasquez in the Prado gallery, clad in suit of armour which seems capable of reflecting your face. But his once splendid palace is now a ruin,—plundered and burnt by the stragglers of Sir John Moore’s army; and the poor old town itself, though it contains some interesting churches, has grown wofully battered and threadbare since its seigneurs were driven from their home.
Yet Benavente is not without honour among us Englishmen. Its name figures upon a clasp of the Peninsular medal, and upon the colours of the 10th The mÊlÉe took place on the broad poplared plain which lies between the town and the river, and the old bridge of Castro Gonzalo spans the torrent a little below the Frenchmen’s ford. It is a long, uneven stone structure, with three timbered spans to remind us of the work of Moore’s sappers; and the steep bank which rises above it is famed A finger-post and a kilometre stone stood side by side on the branch road at the summit. The former said “To Zamora,” and the latter “38 kilos”; whereat we rejoiced and set our pace more leisurely, for the daylight would last us for nearly Three kilos more,—and still no sign of our haven.—Two kilos,—one,—and our hopes were dashed to the ground. Our road shot us out into one of the most desolate stretches of the great highway from Madrid to Vigo; and a venerable shepherd who suddenly materialised out of the empty landscape blandly informed us that Zamora was just “four leagues.” Our mistake was obvious enough. The 38 kilos, had of course been reckoned from the junction with the highway. But a couple of wary continental travellers should have been on their guard against so stale a trap. At the first blush it seemed as though we were destined to fare every bit as badly as we merited. The last glow was dying out of the sky behind us, and a grumbling thunderstorm was nursing its wrath for us ahead. But our good luck came to our rescue, and found us a city of refuge:—the little hamlet of Montamarta, which was ambushed in a dip of the road. By this time we had learned not to be too dainty about our quarters; yet the Parador at Montamarta was so very unassuming that at first we gave it the go-by; and the landlord was an unshaven ruffian who seemed fully capable of the blackest crimes. But the dingy little den to which he ushered us was full of familiar faces:—Velasquez’ jolly “Topers” beaming over their wine-cups, the matchless “Booby of CÓria,” and wild ragged goatherds and vine dressers, with whom Salvator Rosa might have joined in “painting jabeques.” With dawn we were again on our journey, dodging our way past the cavalcade of country-folk who were pouring along to market from the various villages around. It was an easy stage. We had nearly made port yester even. Within a few miles we were at Zamora gates. In our Protestant ignorance of times and seasons we were unaware that the day was the festival of Corpus Christi; consequently the apparition of a fifteen-foot pasteboard giant lurching deviously down the main thoroughfare occasioned us a little mild bewilderment. This wandering ogre, however, was fully entitled to liberty. All respectable Spanish cities retain a team of giants as part of their ordinary municipal outfit, and Corpus Christi day is the great occasion for parading them. The tourist should always arrange to spend that festival in some good old-established city where the choicest breeds are preserved. Zamora itself is quite old enough for the purpose. Its fine old Romanesque cathedral was built by no less a person than the Bishop Don Moreover, the story of the greatest leaguer of all, is it not written in the book of the Chronicle of the Cid, and as famous in Spanish annals as the siege of Troy? For it came to pass that in the eleventh century King Fernando the Great,
“So King Sancho drew near and beheld Zamora how strongly it was built, upon a cliff, with many massy towers and the river Duero running at the foot thereof.” It was no light task to reduce it, and he proffered Valladolid in exchange. But my lady was in no mood to barter her beautiful stronghold for commonplace Valladolid, and doubtless regarded the offer from the same standpoint as her practical councillors,—“He who assails you on the rock would soon drive you from the plain.” The Castilian army lacked the aid of its champion: for Ruy Diaz had been bred up with the princess at Zamora in Don Arias Gonzalo’s household, and would not fight against her in person “for the sake of old times.” Yet King Sancho was very competent to manage his own battles; and though his assaults were abortive, he soon began to feel more sanguine of blockade. Zamora was reduced to the last extremity when Vellido Dolphos, a knight of the princess’s, put into practice against King Sancho the old ruse of Gobryas and Sextus Tarquinius. He feigned desertion, won the confidence of the king, and assassinated him under the walls in the course of It is a shame to tell the story in prose. Yet we cannot refrain from recalling how Don Arias Gonzalo, the princess’ foster-father, pointed out to Don Diego OrdoÑez what a very serious thing he had done in challenging a whole cathedral city. How (no doubt with a grim chuckle) he produced the Rules for such case made and provided, whereby it appeared that the challenger must meet five champions in succession, and be declared disgraced if he failed against any one;—which was considerably more than Don Diego had bargained for! Nevertheless he put a bold face on the matter and gallantly met and slew his two first antagonists. But meanwhile it is still Corpus Christi day; and the giants are becoming impatient. We found them all four at the bridge-head, attended by a large retinue of loiterers, and waiting outside a church door, like camels at the eye of a needle. The show had not really begun. But as we approached to investigate, there suddenly gushed upon us out of the church itself as strange a medley as that which encountered Don Quixote on a similar anniversary in the chariot of the Cortes of Death. First, four minor giants—great goggling pumpkin-headed Prince Bulbos—and the drum and fife band of Falstaff’s ragged regiment. Then the processional cross and candlesticks, and Our Lady gorgeous in a white silk frock, borne shoulder-high on a litter, with her canopy bucketting along behind her about half a length to the bad. More Whether the spectacle were a sacrament or a circus, seemed at first an open question; but it was soon resolved. At once every head was uncovered and every knee was bowed, and “His Majesty’s” Beyond the bridge the procession received its final embellishment in the accession of a mounted guard of honour; and throughout the rest of the day it continued to parade the streets and call at the various churches, while the populace thronged the balconies, crossing themselves, and cheering, and showering their paper flowers impartially upon saints and giants and the bald heads of the accompanying priests—an attention which did not
The last we saw of them was in the market square at evening. The giants were standing at the corners; and in the centre sat Margaret of Antioch, Virgin and Martyr, on a grand practicable dragon which could wag its own head and tail. She was understood to be an “Extra,” the exclusive property of Zamora, and not to be met with in less favoured localities. But precisely what she was doing in this galley we could not ascertain. As for the giants, they are allegorical, and typify the four quarters of the globe;—concerning which explanation one can only say that it is little better than none. The very Highest of High Masses was celebrated in the cathedral in honour of the occasion. The priests were in their most gorgeous vestments; the altar almost buried under a pyramid of silver plate; and the walls of the cloisters draped with magnificent pieces of old Spanish tapestry—Corah, Dathan and Abiram going down into the pit on horseback like true caballeros, and Pharaoh pursuing the Israelites in a coach and four. The service as usual was rather of a go-as-you-please character; for the Coro and Capilla The silver ark in which the Host made its progress was on show in one of the aisles. All Spanish cathedral bodies are inordinately proud of this piece of furniture (which is generally modern and tawdry); and there is no nearer way to the sacristan’s heart than to tell him that his specimen is a finer one than that which you saw last at some rival town—Salamanca, for instance. There is a warm neighbourly hatred between Wherefore I would exhort future travellers not to be misled by those Salamanca people. For Zamora is not merely ancient; it is even (in some ways) up to date. It is somewhat of a shock to an antiquarian to discover that the town is fully equipped with electric light; still more so to realise that the power station is established in the old church of Sta Maria de la Horta, with the dynamos purring among the arcades, and the chimney tucked in behind the tower. But one soon gets reconciled to these little incongruities. In Spain they are really so common that one learns to expect them from the first. The town of Toro stands some twenty miles further up the river than Zamora, and makes a capital partner for its neighbour. Indeed, at first sight it seems even more imposingly situated, for it rises on a much loftier hill. But its cliffs are only of soft alluvial deposit instead of solid rock; and its walls built only of mud, which has now nearly crumbled away. In other respects they are not ill-matched, for the streets of Toro are fully The streets, as in most Spanish towns, are empty and deserted during the heat of the afternoon; the houses closely shuttered, and the people within doors. But as soon as the shadows have lengthened across the roadway, they turn out unanimously on to the pavement, where they sit spinning, sewing, and gossiping, in a sort of semi-publicity. In unsophisticated districts the women (like mermaids) are much addicted to combing each other’s hair. The operator sits on a low chair or doorstep, while her subject settles herself upon the ground at her feet, with her head thrown back upon the other’s lap, and her thick black mane flooding out over her knees. A very pretty and poetical little group they make—if you do not pry too curiously into the details. The younger women have frequently magnificent hair; for they are quite innocent of “transformations,” yet their brows are most copiously crowned. One girl at Salamanca wore a thick black pigtail that was positively tapping her heels; and the beauty of Astorga (who was also of pigtail age) was not many inches inferior.
The majority of the houses in the town are probably not more than a couple of centuries old; but amongst them are a few genuine Solares, once the homes of hidalgos and grandees. It was to one of these that the “Conde Duque” of Olivares, the celebrated minister of Philip IV., retired upon his disgrace and banishment from court; philosophically busying himself with the cultivation of cabbages,—those gawky long-stalked abortions, uncannily suggestive of Encrinites, which still fill all the gardens round the town. Here he was visited by Gil Blas, his quondam secretary, who flattered him with smug allusions to Diocletian. Here also he used occasionally to entertain a more worthy guest,—the painter Velasquez, who was too high-minded to desert his old patron merely because he was under the displeasure of the king. Politically Olivares was as worthless and corrupt as any of his rivals, yet he evidently had an attractive personality. Quevedo, imprisoned four years in the Leonese dungeon for lampooning him, would probably remember him in a less amiable light! The lofty situation of the city gives it an immensely extensive outlook; for the left bank of the Duero is flat and low-lying, and but for the The scene of that final catastrophe is too far distant to be visible. But a scarcely less notable conflict actually takes its name from the town. This was the famous battle of Toro, which put an end to the civil war at the opening of the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, and seated the Catholic kings firmly upon their throne. The rebellious nobles had fortified themselves by an alliance with Alfonso of Portugal, and both Toro and Zamora were in their hands. Alfonso’s headquarters were at Toro, but Zamora was besieged by Ferdinand, and Alfonso marched to its relief. Seeing that both towns stand on the northern bank of the river, it is difficult to understand what the Portuguese king could hope to effect by advancing on the south. Perhaps he fancied that Zamora still commanded the bridge and that he would thus be able to enter
Ferdinand hurried his forces across the river in pursuit. His own army, as usual in medieval days, could not be maintained at fighting strength for many weeks together, and he was now nowise loth “to put it to the touch to gain or lose it all.” He came up with his foe a little distance short of Toro. Mendoza was leading; and headed the charge against the troops of his brother prelate the Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, with a breezy vehemence worthy of old Picton at VitÓria, “Come on, you villains! I’m as good a Cardinal as he!” The weary, overmarched Portuguese were unable to sustain the onset; and their only retreat to Toro lay over the narrow patchwork bridge. Alfonso himself escaped, but there was no further fighting. The Catholic kings commemorated their victory by the erection of the great church of San Juan de los Reyes at Toledo, and the revolted nobles hastened to “come in” upon the best available terms. |
|
