Transcriber's Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected and inconsistencies of hyphenation have been removed. Other variations in spelling, accents and punctuation remain as in the original.

The following corrections have been made to the Index. Rembrandt von changed to Rembrandt van Rijn Pousin, Nicola changed to Poussin, Nicolas Zorilla, Ruiz changed to Zorrilla, Ruiz

Repetition of chapter titles on consecutive pages has been removed.

SPAIN

EDITION ARTISTIQUE

SPAIN

BY EDMONDO DE AMICIS

Translated by Stanley Rhoads Yarnall, M.A.

In Two Volumes Volume II.

MERRILL AND BAKER New York London

THIS EDITION ARTISTIQUE OF THE WORLD'S FAMOUS PLACES AND PEOPLES IS LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND NUMBERED AND REGISTERED COPIES, OF WHICH THIS COPY IS NO. _______

Copyright, Henry T. Coates & Co., 1895

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME II

ARANJUEZ.

As on arriving at Madrid by way of the north, so on leaving it by way of the south, one must pass through a desolate country that resembles the poorest provinces of Arragon and Old Castile. There are vast plains, parched and yellow, which look as though they would echo like a hollow passageway if one were to strike them, or crumble like the crust of a crisp tart. And through the plains are scattered a few wretched villages of the same color as the soil, which seem as though they would take fire like a pile of dry leaves if one were to touch a torch to the corner of one of the huts. After an hour of travel my shoulders sought the cushions of the carriage, my elbow sought for a support, my head sought my hand, and I fell into a deep sleep like a member of Leopardi's "Assembly of Listeners." A few minutes after I had closed my eyes I was rudely awakened by a desperate cry from the women and children, and leaped to my feet, demanding of my neighbors what had occurred.

But before I had ended my question a general burst of laughter reassured me. A company of huntsmen, scattered over the plain, on noticing the approach of the train, had planned to give the travellers a little scare. At that time there was a rumor that a band of Carlists had appeared in the vicinity of Aranjuez. The huntsmen, pretending to be the vanguard of the band, had given a loud shout while the train was passing, as if to call the great body of their comrades to their assistance, and as they shouted they went through the motions of firing at the railway-carriages; hence arose the fright and the cries of my fellow-travellers. And then the huntsmen suddenly threw the butts of their guns into the air to show that it was all a joke.

When the alarm, in which I too shared for a moment, had subsided, I fell once more into my academic doze, but was again awakened in a few moments in a manner much more pleasant than on the first occasion.

I looked around: the vast barren plain had been transformed as by magic into a great garden full of the most charming groves, traversed in all directions by wide avenues, dotted with country-houses and cottages festooned with verdure; here and there the sparkling of fountains, shady grottoes, flowering meadows, vineyards, and bridle-paths—a verdure, a freshness, a vernal odor, an atmosphere of happiness and peace, that enchanted the soul. We had arrived at Aranjuez. I left the train, walked up a beautiful avenue shaded by two rows of noble trees, and after a few steps found myself in front of the royal palace.

The minister Castelar had written in his memorandum a few days before that the fall of the ancient Spanish monarchy was predoomed on that day when a mob of the populace, with curses on their lips and hatred in their hearts, had invaded the palace of Aranjuez to disturb the majestic repose of their sovereigns. I had reached that square where on the 17th of March, 1808, occurred those events which were the prologue of the national war, and, as it were, the first word of the death-sentence of the ancient monarchy. My eyes quickly sought the windows of the apartments of the Prince of Peace; I imagined him, as he fled from room to room, pale and distracted, searching for a hiding-place as the echo of the cry followed him up the stairs; I saw poor Charles IV., as with trembling hands he placed the crown of Spain on the head of the prince of the Asturias; all the scenes of that terrible drama were enacted in fancy before my eyes, and the profound silence of the place and the sight of that palace, closed and desolate, sent a chill to my heart.

The palace has the appearance of a castle: it is built of brick, with trimmings of light stone, and covered with a tile roof. Every one knows that it was built for Philip II. by the celebrated architect Herrera, and that it was adorned by all the later kings, who made it their summer residence. I enter: the interior is magnificent; there is the stupendous reception-hall of the ambassadors, the beautiful Chinese cabinet belonging to Charles V., the marvellous dressing-chamber of Isabella II., and a profusion of the most precious ornaments. But all the riches of the palace are as nothing to the beauty of the gardens. The expectation is not disappointed.

The gardens of Aranjuez (Aranjuez is the name of a little town which lies a short distance from the palace) seem to have been laid out for a race of Titan kings, to whom the royal parks and gardens of our country would have seemed like the flower-beds on their terraces or the plots before their stables. Endless avenues, bordered by trees of measureless height with arched branches interlacing as if bent toward each other by contrary winds, extend in every direction like a forest whose boundaries one cannot see, and through this forest the Tagus, a wide, swift stream, flows in a majestic curve, forming here and there cascades and lakes: an abundant and luxuriant vegetation springs up amid a labyrinth of bypaths, crossways, and sylvan glades; and in every part gleam statues, vases, columns, and fountains rising to a great height and falling in spray, festoons, and drops of water, placed in the midst of all manner of flowers from Europe and America; and, mingling with the majestic roar of the cascades of the Tagus, a flood of song from innumerable nightingales, which make the mysterious gloom of the lonely paths ring with their mellow notes. In the depths of the gardens rises a small marble palace of modest proportions which contains all the wonders of the most magnificent royal abode; and here one may still breathe, so to speak, the air of the inmost life of the kings of Spain. Here are the small secret chambers whose ceilings one may touch with the hand, the billiard-room of Charles IV., his cue, the cushions embroidered by the hands of his queens, the musical clocks which enlivened the playtime of his children, the narrow staircases, the little windows about which cluster a hundred traditions of princely caprices, and, finally, the richest retiring-room in Europe, created at a whim of Charles V., containing in itself alone sufficient riches to adorn a palace, without depriving it of the noble primacy which it proudly holds among all other cabinets designed for the same use. Beyond this palace and all around the groves extend vineyards and olive-groves and orchards of fruit-bearing trees and smiling meadows. It is a veritable oasis in the midst of the desert—an oasis which Philip II. chose to create on a day when he was in good humor, as if to enliven with one cheerful image the black melancholy of the Escurial. On returning from the little marble palace toward the great royal palace through those endless avenues, in the shade of those noble trees, in that profound forest silence, I thought of the splendid trains of ladies and cavaliers who once wandered about in the footsteps of the gay young monarchs or the capricious and dissolute queens to the sound of amorous music and songs which told of the grandeur and glory of unconquered Spain; and I sadly repeated with the poet, Ricanati,

But as I looked at those marble seats, half hidden in the shrubbery, and fixed my eyes on the shadow of certain distant paths, and thought of those queens, those lovers, and those mad pranks, I could not refrain from a sigh, which was not one of pity, and a secret sense of bitterness stung me to the heart; and I said, like poor Adan in the poem Diablo Mundo, "How are these grand ladies made? How do they live? What do they do? Do they talk, make love, and enjoy like us?" And I left for Toledo, imagining the love of a queen like a young adventurer of the Arabian Nights.

TOLEDO.

When one approaches an unknown city one ought to have near by some one who has already seen it and is able to indicate the opportune moment to put one's head out of the window and get the first view. I had the good fortune to be informed in time. Some one said to me, "There is Toledo!" and I sprang to the window with an exclamation of wonder.

Toledo rises on a sheer rocky height, at whose foot the Tagus describes a grand curve. From the plain one sees only the rocks and the walls of the fortress, and beyond the wall the tips of the belfries and the towers. The houses are hidden from view; the city seems to be closed and inaccessible, and presents the appearance of an abandoned stronghold rather than of a city. From the walls to the river-banks there is not a single house nor tree; all is bare, parched, craggy, precipitous; not a soul is in sight; you would say that to make the ascent it would be necessary to climb, and it seems that at the first appearance of a man on the face of those rocks a shower of arrows would fall upon him from the top of the wall.

You leave the train, get into a carriage, and arrive at the entrance of a bridge. It is the famous bridge Alcantara, which spans the Tagus, surmounted by a beautiful Moorish gate in the form of a tower, which gives it a bold, severe appearance. Crossing the bridge, you turn into a wide roadway which winds up in large serpentine curves until it reaches the top of the mountain. Here it really seems that you are under a fortified city of the Middle Ages, and you imagine yourself in the guise of a Moor or a Goth or a soldier of Alfonso VI. From every part precipitous rocks hang over your head, crumbling walls, towers, and the ruins of ancient bastions, and higher up the last wall which encircles the city, black, crowned with enormous battlements, opened here and there by great breaches, behind which the imprisoned houses rear their heads; and as you climb higher and higher the city seems to draw back and hide itself. Halfway up the ascent you come to the Puerto del Sol, a jewel of Moorish architecture, consisting of two embattled towers which are joined over a very graceful double-arched colonnade, under which runs the ancient street; and from that point, if you look back, you may see at a glance the Tagus, the valley, and the hills. You go on and find other walls and other ruins, and finally the first houses of the city.

What a city! At the first moment I caught my breath. The carriage had turned down a little street, so narrow that the hubs of the wheels almost touched the walls of the houses.