On leaving the cloister in the mornings soon after daybreak, the first person Gabriel would see was Don Antolin, the “Silver Stick.”  This priest exercised an authority like that of Governor of the Cathedral, for all the lay servants were under his orders, and all the repairs of little importance were done under his supervision.

Down below, in the church, he watched the sacristans and the acolytes, careful that the canons and beneficiaries should have no cause of complaint in the services.  Upstairs, in the cloister, he watched over the good behaviour and cleanliness of the families, being by the grace of the cardinal archbishop a sort of magistrate over that little town.

He occupied the best “habitación” in the Claverías.  At the great ceremonies he walked in front of the Chapter in his pluvial, carrying a silver stick nearly as tall as himself, making the tiles of the pavement re-echo with its blows.  During High Mass and the choir in the evening he walked about the naves to check any irreverence on the part of the congregation or any inattention on that of the staff.  At eight o’clock at night in the winter, and at nine in summer, he locked the door of the staircase leading to the upper cloister, putting the key in his pocket, and so all the people in the cloister remained quite isolated from the town.  If now and again anyone was taken ill in the night, it was necessary to wake Don Antolin who, plunging his hand into the depths of his cassock, would produce his key, and deign to restore communication with the outer world.

He was about seventy years of age, small and wizened; age had scarcely tinged his shaven crown with grey, his forehead was broad and square, and rose straight beneath the silk cap he wore in winter.  His features were rather drawn out, without a single wrinkle, and devoid of any expression that showed emotion, the jaw-bone narrow and sharp, and the eyes as inexpressive and motionless as the rest of the face, but with a cold, penetrating glance that was extremely disconcerting.

Gabriel had known him from his childhood; he was, to use his own expression, like a private soldier of the church, who by reason of his years and services had attained the rank of sergeant, but who could rise no further.  When Luna first entered the seminary Don Antolin had just been ordained priest, and since then had passed his life in the sacristy of the Primacy where he had begun as acolyte.

On account of his absolute and irrational faith and his unbending adhesion to the Church, the professors in the seminary had pushed him on in his career, in spite of his ignorance; he was a son of the soil, having been born in a village in the mountains round Toledo.  The Holy Metropolitan Church was to him the second house of God in the world, only ranking after Saint Peter’s in Rome, and all ecclesiastical learning was to him like rays emanating from the Divine wisdom, which blinded him, and were to be adored with the profound respect of ignorance.

He had that blessed and entire want of education so appreciated by the Church in former years.  Gabriel felt sure that if Silver Stick had been born in the flourishing times of Catholicism he would have become a saint on dedicating himself to the spiritual life, or he would have played an excellent part in the Inquisition on the arrival of that militant society.  Having come into the world at the wrong time, when faith was weakened and the Church could no longer impose its laws by violence, the good Don Antolin had remained hidden in the lower administration of the Cathedral, assisting the Canon Obrero in the division and assignment of the money that the State allowed to the Primacy, giving long thought over the spending of each handful of farthings, endeavouring that the holy house, like the ruined families, should keep up its good outward appearance without revealing the poverty inside.

He had been promised several times a chaplaincy of nuns, but he was one of those faithful to the Cathedral, one of those quite in love with the great establishment.  He was proud of the confidence that the Lord Archbishop placed in him, and of the frank friendliness with which the canons and beneficiaries spoke to him, and of his administrative conferences with the Obrero and the Treasurer.  For this reason he could not repress a gesture of contemptuous superiority when having donned his pluvial, and clutching his silver stick, he advanced and spoke to any strange clergy from the neighbouring villages who visited the Primacy.

His faults were purely ecclesiastic; he saved in secret, with that cold, determined avarice so usual at all times in people attached to the Church.  His greasy skull cap had been discarded as too old by its former owner, one of the canons; his cassock of a greenish black and his shoes had also belonged to some one of the beneficiaries; in the Claverías they all whispered of the monies hoarded by Don Antolin, and of his savings that were devoted to usury ­loans that never went beyond two or three duros to the poorer servants of the church ground down by poverty, and which he recovered with interest at the beginning of every month when they were paid by the Canon Obrero.  In him avarice and usury were joined to the most implicit honesty in regard to the interests of the church; he would punish relentlessly the smallest pilfering in the sacristy, and he made up his accounts for the Chapter with a minuteness that annoyed the Obrero.  To every one his own, the church was poor and it would be a sin worthy of hell to deprive her of a single farthing; he, as a good servant of God was poor also, and he thought he was doing no wrong in drawing a certain profit from the money he had gathered together by dint of bargaining, and by many painful privations in the midst of his poverty.

His niece, Mariquita, lived with him, an ugly woman with masculine features and a fresh colour, who had come from the mountains to look after her uncle, of whose riches and power in the Primacy all his relations and friends in the village talked a great deal.  She rode roughshod over all the other women in the Claverías, taking undue advantage of Don Antolin’s supreme authority.  The more timid formed round her a circle of adulation, endeavouring to evoke her protection by cleaning her house and cooking for her, while Mariquita, dressed in the habit, and with her hair most carefully combed ­the only luxury allowed by her uncle ­loitered about the cloister hoping to meet there some cadet, or that some of the foreigners visiting the tower or the hall of the giants would take notice of her.  She made sheep’s eyes at every man; and she, so hard and imperious to all the women, would smile sweetly on all the bachelors living in the Claverías.  The “Tato” was a great friend of hers; he would come and visit her when her uncle was absent in order to air his graces as apprentice to a Torrero.  Gabriel, with his delicate looks, his mysterious self-containment, and the confused story of all his great travels about the world interested her not less; she would even speak with marked deference to the “Wooden Staff,” as he was both a man and a widower, and, as the “Perrero” wickedly said, the very sight of a pair of trousers nearly drove the poor woman mad in that establishment where the greater part of the men wore petticoats.

Don Antolin had known Gabriel since his childhood, and spoke to him in the second person.  The ignorant priest still retained the remembrance of Luna’s great triumphs obtained in the seminary, and though he saw him so poor and ailing, taking refuge in the Cathedral almost on charity, his “tuteo” of superiority was not free from admiration.  Gabriel, on his side, feared Silver Stick, knowing his intolerant fanaticism.  For this reason he confined himself to listening to him, careful in their conversation that not a single word should slip in which could betray his past.  He would be the first to demand his expulsion from the Cathedral, where he wished to live unknown and silent.

On meeting each other in the cloister, the two men began with the same questions every morning: 

“How is your health to-day?”

Gabriel showed himself an optimist.  He knew that his illness had no remedy; still, that quiet life free from all emotions, and his brother’s care, feeding him at all hours, like a bird and almost by force, had arrested the decay of his health.  The course of the illness was slower ­death was meeting with obstacles.

“I am better, Don Antolin.  And yesterday, what sort of a day had you?”

Silver Stick plunged his dirty and horny hands into the recesses of his cassock, and produced three greasy little ticket-books, one red, one green and the third white.  He turned over the leaves, considering the counterfoils of those he had torn out; he took the most respectful care of these little books, as though they were far more important than the big music books in the choir.

“A very slack day, Gabriel!  Being in the winter, so few people travel.  Our best time is in the spring, when they say the English come in by Gibraltar.  They go first to the fair in Seville, and afterwards they come to have a look at our Cathedral.  Besides, in milder weather the people come from Madrid, and although they grumble, the flies crowd to see the giants and the big bell, then I have to hurry with the tickets; one day, Gabriel, I took eighty duros.  I remember it was at the last ‘Corpus’; Mariquita had to sew up the pockets of my cassock, for they tore with the weight of so many pesetas; it was a blessing from the Lord.”

He looked sadly at the little books, as though regretting that many days passed in winter when he only tore out one or two leaves.  This plan of selling entrance tickets to see the treasures and curiosities of the Cathedral filled all his thoughts.  It was the salvation of the church, the modern proceeding to help it on, and he felt proud of fulfilling this function, which made him one of the most important persons in the life of the temple.

“You see these green tickets?” said he to Gabriel.  “These are the dearest, they cost two pesetas each.  With these you can see everything that is most important ­the treasury, the chapel of the Virgin, and the Ochavo with its relics which are unique in the world.  The other cathedrals are dirt compared with ours, and their relics lies, many of them invented on account of the envy that our Holy Metropolitan Church inspired.  You see these red ones?  These only cost six reals, and with them you can visit the sacristies, the wardrobe, the chapels of Don Alvaro de Luna and of Cardinal Albornoz, and the Chapter-house, with its two rows of portraits of the archbishops which are wonders.  Who would not scrape their purse to see such prodigies?”

Afterwards he added, showing the last ticket book with contempt: 

“These white ones are only worth two reals.  They are to see the giants and the bells.  We sell a great many of those to the lower class who come to the Cathedral on feast days.  Could you believe it, but many of the Protestants and Jews call this a robbery?  The other day three soldiers came from the Academy with some country folks to see the giants, and they made quite a scandalous scene because we would not let them in for an old song.  As if we were asking their charity!  Many of them commit all sorts of nuisances about the Cathedral, just as if they were heretics, to say nothing of their drawing all sorts of abominable things and writing obscene words on the walls of the staircase.  What shocking times, eh, Gabriel?  What shocking times!”

Luna smiled silently, and Silver Stick, encouraged by what seemed to him acquiescence, went on with pride: 

“And about these tickets, I invented them ­that is to say, I am not really their inventor, but their introduction into this house is owing to me.  You have travelled so much, and must have seen in those foreign countries that everything is shown on payment.  The Lord Cardinal before this one, who is now in blessed glory (and he raised his hand to his skull cap) had also travelled a great deal ­he was quite a ‘modern,’ and had he lived would have ended by putting electric light in the naves of the Cathedral.  I heard him on one occasion speak of what was done in the museums and other interesting places in Rome and other towns; unrestricted entrance at all hours ­on payment, an immense convenience to the public, who required to get no tickets beforehand to visit these things.  So one day when the Obrero and I were biting our nails, seeing that this miserable thousand and odd pesetas (God forgive me!) that this unhappy State allows us, could not possibly suffice for our monthly expenses, I propounded my idea.  Now, could you believe that some of the gentlemen in the Chapter opposed it?  Some of the young canons spoke of the sellers in the Temple, you know who they were ­certain Jews who drove the Lord out with scourges in their hand, for I know not what misdemeanours.  The older ones said the Cathedral had always had its treasures open to all for centuries, and so it ought to go on.  All the gentlemen were quite right, but you cannot do anything with a stupid canon, and at last the defunct cardinal, who is now in the enjoyment of God (another tug at his cap) interfered, and the Chapter were obliged, though with much grumbling, to accept the reform, and they ended by praising it.  In all bitter there is a sweet!  Do you know how much money I handed to the Lord Cardinal last year?  More than three thousand duros, nearly as much as this sinful State allows us, and this without prejudice to anybody.  The public pays, they admire and they go; in any case they are only birds of passage who come once, and when they go they do not return.  And what are four wretched pesetas, when for that money you can see one of the most glorious churches in Christendom, the cradle of Spanish Catholicism, the Cathedral of Toledo!”

The two men were walking in the cloister on the side warmed by the sun at that early hour, the cleric had put away his ticket books, and his eyes were fixed on Gabriel, who thought that to smile in his enigmatic way, which Don Antolin accepted as assent, quite met the situation, and it encouraged him to continue his confidences.

“Ay, Gabriel!  You cannot think that my heavy duties can be fulfilled without hard work; the Cardinal trusts me, the Chapter distinguish me with their regard, and the Obrero has no other hope but in my assistance.  Thanks to these tickets we can carry the Cathedral along, and keep up its ancient appearance of grandeur, so that the public will come and admire.  But we are poorer than rats, and we must be thankful that even some crumbs are left us from the past.  If the wind or the hail break some of our glass in the naves, we can still lay our hands on some of the stores left by the Obreros of former days.  Ay, senor!  And to think there was a time when the Chapter maintained at its own expense inside the church, cutters and painters of glass, plumbers, and I know not what beside, so that any great works could be undertaken without seeking any help outside the house!  If one of the tombs gets broken, even now we have quantities of borderings carved with saints and flowers that are wonderful to see.  But what will happen when all these are finished?  When the last pane of glass in the stores has been broken, and the last fragments of carving in the Obrería used up?  We shall have to put cheap white panes in the windows to prevent the rain and wind coming in.  The Cathedral will look like an inn ­may God forgive me the comparison ­and the priests of the Primacy will praise God dressed like the chaplain of a hermitage.”

And Don Antolin laughed sarcastically, as though this future that he was anticipating was an absurd contradiction of the eternal laws.

“You will easily believe,” he went on, “that they do not waste anything, and that they make money out of every possible thing.  The garden that was for so many years in your family is now leased out by the Chapter, since your brother’s death; twenty duros a year your Aunt Tomasa pays for her son to cultivate it, and this only because, as you know, the old woman is such a great friend of His Eminence, as they have known each other since they were children.  I go about like a water carrier, all round the church and the cloisters, watching that no one plays tricks, for there are a lot of young light-hearted people, whom you cannot trust.  One minute I am in the Ochavo, watching that your nephew the ‘Tato’ has sold the tickets to the foreigners (for he is quite capable of letting them in gratis if they tip him on leaving), and the next I am up in the cloister looking after that shoemaker who repairs the giants; they cannot deceive me, no one escapes me without paying; but, ay! it is a long while since I have sung mass.  You can see me at mid-day when the Cathedral is closed reading my hours hurriedly in the cloisters, watching the clock in order to go down the moment the church is opened, when the strangers begin to come to see the treasury.  This is not the life of a good Catholic, and if God does not lay it to my account that I am doing it all for the glory of His house, I fear that I shall lose my soul.”

The two men walked up and down some time in silence, but Don Antolin could not hold his tongue for long when the subject was the economic life of the Primacy.

“And to think, Gabriel,” he continued, “that having been what we were in former times, we should have come to this!  You and most of those alive have no idea how rich this house used to be ­as rich as a king, and often far richer.  From a child no one has known as you have the history of our glorious archbishops, but of the fortune they amassed for God, you know nothing.  Of course these temporalities do not interest learned people like you.  Have you any idea what donations the kings and great lords gave in their lifetime to our Cathedral, or the legacies they left her on their deathbeds?  You have a great deal to learn!  I know all about it, I have searched in the Obrería, in the archives, in the library; everyone does what interests them, and I and the Senor Obrero have often raged at the indigence of the house, but I console myself by thinking of what we had, long before any of us were born.  We were very rich, Gabriel ­very, very rich.  The archbishops of Toledo could have placed one or two crowns on their mitre, I dare not say three, for I think of the Supreme Pontiff.  First of all, there is the Deed of Gift to the Cathedral, made by the King Alfonso VI., by reason of his having conquered Toledo.  It was made a hermitage, after the election of the Bishop Don Bernardo, and I have seen it in the archives with my own sinful eyes, a parchment with Gothic letters, and at the head is written, ‘The privileges of this Holy Church.’  The good king gave to the Cathedral nine towns ­if I wished I could tell you their names ­several mills, and vineyards innumerable, houses and shops in the town, and he ends by saying with all the munificence of a Christian cavalier, ’This, therefore, in such a way I give, and I grant to this church and to you, Bernard, Archbishop, in free and perfect gift, that neither by homicide, nor any other calumny, shall it ever be forfeited.  Amen.’  Afterwards, Don Alfonso VII. gave us eight towns on the other side of the Guadalquiver, several ovens, two castles, the salt works of Belinchon, and a tenth of all the money coined in Toledo, for the vestments of the prebendaries.  The VIII. of the name showered on the Cathedral a perfect rain of gifts, towns, villages, and mills.  Illescas is ours, and a great part of Esquivias, as also the mortgage on Talavera.  Afterwards came the fighting prelate, Don Rodrigo, who took much land from the Moors, and the Cathedral possesses one principality, the Adelantamiento de Cazorla, with towns like Baza, Niebla, and Alcaraz.  And besides the kings there is a great deal to be said about the nobles, great princes who showed their generosity to the Holy Metropolitan Church.  Don Lope de Haro, Lord of Vizcaya, not content with paying the cost of the building from the Puerta de los Escribanos as far as the choir, gave us the town of Alcubilete, with its mills and fisheries, and he also left a legacy so that in the choir when complines are sung, that lamp called the Preciosa should be lighted, which is placed by the great bronze eagle belonging to the big missal.  Don Alfonso Tello de Meneses gave us four towns on the banks of the Guadiana, granted us tithes and bridge tolls, and I know not what riches besides.  We have been very powerful, Gabriel; the territory of this diocese is larger than a principality.  The Cathedral had property on the earth, in the air, and in the sea!  Our dominions extended throughout the whole nation from end to end; there was not a single province in which we did not hold possessions.  Everything contributed to the glory of the Lord, and to the comfort and welfare of His ministers; everything paid to the Cathedral:  bread when it was baked in the ovens, the casting of the net, wheat as it passed through the mill, money as it came from the Mint, the traveller as he went on his way; the country people who then paid no taxes or contributions served their king and saved their own souls, giving the best sheaf in every ten, so that the granaries of the Holy Metropolitan Church were quite insufficient to contain such abundance.  What times were those, Gabriel!  There was faith, Gabriel, and faith is the chief thing in life ­without faith there is no virtue nor decency ­nor nothing.”

He stopped for a moment, quite out of breath with talking.  The priest was so saturated with the atmosphere of the Cathedral, that in himself he seemed to unite all the various scents of the church; his cassock had collected the mouldy smell of the old stones and the rusty iron railings, and his mouth seemed to breathe of the gutters and the gargoyles, and the rank damp of the garrets.

With the rapid enumeration of all the past wealth Don Antolin warmed, even to indignation.

“And having been so rich, now we find ourselves in extreme poverty.  And I, my son, a priest of the Lord, am obliged to go hither and thither with those tickets so that we may all live, just as though I were a seller of entrance tickets to a bull-fight, and the Lord’s house were a theatre, having to endure all those foreign heretics, who come in without blessing themselves, and who look at everything through opera-glasses.  And I have to smile at them because they pay us and provide us with some dessert for our poor stew!  Carape!  Jesus have mercy on me!  I was going to say a sacrilege.”

Don Antolin continued his angry complaints till, in passing the front of his house, Mariquita of the scowling and ugly countenance appeared at the door.

“Uncle, enough of walking.  Your chocolate is getting cold.”

But before the priest disappeared into his house, she went on, smiling amiably at Luna: 

“Will you have some, Don Gabriel?”

And with her bold eyes, like a hungry wolf, she invited Luna to enter.  She liked the masterful ways of the man, she said, and the ease which his former intercourse with the world had given him, and, moreover, for her woman’s imagination Gabriel’s mysterious past possessed a great attraction; his proud silence, the vague reports of his adventures, and the smile, as much compassionate as disdainful, with which he listened to the people of the upper cloister.

The insinuating Mariquita withdrew, and Gabriel continued his walk through the cloister, after finishing the little jar of milk that his brother brought him up every morning.

At eight o’clock, Don Luis, the Chapel-master, came out, his cloak wrapped as usual theatrically round him, and his big hat well tilted back, like a glory, round his enormous head; he was humming absently, restless with perpetual nervous movements; he inquired anxiously if the bell had yet rung for the choir, frightened by the threats of a fine in case he were late.  Gabriel felt himself very much attracted by this poor priestly musician, who lived so despised in the furthest corner of the church, thinking far more of music than of dogma.

In the evenings Gabriel would often go up to the little room inhabited by the Chapel-master, on the tipper floor of the Lunas’ house; the room contained all the priest’s fortune ­a little iron bed, which had belonged formerly to the seminarist, two plaster busts of Beethoven and Mozart, and an enormous pile of bundles of music, bound scores, loose sheets of ruled paper, so big and so piled up and disorderly that every now and then a pile would slip down, covering the floor of the little room with white sheets to its furthest corner.

“That is how all his money goes,” said the Wooden Staff with an air of good-natured reproof, “he will never have a farthing.  As soon as he gets his pay he orders more music from Madrid.  It would be far better for Don Luis if he were to buy himself a new hat, even if it were a cheap one, so that the gentlemen of the choir should not laugh at the covering he has on his head.”

In the winter evenings, after the choir, the musician and Gabriel took refuge in this little room.  The canons, wishing to avoid the cold winds and the rain, took their daily walk in the galleries of the upper cloister, not wishing to forego this exercise to which their methodical existence had accustomed them.  The rain would beat on the window of the little room, and in the dull grey twilight the musician would turn over his portfolios, or letting his hands wander over the harmonium, he would talk the while with Gabriel, who was seated on the bed.

The musician would grow excited, speaking of his love of art.  In the midst of some peroration he would become suddenly silent, and bending over the instrument its melodies would fill the room, and floating down the staircase would reach the ears of the walkers in the cloister like a distant echo.  Suddenly he would cease playing and resume his chattering, as though afraid that with his absent-mindedness his ideas would evaporate.

The silent Luna was the only listener he had met with in the Cathedral; the first who would listen to him for long hours without ridiculing him or thinking him crazy, and who often showed by his short interruptions and questions the pleasure with which he listened.

The end of the evening’s conversation was always the same ­the greatness of Beethoven, the idol of the poor musician.

“I have loved him all my life,” said the Chapel-master, “I was educated by a Jeronomite friar, an old man driven from his convent who, after leaving it, had wandered over the world as a professor of the violoncello.  The Jeronomites were the great musicians of the Church.  You did not know this, neither should I have known it if this holy man had not taken me under his protection soon after I was born, and been to me a real father.  It appears that in olden days each order devoted itself to some special thing.  One, I think the Benedictines, copied and annotated old books; others made sweet liqueurs for the ladies, others were wonderfully clever in training cage birds, and the Jeronomites studied music for seven years, each one playing the instrument of his choice, and to these we owe that there has been preserved in the Spanish churches a little, but very little, good musical taste.  And from what my little father told me, what wonderful orchestras these Jeronomites must have had in their convents!  For the ladies it was a great delight to go on Sunday evenings to the parlour, where they met the good fathers, each one a master of his own particular instrument.  These were the only concerts in those days, and with their pittance assured, and no anxiety as to housing or clothing themselves, and with the love of art as their only duty, you may imagine, Gabriel, what musicians they could become.  For this reason, when the friars were expelled from their convents the Jeronomites were not the worst off.  There was no need to beg masses in the churches or to live on the charity of devout families; they were able to earn their bread by an art conscientiously studied, and consequently they soon got places as organists and Chapel-masters; the Chapters really fought for them.  Some were more venturesome, and, anxious to see more of that musical world which had seemed to them while in their convents a vision of Paradise, entered the orchestras of theatres, many travelling even to Italy, transforming themselves so entirely that even their own former prior could not have recognised them.  One of these was my little father.  What a man!  He was a good Christian, but he had thrown himself so thoroughly into music that he retained very little of the former friar.  When he was told that probably the convents would be re-established, he shrugged his shoulders with indifference, a new sonata interested him much more.  He sometimes said things that have always lived in my memory.  I remember one day when I was a child he took me to a meeting of musical friends in Madrid, who played, for their own pleasure only, the famous ‘Seventh Symphony.’  Do you know it?  It is the freshest and most graceful of all Beethoven’s works.  I remember my little father leaving the room quite wrapped up in himself, with his head bent, dragging me along, for I could hardly keep up with his long footsteps, and when we got home he looked at me fixedly, as though I had been a grown-up person.  ‘Listen, Luis,’ he said, ’and remember this well.  There is only one Lord in the world, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and there are two lesser lords, Galileo and Beethoven.’”

The musician looked lovingly at the plaster bust which faced the room from one corner, with its leonine brows and the diffident eyes of a deaf person.

“I do not know much about Galileo,” continued Don Luis.  “I know that he was a very wise man, and a scientific genius.  I am only a musician and I know very little about other things, but I adore Beethoven, and I think my little father did the same ­he is a god; the most extraordinary man the world has ever produced.  Don’t you think so, Gabriel?”

His nerves were quivering with his excitement, and getting up, he walked rapidly up and down the room, trampling on all the loose sheets of music.

“Ay! how I envy you, Gabriel, having travelled so much, and having heard so many good things!  The other night I could not sleep for thinking of all you had told me about your life in Paris ­those beautiful Sunday afternoons when you would go to the Lamoureax concerts, or sometimes to Colonnas, giving yourself a surfeit of sublimity!  And here am I, shut up, my only hope being perhaps to conduct a Mass of Rossini’s at one of the great festivals!  My only comfort is to read music, instructing myself thoroughly in those great works that so many fools in the towns can listen to half asleep and bored.  Here I have, in this pile, the nine symphonies of the great man ­his innumerable sonatas, his masses, and together with him, Haydn, Mozart, Mendelssohn, in fact all the great writers.  I have even Wagner.  I read them, and I play what is possible on the harmonium.  But ­it is just as if you were to describe the drawing and colours of a picture to a blind man, buried in this cloister.  I know, blindly, that there are most beautiful things in this world ­for those who can hear them.”

The Chapel-master kept from the previous year the remembrance of a great happiness, and he spoke of it enthusiastically.  He had been chosen by the Cardinal Archbishop to go to Madrid, to be one of a board of examiners for organists.

“That was the best time I ever had in my life, Gabriel.  One evening I listened to Wagner, dressed in the clothes of a friend of mine, a violinist, who plays here in Toledo at the great festivals.  I heard the Walkyria in the pit of the Real Theatre, another night I went to a concert; but the greatest night of all was the one on which I heard the Ninth Symphony of that ugly old fellow, of that deaf, bad-tempered genius who is listening to us.”

And with one bound the musician rushed to the bust, kissing it with childish humility, just as a child would caress a stern and domineering father.

“You know the Ninth Symphony; true, Gabriel?  And what did you feel as you listened to it?  When I listen to music strange things happen to me.  I close my eyes and I see unknown countries and strange faces, and whenever I hear the same works the same visions are repeated.  If I speak about this with any of the people down below they say I am mad, but I know that you feel as I do, and I am not afraid that you will laugh at me.  There are musical passages that make me see the sea, blue and boundless, with silvery waves, and this, though I have never seen the ocean; other works bring before me woods and castles, or groups of shepherds with white flocks; with Schubert I always see two lovers sighing at the foot of a linden tree, and certain French composers bring before my mind’s eye beautiful women walking among beds of roses, dressed in violet, always violet.  And you, Gabriel, do not you see these things?”

The anarchist assented ­yes, music awoke in him also a world of fantastic visions, far more beautiful than reality.

“I remember,” went on the priest, “what the Ninth Symphony made me see.  I see it still if I only hum some of its passages.  Oh! that graceful Scherzo with its strange trémolos!  I thought, hearing it, that God and his court of saints had left the heavens to take a walk, leaving the little angels masters of the house, full liberty!  Universal gambols!  The heavenly children, without any restraint, sported from cloud to cloud, amusing themselves by scattering on the earth the garlands of flowers that the saints had left behind them; one let loose the rain and made it fall on the earth; another seized the key of the thunder and touched it, fearful peals which frightened all the revellers and made them fly.  But they returned again to continue their graceful play, beginning afresh their noisy games that the thunder had disturbed.  And the Adagio!  What do you say about that?  Do you know anything softer, more loving or so divinely peaceful?  Human beings will never speak like this again, however much progress they make.  Hearing it, I thought of those fresco-painted ceilings with mythological figures ­gods and goddesses with pink flesh and flowing curves, Apollo and Venus reclining on a mountain of pink and gold clouds, like a lovely dawn.”

“Chaplain, what has come to you?” said Gabriel; “this is not very Christian.”

“No, but it is artistic,” said the musician simply.  “I do not trouble myself much about religion, I believe what I was taught, and I have never taken the trouble to inquire any further.  Music alone occupies me, of which someone has said ’that it will be the religion of the future,’ the purest manifestation of the ideal.  Everything that is beautiful delights me, and I believe in it as a work of God.  ’I believe in God and in Beethoven,’ as his pupil said ­and besides, how much religion the grandeur of music contains!  Do you know the last quartet that Beethoven wrote?  He felt he was dying, and he wrote on the edge of the score this terrible question:  ‘Must it be?’ and lower down he added, ‘Yes, it must be, it must be.’  It was necessary to die, even for such a genius to leave life, while he still carried in his mind such glorious things, to pay the tribute of human renovation; and then he wrote that lament, that farewell to life, whose greatness cannot be equalled by any song, or by any words of religion.”

The musician sat down to the harmonium, and for a long while played that last lament of the genius, his sorrowful complaint on crossing the threshold, not despairing and trembling through fear of the unknown, but with a brave melancholy, sinking into the eternal shadow, confident that nothing could obscure his genius.

These evenings of artistic communion in that corner of the sleepy Cathedral drew the two men together with an ever increasing affection.  The musician talked, turning over his scores, or playing his harmonium; the revolutionist listened silently, only interrupting his friend by his painful cough.  They were evenings of sweet sadness that these two men spent together, one dreaming of leaving the stone prison of the Cathedral to see the world, the other returning from life wounded and breathless, content with the obscure repose of the beautiful church, and guarding with prudent silence the secret of his past.  Art shone for them like the rays of the sun in the grey and monotonous atmosphere of the Cathedral.

When they met in the early mornings in the cloister the conversation between the two friends generally ran on the same lines.

“This evening, eh?” the Chapel-master would say mysteriously.  “I have some fresh music, we shall enjoy something new that I have been sent to-day, and besides, I wrote a little thing last night.”

The anarchist nodded affirmatively, quite ready to serve as entertainment for this pariah of art, who saw in him his only audience, and who took so much kindly trouble to interest him.

While the services lasted Gabriel would walk alone in the cloisters; all the men were in the Cathedral, except the shoemaker, who was mending the giants.  Tired of the chattering of the women who stood at the doors of the Claverías, he would go up to the dwelling of the bell-ringer, his old companion in arms, or he would go down into the garden by the remarkable staircase del Tenorio when it was open, or by the archbishop’s archway crossing the street.

He delighted in passing an hour under the trees; he found in the garden as many memories of his family as in the “habitación” upstairs.  Besides, he was tired of always finding his walks bounded by stone walls, which reminded him of his prison, and he wanted the movement of the vegetation caressed by the breeze to foster the illusion that he was living in complete liberty in the open country.

In the arbour, where he had formerly so often seen his father, infirm and crippled with age, directing his eldest son, who received all his orders impassively, he would now meet his Aunt Tomasa, knitting her stockings, and watching with vigilant eyes the work of a boy whom she had taken into her service.

Gabriel’s aunt was by far the most important person in the Claverías; her word was worth quite as much as Don Antolin’s, the Silver Stick was afraid of her, bending before the powerful protection that they all guessed stood behind the poor old woman.  In the days when her father, Gabriel’s maternal grandfather, was sacristan in the Cathedral the functions of acolyte were exercised by a small boy, nephew of one of the beneficiaries of the Cathedral, who ended by paying for his education in the seminary.  This little acolyte of half a century before was now a prince of the church, and the Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo.  Old Tomasa and he had known each other as children, fighting over trifles in the upper cloister, or playing tricks on the beggars who sat at the Puerta del Mollete.  The imposing Don Sebastian, whose look alone made the Chapter and all the clergy in the diocese tremble, became happy, fraternal and confidential, when now and then in the evenings he saw Tomasa.  She was the only living reminder of his childhood in the Cathedral.  The old woman would kiss his ring with great reverence, but very soon she would lapse into talking to him as one of her own family, often very nearly speaking to him in the second person.  The cardinal, always surrounded by fear and adulation, often felt the necessity of the old woman’s careless and frank conversation.  The people belonging to the Cathedral declared that the Senora Tomasa was the only person who dared to tell the cardinal home-truths face to face, and the neighbours in the Claverías felt their pride flattered when they saw the prince of the church sweeping down the stone steps in his brilliant scarlet robes to sit in the arbour and gossip for a good hour with the old woman, while his attendants remained respectfully standing at the gate of the iron railings.

Tomasa was not puffed up with this honour; to her this ecclesiastical prince was only the friend of her childhood, who had had a certain amount of good luck; and in the end, he was only Don Sebastian, without going any further into ceremonies and formulas of respect.  But her family knew how to take advantage of this friendship, especially her son-in-law, “Virgin’s Blue,” a hypocrite, as the old woman declared, who would make money out of the very cobwebs of the Cathedral; an insatiable locust who, profiting by the friendship of the cardinal and his mother-in-law, went on continually obtaining fresh privileges, without the priests and sacristans daring to make the slightest protest, seeing him so well protected.

Gabriel much enjoyed his aunt’s talk.  She was the only person born in the cloister who seemed to have freed herself from the soporific influence of the church.  She loved the Cathedral, as being her ancient roof-tree, but she did not retain much respect for the saints in the chapels, nor for the human dignitaries who sat in the choir.  She laughed with the happiness of a healthy and placid old woman, her seventy years being, as she said, quite free from any evil done to her neighbour.  Her language was free and easy, like that of a woman who has seen much, and does not believe in human majesty or irreproachable virtues; but the bed-rock of her character was its tolerance, her compassion for all faults, but she Was indignant with those who attempted to hide them.

“They are all men, Gabriel,” she would say to her nephew, speaking of the clergy of the Cathedral.  “Don Sebastian is only a man; all sinners who have much to answer for before God.  They cannot be anything else, and so I forgive them.  But believe me, nephew, I often feel inclined to laugh when I see the people kneeling before them.  I believe in the Virgin of the Sagrario, and a little in God; but in these gentlemen!  If you only knew them as I do!  But, when all is said and done, we must all live, and the evil is not in having faults, but in attempting to hide them; playing a farce with the shamelessness of my son-in-law who, here as you see him, is as proud as a castle, beats his breast, kisses the ground like the Beatas, and yet he is anxious for my death, thinking I have something laid away in my chest; he filches what he can from the Virgin’s poor-box, steals the wax tapers, and plays tricks with what is paid for masses, and yet he would be in the street if it were not for me, who always think of my poor sick daughter and my poor little grandchildren.”

When Gabriel went down to see her in the garden, she always received him with the same salutation: 

“Holà, you ghost! but to-day you are looking better, you are being patched up.  I believe your brother will pull you through with all his care.”

And then followed a comparison between her healthy and vigorous old age and his ruined youth, which was fighting so tenaciously against death.

“Here you see my seventy years, and never an illness in all my life.  Summer and winter I never hear four o’clock strike in bed, and all my teeth are as sound as in the days when Don Sebastian came in his red dress as server in the church and wanted to steal half my breakfast.  You Lunas have always been delicate; your father, long before he was my age, could barely walk, and was always complaining of rheum and of the damp in this garden.  Here am I in it constantly, and I feel just the same as when I am upstairs in the Claverías.  We, the Villalpandos, are made of iron; for, of course, we are descended from that famous Villalpando who made the screen of the high altar, the custodia, and an innumerable quantity of other things.  He really must have been a giant, to judge by the ease with which he twisted and moulded every sort of metal.”

Gabriel’s ill-health awoke in her the deepest compassion, but all the same not quite free from malicious suggestions.

“How much you must have amused yourself about the world, eh, nephew?  But that war was your perdition; without it you would now have had your stall in the choir, and who knows if you might not have come to be another Don Sebastian.  The truth is, that from his childhood no one spoke half as much about him in the seminary as they did of you, and he certainly was no prodigy of learning.  But you saw the world, and you took a fancy to those countries where they say the ladies are very pretty, and wear hats as large as parasols.  You are a monster of ugliness now, but you were very smart, though I, who am your aunt, say so.  And now you have come back so lean and suffering!  You must have lived very fast; who knows what you have done in the world ­sly boots!  And your poor mother, who thought you would be a saint!  God have mercy on us!  Don’t deny it; you have done no good and I hate lies.  You did right to enjoy yourself and to take advantage of every opportunity, but the misfortune is that you should have returned as you are, for it is pitiful to see you, but I have known a great many like you.  I don’t know what evil spirit possesses people belonging to the church, but once they throw themselves into life, they don’t know where to stop, and they burn the candle at both ends till there is next to nothing left; many of them, like you, have passed through the seminary.”

One morning Gabriel asked a question of his aunt that he had been long thinking about, but that he had never before dared to put into words.  He wanted to know all about his niece, Sagrario, and what had happened in his brother’s house.

“You who are so kind, aunt, you will tell me; everyone seems afraid to speak about it; even my nephew the Tato, who is such a chatterer and skins everyone in the Claverías, is silent when I ask him.  What happened, aunt?”

The old woman’s face grew very sad.

“A great misfortune, my son, such as was never known before in the upper cloister.  The madness of the world came into the Cathedral, and made a nest in the most honoured, most ancient, and most respectable house in the Claverías.  We are all good people, though we have never seen as much of the world as can be seen from a skylight, and live here as though wrapped in cotton wool, but you Lunas have always been the best among the best, to say nothing of us Villalpandos, who come close behind.  Ay! if your mother could raise her head!  If your father were alive!  But I lay all the blame on your brother, as being weak and a simpleton, having that cursed blindness of all fathers, who ignore the danger in the hope of marrying their daughters well.”

“Well, but how was it, aunt?  What passed between my niece and the cadet?”

“What happens frequently in the world, but what has never happened here before.  A thousand times I said to my brother, ’See, Esteban, this young gentleman is not for your daughter’ ­very sympathetic, very lively, and wearing the uniform of the Academy like no one else, leader of a group of the wildest cadets in all their escapades about the town, besides a son of a great family ­wealthy people who did not allow him to come to Toledo with his purse empty.  And she ­the poor Sagrario, crazy with love, flattered by her cadet, as proud as possible when she walked on Sundays through the Zocodover and the Miradero between her mother and that handsome young lover, that all the girls in the place envied her.  The beauty of your niece was the talk of all Toledo; the girls in the college for noble ladies, nicknamed her the ‘sacristana’ of the Cathedral; but the poor girl lived only for her cadet, and she seemed to devour him with her beautiful blue eyes.  That idiot, your brother, let him come to the house, proud of the honour that was being done to the family.  You know, Gabriel, the eternal blindness of those middle-class Toledans, who encourage with pride the courtship of one of their girls by a cadet, though they are perfectly well aware that it is most rare that one of these courtships should end in marriage.  There is no woman here with the slightest pretence to a pretty face who has escaped without her mouthful of love for one of those red pantaloons.  Even I remember when I was a girl how I would smooth my hair and pull out my dress when I heard the rattle of a sword on the flags of the cloister.  It is a blindness that descends from mothers to daughters, and the worst is, that those cursed ones have all their cousins and their lovers in their own country, and to them they return as soon as they leave the Academy.”

“That is true, aunt, but what happened to my niece?”

“When the young man passed out a lieutenant, his family decided he ought to return to Madrid.  The farewells were like a scene at the theatre.  I believe that even your brother and that simpleton his wife, who is now in glory, wept as though the lover were theirs.  The young people sat for hours with clasped hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, as though they would devour each other.  He was the calmest; he promised to come every Sunday and to write every day, and at first he did so, but before long many weeks passed without his coming, and the postman came up less often to the Claverías, and at last did not come at all ­it was ended, the young lieutenant found other amusements in Madrid.  Your poor niece was like one demented; the colour in her face faded, she was no longer like the beautiful ripe apricot, with the soft skin that made you long to bite it.  She wept like a Magdalen in every corner ­and one day the foolish girl fled ­and up to now ­”

“But where was she?  Did no one search for her?”

“Your brother seemed quite dazed.  Poor Esteban! several nights we found him half dressed in the upper cloister, as stiff as a post, gazing up at the heavens with eyes that looked like glass.  He became furious if any of us spoke of searching for the child; the scandal was past remedy, and he did not wish to aggravate it by her return, bringing back a lost one to the Holy Metropolitan Church, and to the honoured house of the Lunas.  For more than a year everyone in the Claverías seemed crushed by this blow; it seemed as though we were all in mourning.  You see, that such a thing should occur in the Cathedral where the years pass by in blessed peace without any of us saying one word louder than the other!  And then I remembered you.  It seemed impossible that from these Lunas, so quiet and steady, should have sprung a girl with sufficient pluck to run away to Madrid, where she had never been before, to join a man, without fear of God or of her own people.  To whom could I liken the unhappy child?  To her uncle, to Gabriel who passed for a saint, but who, nevertheless, after fighting like a wolf, wandered all over the world just like a gipsy.”

Gabriel made no protest at the conception his aunt had formed of his past.

“And after her flight?  What did you know about the child?”

“At first a good deal, but latterly not a word.  The two were living in Madrid together, peacefully and quietly, away from the world, as though they were man and wife.  This lasted for a good while, and I, hearing about it, began to wonder if I had not been mistaken, and that the man we had blamed so much had repented and would end by marrying Sagrario.  But at the end of the year everything was ended; he grew tired, and the family intervened, in order that the escapade should not cut short the career they had marked out for the young man.  They even sought the aid of the police, to frighten the child, so that she should not molest the young officer in the first angry transports of her desertion.  Afterwards ­nothing certain is known.  Now and again those who have gone to Madrid told me a little; some of them had seen her, but it would have been far better if they had not seen her.  It is a disgrace, Gabriel; a dishonour for your family which is mine.  This unhappy girl is the worst of the worst.  I heard that she had been very ill, and I believe that she is so still.  Just imagine, what a life!  And for five years!  What will have happened to the unfortunate girl!  And to think that she is my sister’s daughter!”

The Senora Tomasa spoke with deep feeling.

“Afterwards, Gabriel, you know what happened here; your poor sister-in-law died, we hardly knew why, it was only a matter of a few days; possibly she may have died of the shame, as she died saying that the fault was entirely hers.  It broke one’s heart to see the state your brother was in after all this.  Esteban has never been good for much, and now after this affair of his daughter he seemed to become quite imbecile.  Ay, nephew!  I also have felt it greatly, even though you see me so happy, and so satisfied with life, every now and then the remembrance of that unhappy girl strikes me here, in my head, and I eat badly and sleep worse, thinking that a girl who, after all, is of our own blood, is wandering lost over the world, a plaything for men, without anyone sheltering her, as though she were all alone, as though she had no family.”

The Senora Tomasa wiped her eye with the point of her forefinger, her voice shook and the tears fell over her wrinkled old cheeks.

“Aunt, you are very kind,” said Gabriel, “but you ought to have searched more for this poor girl; you ought to have recovered her, to have saved her, to have brought her back here.  We must be merciful to the weakness of others, especially when that other is one of our own flesh.”

“Ay, son!  Who do you say it to?  A thousand times I have thought this, but I was afraid of your brother.  He is like a bit of dough, but he turns into a wild beast if you speak to him of his daughter.  Even if we found her and brought her here he would not receive her; he would be as angry as if you were proposing some sacrilege to him.  He could not calmly bear her presence in the house which was that of your forefathers.  Besides, though he does not say so, he fears the scandal among the neighbours in the Claverías who know what had happened.  This is the easiest part to arrange, as they would be very careful not to open their mouths when I am among them.  But your brother frightens me, and I do not dare.”

“I will help you,” said Gabriel firmly.  “Let us seek for the child, and once we have found her I will undertake to manage Esteban.”

“It will be most difficult to find her.  For a long time we have heard nothing.  Doubtless those who do see her are careful to say nothing for fear of paining us.  But I will try and find out ­we will see, Gabriel ­we will think about her.”

“And the canons? and the cardinal?  Will they not oppose the return of the poor girl to the Claverías?”

“Bah!  The thing happened some time ago, and few of them will remember it; besides, we might place the girl in a convent, where she would be looked after and quiet, and cause scandal to no one.”

“No, not that, aunt.  It is a cruel remedy.  We have no right to try and save this poor girl at the cost of her liberty.”

“You are right,” said the old woman, after a few moments’ reflection.  “I don’t care much for these nuns myself.  Where would she be more likely to follow a good example than in the heart of her own family?  We will bring her back to this house if she repents and wishes for peace.  And I will scratch out the eyes of the first woman in the Claverías who dares to say anything against her.  My son-in-law will probably pretend to be scandalised, but I will settle him.  It would be much better if he did not wink at the walks that Juanito, that cadet nephew of Don Sebastian’s, takes in the cloister whenever my granddaughter stands at the door.  The crackbrained fellow dreams of nothing less than becoming related to the cardinal, and seeing his daughter a general’s wife; he might remember poor Sagrario.  And as far as regards Don Sebastian, you may be quite easy, Gabriel.  He will say nothing but that we ought to bring the child back ­and what should he say?  People ought to be charitable one to another, and none more than they; for after all, Gabriel, believe me ­they are only men, nothing but men!”