When I was
introduced the Archbishop was alone, seated behind a table in a
large apartment, a kind of drawing-room; he was plainly dressed, in
a black cassock and silken cap; on his finger, however, glittered a
superb amethyst, the lustre of which was truly dazzling. He rose
for a moment as I advanced, and motioned me to a chair with his
hand. He might be about sixty years of age; his figure was very
tall, but he stooped considerably, evidently from feebleness, and
the pallid hue of ill health overspread his emaciated features.
When he had reseated himself, he dropped his head, and appeared to
be looking on the table before him.
"I suppose your lordship knows who I am?" said I, at last breaking
silence.
The Archbishop bent his head towards the right shoulder, in a
somewhat equivocal manner, but said nothing.
"I am he whom the Manolos of Madrid call Don Jorgito el Ingles; I
am just come out of prison, whither I was sent for circulating my
Lord's Gospel in this kingdom of Spain?"
The Archbishop made the same equivocal motion with his head, but
still said nothing.
"I was informed that your lordship was desirous of seeing me, and
on that account I have paid you this visit."
"I did not send for you," said the Archbishop, suddenly raising his
head with a startled look.
"Perhaps not: I was, however, given to understand that my presence
would be agreeable; but as that does not seem to be the case, I
will leave."
"Since you are come, I am very glad to see you."
"I am very glad to hear it," said I, reseating myself; "and since I
am here, we may as well talk of an all-important matter, the
circulation of the Scripture. Does your lordship see any way by
which an end so desirable might be brought about?"
"No," said the Archbishop faintly.
"Does not your lordship think that a knowledge of the Scripture
would work inestimable benefit in these realms?"
"I don't know."
"Is it probable that the government may be induced to consent to
the circulation?"
"How should I know?" and the Archbishop looked me in the face.
I looked in the face of the Archbishop; there was an expression of
helplessness in it, which almost amounted to dotage. "Dear me,"
thought I, "whom have I come to on an errand like mine? Poor man,
you are not fitted to play the part of Martin Luther, and least of
all in Spain. I wonder why your friends selected you to be
Archbishop of Toledo; they thought perhaps that you would do
neither good nor harm, and made choice of you, as they sometimes do
primates in my own country, for your incapacity. You do not seem
very happy in your present situation; no very easy stall this of
yours. You were more comfortable, I trow, when you were the poor
Bishop of Mallorca; could enjoy your puchera then without fear that
the salt would turn out sublimate. No fear then of being smothered
in your bed. A siesta is a pleasant thing when one is not subject
to be disturbed by 'the sudden fear.' I wonder whether they have
poisoned you already," I continued, half aloud, as I kept my eyes
fixed on his countenance, which methought was becoming ghastly.
"Did you speak, Don Jorge?" demanded the Archbishop.
"That is a fine brilliant on your lordship's hand," said I.
"You are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge," said the Archbishop, his
features brightening up; "vaya! so am I; they are pretty things.
Do you understand them?"
"I do," said I, "and I never saw a finer brilliant than your own,
one excepted; it belonged to an acquaintance of mine, a Tartar
Khan. He did not bear it on his finger, however; it stood in the
frontlet of his horse, where it shone like a star. He called it
Daoud Scharr, which, being interpreted, meaneth light of war."
"Vaya!" said the Archbishop, "how very extraordinary; I am glad you
are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge. Speaking of horses, reminds me
that I have frequently seen you on horseback. Vaya! how you ride;
it is dangerous to be in your way."
"Is your lordship fond of equestrian exercise?"
"By no means, Don Jorge; I do not like horses; it is not the
practice of the church to ride on horseback. We prefer mules:
they are the quieter animals; I fear horses, they kick so
violently."
"The kick of a horse is death," said I, "if it touches a vital
part. I am not, however, of your lordship's opinion with respect
to mules: a good ginete may retain his seat on a horse however
vicious, but a mule - vaya! when a false mule tira por detras, I do
not believe that the Father of the Church himself could keep the
saddle a moment, however sharp his bit."
As I was going away, I said, "And with respect to the Gospel, your
lordship; what am I to understand?"
"No se," said the Archbishop, again bending his head towards the
right shoulder, whilst his features resumed their former vacant
expression. And thus terminated my interview with the Archbishop
of Toledo.
"It appears to me," said I to Maria Diaz, on returning home; "it
appears to me, Marequita mia, that if the Gospel in Spain is to
wait for toleration until these liberal bishops and archbishops
come forward boldly in its behalf, it will have to tarry a
considerable time."
"I am much of your worship's opinion," answered Maria; "a fine
thing, truly, it would be to wait till they exerted themselves in
its behalf.
