Iberia

by James A. Michener

  Leading up to the monument were flights of stairs, balustrades, promenades and landscaped areas much like Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli, but juvenile delinquents or cryptic Republicans, as the case might be, had gone about toppling the ornaments which graced the approach, so that the whole had a sense of a crumbling Roman forum. All was noble; all was very nineteenth century; all yearned for the past.

  Inside the Alcázar, I caught many glimpses of the Spanish army at work, for set into the walls were tablets whose words evoked past glories:

  THE XXI GRADUATING CLASS OF INFANTRY

  1914–1917

  ON ITS GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY

  TO THE DEFENDERS OF THE ALCAZAR

  1964

  In one corner a white plaque read: ‘Here on September 11, 1936, was celebrated the only Holy Mass of the Siege. Catholics! This corner is land sanctified by the visit of the Divine King. To our heroes.’ Another shield read: ‘To those who endured the siege by the Communist hordes and converted this Alcázar into a symbol of the unity and independence of the nation.’ But the most telling item was something I had seen on my earliest visit, when the gaunt old fortress was still in ruins. It was a magazine and a most unlikely one. The Illustrated London News for January 24, 1914. Colonel Moscardó had found it in the Alcázar library and had used it to help barricade his windows from Republican bullets. It was opened to a complicated story: ‘Sold by Rumour. A Fine and Famous Holbein Portrait.’ The painting was shown in a small photograph, ‘Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex,’ owned by the Earl of Caledon and rumored to have been sold by him for $150,000, a charge which he denied. A bullet had passed through the earl’s head and nine others had splattered the page.

  The best thing about the Alcázar has always been the cloistered central courtyard, not because the cloisters are attractive, for they are heavy and lack gracia, but because the area was spacious and did contain a famous statue of Carlos V in military uniform. The base carried two quotations uttered by the emperor on the eve of a crucial invasion of Africa, and these had become the slogans of the Franco forces who defended the building: ‘I shall enter Tunis as conqueror or remain dead in Africa.’ And: ‘If in the battle you see me and my flag go down, rescue first the flag.’

  As I stood in the Alcázar with this statue of Carlos, I reflected upon the years I have spent studying this emperor and his works. For me he has always been a central fact of Spain and one of the figures of world history who best repay study. When I was a young professor I used to daydream about what I would do if placed in charge of a college whose only responsibility was to provide a selected group of students the best possible education without regard to outside pressures from alumni, large contributors, the sports editors of the nearby metropolis or the general damn-foolishness of American life. Like any sensible man I would naturally sponsor only a general humanities program, reserving training courses like law, medicine, engineering or business for university specialization which would come later. My students would direct themselves to language, literature, science, philosophy, the fine arts and history, secure in the knowledge that if they mastered those subjects they would later be in a position to control such social functions as medicine, manufacturing, constructing, teaching and governing. In other words, I would stress with my students the widest possible exploration plus the most intensive analysis of two or three specific unities.

  The latter, which would be the heart of my system, would be attacked in a radical way. Twice in the student’s four years—once at the beginning and once at the end, so that he could see in himself his deepening capacity—I would ask him to spend the year or most of the year in studying one brief segment of history. During that time he would take no traditional courses whatever, no mathematics, no chemistry, no Literature IV. Instead he would immerse himself in the world culture operating at that period in time, and to do so he would study the art forms, the music, the contemporary understanding of geography, the philosophy, the religious convictions, the economics, the travel, the architecture, the writing and the daily life of the peasant. And he would be obliged to explore in depth the half-dozen nations or principalities which best illustrated the significant meanings of the age being studied.

  I have often speculated on what periods would be most fruitful for such an approach and have felt inclined toward A.D. 70 and the fall of Jerusalem, and 1832 and the passage of reform in Great Britain, plus some one date to be agreed upon when Greece and Rome were in confrontation and another in the Middle Ages before dissolution of old patterns had begun. Any two of these, properly investigated, would provide a young man with enough insights to illuminate the rest of his life, but there has always been one period which has stood preeminent. If I were now forced to educate myself anew, it would be to this period that I would direct myself, the period when more notable men were in power and more ideas in conflict than at any other in world history.

  It would be sometime in the 1530’s, when Catholic Spain and France, Protestant England and Muslim Turkey were contesting the leadership of Europe and when Hindu India was preparing itself for the advent of Akbar the Great, and Orthodox Russia was beginning its consolidation under Ivan the Terrible. To understand this period would be to understand the movements that formed modern history. Observe the dates, the right-hand one representing more or less when the man in question came into power:

  Francis I of France (1494–1547) 1515

  Henry VIII of England (1491–1547) 1509

  Carlos I and V of Spain (1500–1558) 1519

  Suleiman I of Turkey (1495?–1566) 1520

  Martin Luther (1483–1546) 1519

  Ivan IV of Russia (1530–1584) 1547

  Akbar of India (1542–1605) 1556

  These men were titans and they tore the preconceptions of their narrow worlds to shreds. They were builders, and when they died they left their nations a legacy of accomplishment. They were warriors who defended their realms and extended them. They were patrons of the arts and left their cities richer and their universities improved. Some were good administrators and set patterns which determined the future conduct of their lands, and all were men who wrestled with great forces.

  Of the seven Luther was the most intelligent, Suleiman the most glorious, Akbar the finest human being, Francis the most cunning, Henry the most determined, and Ivan the most violent. Carlos V excelled in nothing, but it was he who commanded most of the world and who left the most lasting impression.

  Americans are apt to ignore the tremendous power of Carlos and Spain in these critical years toward the middle of the sixteenth century. There was no nation which came close to rivaling Spain. Because of its ownership of the Low Countries and certain provinces which are now part of France, it exercised a pincers movement on that country and kept it frustrated. England, not yet a major power, was neutralized by marriage compacts. In the Mediterranean, Spain held control of the north coast of Africa and kept the Muslim power of Turkey at least at arm’s length. Through its ownership of Sardinia, Sicily, Naples and some of the smaller Italian states, Spain exerted great pressure on the Papacy and exacted favorable decisions when it was not engaged in outright war against the Pope. And in Mexico and Peru it owned mines from which floods of wealth reached Spain, rarely to stay there.

  The Spanish fleet, brought into being by Cisneros, was the best operating. The Spanish army was the terror of Europe. Spanish universities were without superiors. To Spain were attracted the foremost painters of Europe, and the merit of Spanish letters was acknowledged. It was truly an age of gold, when all nations lay in fee, as it were, to Spanish leadership and power.

  All that was required, in those crucial years when the future of the world was being determined, was that Spain evolve some kind of government and economic system which would enable her to retain what she had and to build on it at a rate of growth comparable to that at which England, France and Germany would build. If Spain had maintained only that normal rate of progress, she would have remained the world’s dominant power fo
r two or three more centuries and we might now be speaking Spanish. The central problem of Spanish history is why Carlos V and Felipe II failed to discover the system of government and the patterns of growth required to sustain their nation.

  At the foot of the hill on which the Alcázar stands is a fine museum which not many Toledo visitors see, and that is a pity, because it is a memorial to the greatness of Carlos V. It is housed in the old hospital of Santa Cruz, built from funds left by Cardinal Mendoza, and the doorway is another flamboyant memorial showing Mendoza assisting the Empress Helena, mother of Constantine the Great, as she finds the true cross. The interior of the museum is of a type which I do not usually like, a conglomeration of tapestry, furniture, etching, carpeting, sculpture, bric-a-brac and mementos, with here and there a notable painting. But this museum is different, because it has been assembled with excellent taste. I have introduced half a dozen connoisseurs to it—ordinary travel literature does not stress it, perhaps because the custodians don’t want too many visitors—and they have been enchanted.

  This massive door knocker reminds one that the Spanish home has usually been a fortress.

  I shall not speak ot the paintings; the museum has only twenty-three El Grecos, including the ‘Assumption of the Virgin,’ one of his latest and greatest works. But I should like to comment briefly on the many objects relating to Carlos V. Here, is the well-known bronze statue of Carlos, with jutting jaw, suspicious little eyes and hair coming down to a sharp V above his eyes. He seems a compact, determined man, visibly apprehensive about the tasks confronting him, for he was called to transform a peninsular mentality into one with a world outlook; he tried to avoid but could not the religious challenges thrown at him by that damned monk, Martin Luther; professors at the University of Salamanca were warning him that if a nation brought in so much gold from Mexico and Peru it might go bankrupt because of the ensuing rise in the cost of living, but that made no sense at all; and the various popes in Rome kept passing edicts which caused confusion.

  Along this wall, strung out for some forty-five feet, is the printed scroll depicting his coronation as Holy Roman Emperor. In the procession we see hundreds of figures—kings, scribes, musicians, heralds, cardinals, along with Pope Clement VII and a display of war machines. Oxen are being roasted and stewards are throwing out free bread to the peasants.

  In this corner is a handsome little carving showing Carlos and his younger and more gifted brother Fernando, who excelled him in so many ways. Fernando looks larger, seems intelligent, is better-looking, but Carlos by holding on far outdistanced Fernando. It was he, not Fernando, who was elected Holy Roman Emperor, although at the end of his life he passed the job on to his brother.

  At the far end of the museum, in a gallery two stories high, hang the blue battle pennants flown by Carlos’ illegitimate son, Don Juan de Austria, at the Battle of Lepanto, where the Turks were contained in 1571. The largest of the flags is about sixty feet long, emblazoned not with nationalistic slogans but with I.N.R.I. and Jesus on the cross. Spanish galleons really did go into battle with the goal of saving Christianity.

  Below the blue pennants rests a portrait of Don Juan, the preserver of Spain, for had he lost at Lepanto, Islam would have controlled the Mediterranean and Spain might once more have become Moorish. Don Juan is shown as a young man in ruffs and battle armor, with a bright-red scarf over his right shoulder; he was a man of such charismatic power that when he died in the Low Countries his body was cut into four parts, pickled in brine and smuggled home so that the French might not know so great an adversary was dead. Of course, as soon as the barrels had crossed the Pyrenees the body was sewn together again.

  In another room I see the tall, brooding figure of Carlos’ legitimate son Felipe II, husband of Mary Tudor and Spain’s most typical king, and off to one side, in a place of honor. I see again that marvelous bronze statue of Isabel, the Portuguese princess whom Carlos married. Look at her, standing in a stiffly brocaded dress, bejeweled, confident, half smiling. She is regal and self-assured, and her statue is one of the most pleasing in Spain. Carlos loved her and was a good husband. If she was as charming as her statue, one can understand why.

  On the walls of the upper cloister appear two gold-encrusted maps which summarize Carlos. The first depicts his numerous battle campaigns: ‘Tunis 1535; Algiers 1529; Zaragoza 1518; Naples 1528; Brussels 1521; and chief of all, Mühlberg 1547.’ The second map shows his travels and is a jungle of crossing lines which wander off to strange locations. It carries the well-known passage from his abdication speech: ‘I have been nine times in Germany, six in Spain, seven in Italy, ten in Flanders, In peace and war I have been four times in France, two in England and two in Africa for a total of forty expeditions, without counting the voyages to my kingdoms. Eight times I have crossed the Mediterranean and three times the Ocean [to England]. I am at peace with all and from all ask pardon if I have offended anyone.’

  These maps help explain a cardinal fact about Carlos: although King of Spain he was rarely in the country. His preoccupation was always with the other parts of his empire and he allowed the internal government of Spain to drift. At the beginning of his reign he set the pattern for much that was to follow. Faced by civil war throughout Spain, “he summoned his nobles to distant Santiago de Compostela and told them, ‘This nation is faced by a crisis which could destroy it. Do something. I’ll be back in three years.’ At a later period he was absent for fourteen years.

  Carlos was never a congenial man, but in the last two years of his life he performed an unexpected act which captivated the imagination of his people and continues to do so today. While still possessed of full powers, he voluntarily resigned as emperor and turned his scepter over to his son Felipe. To appreciate fully what he did next I had to take a long expedition westward into the mountains of the Sierra de Gredos.

  I drove north out of Toledo to the Madrid-Badajoz road, which carries traffic heading for Portugal. There I turned left for Talavera de la Reina, the ugly commercial town, center of Spain’s ceramic industry and forever remembered as the place where Joselito, prince of bullfighters, was gored to death on May 16, 1920. West of Talavera, I headed north toward the Gredos mountains, but before entering them turned west and drove along the foothills for about fifty miles through bleak and desolate scenery. How empty most of Spain is.

  Statue of the Commander Villamartín, machine-gunned daily by the Reds during their siege of the Alcázar.

  At last I came to a sign which indicated that a short distance off the road to the north lay the monastery of Yuste. I followed the dusty road which seemed to lead nowhere, when suddenly I turned a corner and saw a low, mean building of no attractiveness whatever but the goal of all travelers who want to pay their respects to Carlos V, for it was to this remote monastery, isolated, forlorn and with nothing to commend it, that the great emperor retired.

  I had the good fortune to reach Yuste at the same time that two French priests drove up in their Renault. ‘What a road,’ they said, eager to compare experiences. The driver was tall and taciturn, but he had the facts. His passenger was on the chubby side and he had the enthusiasm.

  ‘You must imagine Carlos in Brussels at the height of his powers,’ the round priest said. ‘Sixty years old, maybe sixty-five, and the most powerful man in the world.’

  ‘Fifty-five,’ the thin one said. ‘Born 1500. Abdicated the Netherlands throne 1555. Abdicated the Spanish throne 1556. You can figure it out for yourself.’

  ‘It was to this spot he came. Look. Not a house. Not even a church. Think how lonely it must have been for him, the great man, to end his days in such surroundings.’ He shook his head sadly, then turning to his comrade, asked, ‘How many years was he here?’

  ‘Came in early 1557. Died in late 1558.’

  ‘Two years of this desolate hell. Why?’

  ‘Because he wanted to make his peace with God, that’s why.’

  We walked through the cold, dark monastery and imagined Carlos
alone here and praying. ‘He brought only one friend with him,’ the fat priest said. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘An Italian engineer, Juanelo of Cremona. Remember, Carlos was emperor of much of Italy too.’

  ‘It was what’s-his-name from Cremona who invented a special pump for lifting water from the Río Tajo into Toledo. Carlos loved him and the two spent what amounted to an exile here.’

  We left the forbidding monastery and walked through the unkempt grounds. To the north were the Gredos mountains, in all other directions the lonely emptiness of Extremadura. ‘What a place for a great man to die,’ the fat priest lamented. Apparently he was imagining how many of the good things he appreciated would not have been available had he accompanied the emperor.

  ‘I believe he really came here to get closer to God,’ the tall priest said. ‘He prayed a good deal. He used to write to his son, “Above everything else hold fast to the Catholic Church. Support the Inquisition. Stamp out heresy.” He really believed in God.’

  The chubby priest, who was the more sentimental of the two, insisted that we go back into the monastery, although his friend and I were ready to push on. He led us to a bare room, of which he said, ‘Here Carlos died. What age did you say?’

  ‘Fifty-eight.’

  ‘His body was kept here in this chapel for … How many years did you say?’

  ‘Many years.’

  ‘It was then translated to El Escorial and buried beneath that pile of granite.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added, ‘But here is where his soul will always rest.’

  We three paid our respects to Carlos, ruler of much of the known world, determiner of Spain’s history, defender of the faith. The two priests prayed and we shook hands. The fat one said, ‘Amusing. An American who had no contacts with him. Two Frenchmen who fought him all his life. We meet here to pay him homage. What a miserable place.’

  It was not till four years later that I came upon a modern biography of Carlos V which took the edge off our prayers and philosophizing at Yuste. Researchers have found documents that spell out what happened at Yuste and it was somewhat different from what the French priests and I had imagined. When Carlos sat in cold Brussels, contemplating retirement, his thoughts kept going back to a monastery he had once seen in the blazing summer heat of Extremadura and it was this that encouraged him to give up the crown and have some relaxation and pleasure in his last years. He drew up a list of those who were to share his lonely exile at Yuste and it totaled seven hundred and sixty-two people, but when it was suggested that so many might crowd the place he trimmed it down to a hundred and fifty, of whom two-thirds actually accompanied him to the monastery, where he was visited by a constant stream of nobles and members of the royal family. At first he calculated that he could get by on a yearly allowance of sixteen thousand ducats but soon found that he would need at least twenty, with another thirty thousand to serve as a contingency fund.