Cervantes Street Page 5
Yet despite all our differences, the fire of poetry strengthened my friendship with Miguel. Two friends united forever in literary history, that’s how I saw us. Whenever we pondered what the future might bring us, we recited the opening verses of one of Garcilaso’s most famous sonnets, which expressed to perfection the uncertainty of our young lives:
When I pause to contemplate my life
and study the steps that have led me to this place . . .
In October 1568, the third wife of King Philip II, the French princess Isabel de Valois, died after miscarrying a five-month-old fetus. Not yet twenty-three years old, Isabel had been known as the “Princess of Peace” because her betrothal to our king sealed the peace between France and Spain in 1559, and gave our kingdom domination over Italy. Like all Spaniards, I adored her.
Isabel was still playing with dolls when she arrived in Spain. The king had to wait two years, until Isabel menstruated for the first time, to consummate their marriage. The newlywed couple did not speak a language in common (our king did not speak Latin). He was twice her age, and was having an affair with a lady-in-waiting for his sister Princess Joan. Isabel was heartbroken because her own father had had a mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who had made Isabel’s mother miserable. Isabel pretended to be ignorant of the king’s infidelity. But the queen endeared herself to the Spanish people by learning Castilian to perfection. She became a patroness of the arts—especially of painters—and wrote musical compositions. During her all too brief reign, Isabel turned Philip’s court into one of the most refined in Europe.
Isabel’s subjects prayed for the birth of an infante. Her first attempt at childbirth resulted in miscarrying twins. She fell gravely ill, and all of Spain feared for her life. During those agonizing weeks, Spaniards of all social classes crowded cathedrals and churches to light candles and pray for their queen. Prayer meetings attended by large crowds were held in Madrid’s plazas and squares. Thousands of candles were lit near the gates of the Royal Alcázar where the young queen’s life was an extinguishing flame. In our chapel, we said Masses twice a day, praying to the Almighty to save her. The prayers of the people in the plazas and churches were so fervent that they rose toward heaven in a sonorous cloud and echoed throughout the city all night long. The devotion that humble Madrileños felt for Isabel moved me deeply.
An Italian surgeon visiting the court saved her life. After she recuperated from her near-death experience, the king, the court, and all Spaniards lived for the day she would become gravid again. When she remained infertile, the archbishop of Toledo recommended that the uncorrupted remains of Saint Eugene be brought from France to Madrid, so that Isabel could pray to him in person to cure her infertility. Such was her desire to give an heir to the Spanish throne, and such was her pure devotion to God’s saint, that Isabel slept naked in bed with the corpse of Saint Eugene until she became pregnant again. The Spanish people rejoiced in the birth of two princesses. It was a matter of time, everyone believed, before she gave birth to a male heir.
Instead, Isabel suffered a disfiguring illness. A rumor spread that she had contracted syphilis from the licentious king. Her doctors diagnosed chicken pox and, to prevent her disfiguration, they recommended she be kept in a tub filled with she-donkey’s milk, her face covered with a paste made of pigeon stool and butter. When Isabel recovered, and her skin was unblemished, the people believed that, because of her suffering and her miraculous recoveries, the spiritual queen might be one of God’s saints on earth. After a long convalescence, Isabel became pregnant again, and it was the miscarriage resulting from this pregnancy that killed her. The grief we all felt was worse than if we had been reconquered by the Moors or had lost our armada. The entire nation went into mourning. No music was heard in Madrid for thirty days; the theaters were closed, bullfights forbidden, birthday celebrations canceled, and marriages postponed for six months. The women in my family wore black, and covered their faces with veils of gold cloth for three months. I wrapped a mourning band around my right arm. My grief was more personal than most: I had met the princess at a court function. My aunt, the countess of La Laguna, had introduced me to her saying I was one of the future glories of Spanish poetry. Her Royal Highness invited me to send her, via my aunt, some of my poems. The princess sealed her invitation with a smile. I never found out what she thought of my verses; but it made me happy just to know that she might have read my words.
* * *
King Philip announced a literary competition to reward the best sonnet written to commemorate the beloved late queen. Winning a literary tourney was one of the few ways open to an ambitious young man to gain fame and prestige; and it could lead to the patronage of a vain and wealthy nobleman, or, in some cases, to an appointment as Court Poet.
I wrote a sonnet about Isabel, but did not submit it to the competition. Like Horace, I believed a poem should be nurtured and burnished for nine years before being sent out into the world for publication. Besides, I was not hungry for fame, nor did I need the monetary reward.
I hope I don’t sound arrogant when I state that my elegy for the queen was crafted with more rigor, rhymed with more delicacy and refinement, and infused with loftier sentiments than Miguel’s crude versifying in the sonnet he wrote for the occasion. I knew how important it was for my friend to win this competition. His future might depend on it. The least I could do for him was not to become an obstacle in his hunt to achieve a piece of literary glory.
We were in the habit of showing our poems to each other. I read Miguel’s middling sonnet to Isabel. When he asked for my opinion, I said, “I think you will win the competition.” That made him happy. He was too self-assured to ask for any suggestions; still, I tried to improve his lusterless choice of words and to furnish his lines with a mellifluous and classic rhyme scheme. Next, Miguel sought the help of Professor López de Hoyos, whose devotion he had secured with unceasing flattery.
Then the sole judge of the literary tourney, in a drunken state, fell from his horse and cracked his skull on the cobblestone street where he lived. Professor López de Hoyos was appointed as his replacement. It did not surprise me that he awarded Miguel first prize, as all literary competitions, to begin with, are held: 1) to reward the friends of the judges; and 2) to punish their enemies. I will quote the first quatrain, just to give you an idea of the quality of Miguel’s winning sonnet:
When our Motherland had finally
bid adieu to war, in a chariot
of fire headed for the sky, earth’s
loveliest flower departed from us.
The sonnet was nothing but a feeble imitation of Garcilaso, the laughable effluvium of an ambitious young poet desperate for recognition.
Miguel’s little literary success brought out his true personality: he acted as if he believed he was the brightest bard in the kingdom, and he boasted to everyone who would listen: “I am the true successor of Garcilaso de la Vega.” The day after the winner was announced, many of Miguel’s remarks were prefaced with, “When I become Court Poet . . .” This kind of bragging was ridiculous, but since I am not a cruel person, I did not point out that Jews were, de facto, excluded from such a post. In those days, blinded by Miguel’s charm, I forgave him everything; the things that united us were stronger than those that eventually opened a chasm between us.
* * *
After I concluded my preparatory studies at the Estudio de la Villa, I had no desire to linger in Madrid, fighting for crumbs of literary glory. I was ready to commence my studies in classic literature at the Universidad Cisneriana in Alcalá de Henares. I chose it over the more famous university in Salamanca because it was the most select of our institutions of higher learning, and I wanted to remain close to Toledo and Madrid. In spite of my growing misgivings about Miguel’s lack of modesty, I was sorry to see him remain behind in Madrid. Poor families could, at great sacrifice, send their sons to study at a university. The parents of the wealthy students, on the other hand, rented them houses, furnished with servants
and horses, while they completed their studies. The less-privileged students paid for their education by working for the scions of Castile. When I hinted to Miguel that this was a possibility, he snapped, “I’d rather remain an ignoramus than be one of those starving students begging for a hunk of bread; or one who has to depend on cast-off clothing to be warm in winter.”
“May I remind you that you’ll be living in my house, Miguel, where you’ll be treated as a brother, not as a servant.”
“I know that. And I’m not ungrateful to you for your generous offer. But the other students would know about the situation and treat me as an inferior.”
I did not press the issue, hoping that in time he would see the advantages of my proposition. Without an education, Miguel’s prospects—despite the ephemeral fame that had befallen him as a poet—would be few. I suspected that he did not accept my offer because there was pressure from his parents to start earning money and contribute to the expenses of the Cervantes household. I did cajole Miguel into accompanying me to visit the grounds of the university and to help me search for a suitable house. “Wouldn’t you like to see the town where you were born?” Miguel had left Alcalá de Henares when he was a boy, but he often spoke of it with fondness and nostalgia. “On the way back,” I added, “we can stop in Toledo to visit Garcilaso’s tomb.” I knew Miguel was eager to see the city where Garcilaso de la Vega was born, and to visit his tomb at the cathedral. “We’ll stay at my grandparents’ home and you’ll meet my cousin Mercedes, who lives with them. I am eager for Mercedes and you to meet.” I wanted to bring together the woman I adored and the best friend I had ever had. Such was my innocence of heart, and my affection for Miguel, that I added, “I mentioned our friendship to Mercedes, and she wrote back saying she looks forward to meeting you. I want the two of you to be as close as brother and sister.”
* * *
When Miguel and I stood in front of the white marble façade of the Universidad Cisneriana, I hoped he would change his mind and accept my invitation to live together during my university years. But when the offspring of the great families arrived to attend the day’s lectures wearing dark velvet cloaks and hats adorned with fancy feathers, armed with daggers and swords, mounted on fine horses, and accompanied by their pages, valets, and footmen, who set up camp in the plaza to wait while their masters attended classes, I knew that Miguel must have compared himself to them and felt inferior, knowing he could not aspire to such displays of wealth.
The scions of Spain’s nobility stood in marked contrast to the other students milling about, the ones known as the capigorristas, who wore capes made of humble material and cloth caps that could barely protect their heads in the cold weather.
We spent a few pleasant hours visiting the august buildings. Miguel admired in particular the Great Hall’s golden wooden ceilings carved with Moorish motifs; its stained-glass Gothic windows; the imposing chapel; the patios with Romanesque arches and columns flanked by tall cypresses; and the various flower gardens among the buildings. Birds stopped to drink, splash, and sing in their marble fountains.
Later that day, I inspected a few houses that were available as residences. Afterward, I insisted we go visit the house where Miguel was born, which he told me was a short distance from the grounds of the university. I had heard Don Rodrigo Cervantes talk about the family’s former days of glory, before bad fortune befell them, when they lived in a fine residence in Alcalá. The two-story building, with a garden big enough for a few rosebushes, was situated on the corner that separated the Moorish from the Jewish neighborhood, and was adjacent to the hospital, where the sick, the dying, and the mad coexisted, as was the case with such places all over Spain. I pitied Miguel, who had to grow up listening to insane people raving day and night; the moaning of lepers; and the lamentations of patients dying in pain. The pestilential fumes emanating from the hospital made me nauseous. It was inconceivable to me how anyone could have pleasant memories of that place.
We walked to the schoolhouse where Miguel learned to read and write. It was a tiny abandoned medieval building. Through a broken window, I peered into a room with a low ceiling whose walls were covered with broken Moorish tiles. That visit to Alcalá gave me a new understanding of Miguel, made me feel compassion for the way he grew up, and made it easier for me to overlook his grating ambition. We spent the night in an inn near the university where students went to drink. Miguel consumed carafes of wine in desperation. Twice, I had to intervene to prevent him from starting fights. His volatile temperament, I knew, would get him in trouble, sooner or later.
* * *
My love for my cousin Mercedes was a well-guarded secret. Although she and I had never discussed our attachment to each other, I didn’t need any proof that my feelings for her were returned. From the time of our childhood it was understood by my parents, our grandparents, and everyone else in our family that we would eventually be united in marriage after I finished my studies.
Mercedes had come to live with my maternal grandparents in Toledo while still an infant. Her mother, Aunt Carmen, had died in childbirth. My cousin’s father, Don Isidro Flores, was so overcome with grief at the death of my aunt that he left Mercedes in my grandparents’ care and went to the New World, where he was killed during a skirmish against the savages in an inhospitable jungle.
It was midmorning when we arrived at my grandparents’ home. I was impatient to see Mercedes. A servant led Miguel to a guest chamber to wash off the dust from the road. I wiped my face with a wet rag, combed my hair, dusted off the sleeves of my jacket, brushed the dirt from my boots, and went to Mercedes’s chambers. She knew of my arrival and was expecting me. Leonela, her lifelong maid, opened the door. My cousin rose from her drawing desk and rushed toward me. We held each other in a tender embrace. When Leonela left us alone, I kissed Mercedes’s smooth rosy cheeks, which smelled of jasmine.
She led me by the hand to the cushions by the window overlooking the orchard. Her blond hair was covered with a scarf, but little threads escaped along her temples, gleaming like flecks of gold. “Did you find a house in Alcalá? I heard you went there to look for one.” Her exquisiteness was so enthralling, I hardly heard what she was saying. A fleeting cloud of melancholy swept over her face. “I hope you don’t find me too immodest, when I say that I wish I could be a student at the university myself.” Before I could comment, she asked, “How long can you stay with us?”
I took her soft hand and studied her delicate fingers. “I promised Miguel’s parents we’d be back in Madrid by tomorrow. And I have to return to school right away. But I’ll come back soon and I promise to stay a few days.” She closed her eyes and then smiled.
* * *
Grandmother Azucena had ordered a fine dinner in my honor, which included many of my favorite dishes: pottage of chickpeas and partridge, roast leg of baby lamb, serrano ham, trout stuffed with mushrooms, a salad of fruits, almonds, quail eggs, and a spread of olives, cheeses, and turrones. We washed all this down with vintage wines from the family’s vineyards near Toledo. Throughout the meal, Mercedes was the picture of reserve, purity, and refinement. She kept her gaze lowered and only looked at me and at my grandparents.
Despite my grandparents’ warm welcome, Miguel said little during the delicious meal and only spoke when he was addressed. I had never seen him so quiet around others, but I attributed it to his lack of social sophistication. He favored the serrano ham and was served an extra portion, which he ate heartily. Was this his way of showing my family that he was not a Jew?
When the meal was over, we retired to our chambers for a siesta and agreed to reconvene at four to stop by the cathedral to visit Garcilaso’s tomb.
We rode in my grandparents’ coach, with Leonela as the fourth member of our party. As soon as we were inside the coach Mercedes removed her veil. Her beauty illumined the inside of the carriage.
She asked Miguel how he had liked the Estudio de la Villa. His mood changed immediately: he started to mimic some of our ecce
ntric teachers’ demeanor in the classroom, and told off-color jokes about their appearance. His bawdy sense of humor was uproarious, though perhaps inappropriate in a lady’s company. But Mercedes seemed to enjoy his antics.
She asked, “Do you sing, Señor Cervantes?”
As Miguel demurred, I said, “Yes, he has a very fine voice. You should hear him singing Andalusian ballads.”
Miguel started to protest, but Mercedes interrupted him. “Then you must sing for us. You wouldn’t refuse a lady’s request, would you?”
Miguel’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his throat and began to accompany himself by clapping his hands as he started singing a love ballad. The thought crossed my mind that Miguel’s coyness was a form of seduction; it was almost as if he had set out to make an impression on Mercedes. Though nothing in my cousin’s behavior gave me pause for suspicion, I felt a twinge of jealousy. When Miguel finished singing, we all cheered and clapped; then silence reigned inside the coach for the rest of the ride. Mercedes stared out the window, all the way to the cathedral.
After we said our prayers in front of the main altar, we went to see Garcilaso’s tomb. I was eager to show it to Miguel. He dropped to his knees in front of the marble sarcophagus and kissed the cold stone. I, too, had been overcome with emotion the first time I visited Garcilaso’s resting place. Leonela gave Mercedes a small bouquet of roses she had been carrying and my cousin laid it at the base of the poet’s sepulcher. Miguel offered to recite a sonnet he had written in honor of the great Toledano. The less I say about that sonnet, the better. But Mercedes seemed to approve of it.