The Shadow of the Cathedral | Page 7

of the cloister showed even in midwinter its
southern vegetation of tall laurels and cypresses, stretching their

branches through the grating of the arches that, five on each side,
surrounded the square, and rising to the capitals of the pillars. Gabriel
looked a long time at the garden, which was higher than the cloister; his
face was on a level with the ground on which his father had laboured so
many years ago; at last he saw again that charming corner of
verdure--the Jews' market converted into a garden by the canons
centuries before. The remembrance of it had followed him
everywhere--in the Bois de Boulogne, in Hyde Park; for him the garden
of the Toledan Cathedral was the most beautiful of all gardens, for it
was the first he had even known in his life.
The beggars seated on the doorsteps watched him curiously, without
daring to stretch out their hands; they could not tell if this early
morning visitor with the worn-out cloak, the shabby hat, and the old
boots, was simply an inquisitive traveller, or whether he was one of
their own order, choosing a position about the Cathedral from whence
to beg alms.
Annoyed by this curiosity, Luna walked down the cloister, passing by
the two doors that opened into the church. The one called del
Presentacion is a lovely example of Plateresque art, chiselled like a
jewel, and adorned with fanciful and happy trifles. Going on further, he
came to the back of the staircase by which the archbishops descended
from their palace to the church; a wall covered with Gothic interlacings,
and large escutcheons, and almost on the level of the ground was the
famous "stone of light," a thin slice of marble as clear as glass, which
gave light to the staircase, and was the admiration of all the countryfolk
who came to visit the cloister. Then came the door of Santa Catalina,
black and gold, with richly-carved polychrome foliage, mixed with
lions and castles, and on the jambs two statues of prophets.
Gabriel went on a few steps further as he saw that the wicket of the
doorway was being opened from inside. It was the bell-ringer going his
rounds and opening all the doors; first of all a dog came out, stretching
his neck as though he was going to bark with hunger, then two men
with their caps over their eyes, wrapped in brown cloaks; the
bell-ringer held up the curtain to let them pass out.

"Well, good-day, Mariano," said one of them by way of farewell.
"Good-night to the caretakers of God.... May you sleep well."
Gabriel recognised the nocturnal guardians of the Cathedral; locked
into the church since the previous night, they were now going to their
homes to sleep.
The dog trotted off in the direction of the seminary to get his breakfast
off the scraps left by the students, free till such time as the guardians
came to look for him, to lock themselves in the church once more.
Luna walked down the steps of the doorway into the Cathedral. His feet
had scarcely touched the pavement before he felt on his face the cold
touch of the clammy air, like an underground vault. In the church it was
still dark, but above the stained glass of the hundreds of different-sized
windows glowed in the early dawn, looking like magic flowers opening
with the first splendours of day. Below, among the enormous pillars
that looked like a forest of stone, all was darkness, broken here and
there by the uncertain red spots of the lamps burning in the different
chapels, wavering in the shadows. The bats flew in and out round the
columns, wishing to prolong their possession of the fane, till the first
rays of the sun shone through the windows; they fluttered over the
heads of the devotees, who, kneeling before the altars, were praying
loudly, as pleased to be in the Cathedral at that early hour as though it
were their own house. Others chattered with the acolytes and other
servants of the church, who were coming in by the different doors,
sleepy and stretching themselves like workmen coming to their work.
In the twilight, figures in black cloaks glided by on their way to the
sacristy, stopping to make genuflections before each image; and in the
distance, invisible in the darkness, you could still divine the presence of
the bell-ringer, like a restless hobgoblin, by the rattle of his bunch of
keys and the creaking of the doors he opened on his round.
The Cathedral was awake. Echo repeated the banging of the doors from
nave to nave; a large broom, making a saw-like noise, began to sweep
in front of the sacristy; the church vibrated under the blows of certain
acolytes engaged in