Iberia (77 page)

General Millán Astray, accustomed to total obedience in his
Legion, could not tolerate opposition and especially not from a
college professor. He leaped to his feet, waved his one arm and
screamed, ‘Down with intelligence! Long live Death!’

At this moment the mad general and the poet stood facing each
other and neither would give way. ‘Long live Death!’ the general
bellowed. ‘No,’ the poet replied. ‘Long live intelligence.’ Like the
permanent contrasting forces of Spain the two men stood, and
because the hall was filled with blue-shirted Fascists, the general
won. When Franco heard reports of the meeting and of how
Spain’s leading intellect had challenged the spirit of the new
regime, he is reported to have ordered, ‘If necessary, shoot him.’

It was not necessary. Unamuno was already stricken and died
shortly thereafter, leaving behind one of the most glowing
memories of contemporary Spain, that of the philosopher-poet
who defended the permanent values of Spain at the risk of his
own life.

(Just as the telephone conversation between Colonel Moscardó
and his supposedly sixteen-year-old son has been proved to be
largely apocryphal, thus destroying a legend favorable to Franco,
so doubts have been cast on the authenticity of some of the details
of the Millán Astray—Unamuno confrontation. The original
account came from a journalist, Luis Portillo, and was accepted
by Hugh Thomas and many other serious writers. José María
Pemán, one of the scheduled speakers that day and member of
the Royal Academy, has denied that it took place, but Emilio
Salcedo, in his life of Unamuno [1964], says that during the formal
addresses relating to Spain’s role in the New World, Unamuno
was inspired to take notes on a piece of paper which has come
down to us. At the conclusion of the set speeches he rose to make
a few observations based on his notes but was interrupted by the
general, whereupon something like the scene I have described
took place, though not in the highly dramatic form suggested by
Portillo. I have discussed this matter with a fair cross section of
Spaniards and they believe that an intellectual scuffle, pretty much
as described by Salcedo, did occur.)

Today in the hall which his bravery consecrated there is no
mention of Unamuno’s name and surely no bust or portrait, but
often visitors sit in silence, their eyes closed, thinking of this
courageous man and of his poem to Salamanca, where so much
of his creative life had been spent.

Forest of stones that history tore

In the depths of my heart I cherish
thy robust spirit; when I shall die,
cherish thou, my golden Salamanca,

For some two hundred years the kings of Spain had been trying
to trick Portugal into surrendering its independence and becoming
a province of Spain. This was not unnatural, because under the
Romans, Visigoths and Muslims, Portugal had been an
undifferentiated part of Spain and all prudent Spaniards hoped
for the day when that would be the case again.

In 1576, when Felipe II sat on the throne of Spain, prospects
for union began to brighten, for Sebastián (in Portuguese
Sebastião), the twenty-two-year-old King of Portugal, was a
moody, headstrong ascetic who loved only horses and refused to
marry, even though he realized that if he died childless his throne
would pass, ridiculous as it seems, to his granduncle Henrique,
a childless cardinal in his dotage, whose principal pleasure was
supervising the Portuguese Inquisition. If the young king died
childless and the old cardinal did the same, the crown of Portugal
would then pass into the hands of Felipe, who was Sebastián’s
uncle, and the peninsula would once more be united.

Spies brought unbelievable news to Madrid. ‘Sebastián refuses
to marry. He has epileptic fits and is afraid he’s impotent.’ And
‘His Jesuit advisors have convinced him that he has been chosen
by God to lead a great crusade into Africa and rescue it from
Islam.’ And ‘Poor Sebastián is so excited about his crusade that
he can think of nothing else. Portugal is falling into ruin while he
seeks only to make himself physically fit to captain his armies.
Each day he trains, sleeps on the ground, rides horseback for miles
and will speak to no one of government.’ And ‘He insists that
every noble family in Portugal send at least one of its sons to fight
in Africa against Islam.’ And ‘Portugal is bankrupt. King Sebastián
constantly demands new taxes and no one can call him from his
folly.’ And ‘The only persons who can gain the king’s ear are his
Jesuit advisors, and they keep telling him, “March to Africa.”’

In December of that year Felipe II proved that he was a just
and honorable king. He summoned his Portuguese nephew to
the remote monastery of Guadalupe to caution him against the
folly of such a crusade, and when they met there on January 1,
1577, Felipe pointed out how slim were the chances of success,
how imprudent it would be to strip Portugal of her wealth, her
army and her sons, and how important it was for Sebastián to
raise up a strong line of future kings. In other words, Felipe argued
against his own interests, for he had only to encourage Sebastián
to make a fool of himself and die in battle, and the throne of
Portugal would come to Felipe. ‘Don’t go to Africa,’ he pleaded.

Sebastián, considering his Spanish uncle uninformed and
cautious, said bluntly that he would go and he demanded Spanish
help, reminding Felipe that only eighty-four years ago this same
enemy had occupied part of Spain. Such an appeal Felipe could
not refuse. He promised Sebastián a fleet and an army. Then the
two kings worshiped at the shrine of the Virgin of Guadalupe and
prayed for a Christian victory.

Sebastián hurried back to Portugal. ‘We shall save Africa!’ he
announced, but in assembling his reluctant army he was so tardy,
and his plans changed so swiftly, that in the end Uncle Felipe had
to say, ‘You have wasted too much time. I have changed my mind
and shall not send the fleet and army that I promised.’ With this
stroke he ensured the failure of the enterprise, and some of
Sebastián’s lay advisors tried to warn him of this fact, but his
Jesuit counselors insisted that the crusade go forward. How
bombastic was the armada that sailed from Lisboa in June, 1578,
eight hundred vessels under chaotic leadership. How ridiculous
was the military adventure once Africa was reached, a young king
who knew nothing of arms determined to seek out the enemy
personally and destroy him. The adventure was a disaster, the
worst item of which was the fact that when Sebastián finally died
under an enemy onslaught, no one saw where he was killed or
how. There was no witness to his death and his body was not then
recovered, if indeed it ever was. He vanished from history as
ineptly as he had appeared, a strange, quixotic youth who
succeeded in nothing, not even in dying properly.

But he was dead and the precarious crown of Portugal passed
into the hands of Cardinal Henrique, sixty-seven years old,
childless, tubercular and even more bumbling than Sebastián had
been. It seemed only a matter of time before Felipe II would
inherit the throne and unite the two kingdoms. However, King
Henrique showed unexpected spirit and decided to petition the
Pope for special permission to marry the thirteen-year-old
daughter of a duchess under the extravagant impression that he
could sire a son before he died. Alas, the plan was tardy; the
petition could not be acted upon by the Pope, and the old cardinal
died without legal issue. Portugal became once more a part of
Spain and would presumably remain that way forever.

That was in 1580. But as the years passed, Portuguese patriotism
did not diminish and an understandable rumor began to circulate
through the peninsula. ‘Suppose King Sebastião did not really die
in Africa! Suppose he was so ashamed of his defeat that he crept
from the battlefield and took an assumed name! Suppose he
should suddenly reappear! Why, he’d be the legal King of Portugal!
The Spaniards would have to get out! And that would be the last
we’d seen of Felipe II!’ It was an enticing possibility. In the year
1592, when the rumor began to gain its greatest credence, how
old would King Sebastián, the one in hiding, be? Only thirty-eight.
He’d be heavier now, of course, but he’d have the same general
appearance. Tall, with a slight impairment in the left side of his
body, a superb horseman, daring, hot-tempered, regal in manner,
blond. Yes, he would be noticeably blond, with sharp blue eyes
and fair skin. Where could he be hiding, this lost king who would
save all?

Especially persuasive was the Portuguese explanation as to why
Sebastián had gone into hiding. ‘It’s all very simple, if you think
of it. Why did King Sebastião get into trouble in Africa in the first
place? Because his uncle, King Felipe, offered him an army and
navy and then took them away. Don’t you see? Felipe wanted
Sebastião to be killed by the Moors, and if they hadn’t done the
job he would have. Poor Sebastião had to hide. He’s gathering
another army in secret. And soon he’ll reappear. Watch.’
Supporters of this theory had to explain away one stubborn fact.
Some years after the disaster in Africa, King Felipe, always studious
to protect his claim to the throne of Portugal, dispatched envoys
who discovered Sebastián’s corpse, which they brought back to
a well-publicized funeral in Lisboa. To this the Portuguese
developed a persuasive argument: ‘I grant that a funeral was held.
I attended it myself. But when was it held? In 1582. And when
does Felipe claim that Sebastião died? In 1578. How could anyone
identify a body four years dead? Felipe tricked you with a false
corpse. You listen to me. Our king never died. Right now he’s
wandering somewhere in Europe and I for one expect to see him
any day.’

When these rumors reached Felipe in El Escorial he told his
aides, ‘We must keep an eye out for this make-believe Sebastián.’
The absent king, if he returned, could cause much trouble. For
one thing, he would tear Portugal away from the empire, and this
King Felipe did not intend to permit. ‘Watch for Sebastián,’ was
the command passed to the king’s officials.

It is not surprising that the Iberian peninsula should have
become preoccupied with such a bizarre problem as late as 1592,
because in Russia at this time much the same thing was happening.
There in 1591 the acknowledged heir to the throne, Prince Dmitri,
had died, perhaps at the hand of Boris Godunov, who assumed
the crown and whose reign was plagued by rumors that Prince
Dmitri had not actually died but was merely hiding until it was
safe for him to appear. At embarrassing moments a series of
Dmitris did step forward, or persons claiming to be Dmitri, and
Russia was threatened with civil war. If it could happen in Russia,
it could happen in Spain, and the agents of King Felipe took extra
precautions.

Madrigal de las Altas Torres! Could one find in all Spain a town
more suited for swift intrigue and high romance? It lay in a gentle
plain of considerable beauty and was completely surrounded by
a high wall marked by many towers. Its small streets ran under
poetic arches and its plazas were dignified by sturdy ancient
buildings. It was particularly noted for its convent, because in
one of its cells the great Queen of Spain, Isabel the Catholic, had
been born, and here many fine ladies from renowned families
lived as nuns, helping the poor and keeping out of the way of
their richer relatives.

In 1594 the convent housed one beautiful nun who was to
become famous in history, Doña Ana de Austria, twenty-six years
old and the granddaughter of Carlos V. She took her name from
her father, who had been the savior of Spain, Don Juan de Austria,
half brother to Felipe, which made her niece to the king. This
would be important.

Doña Ana was in the convent for a reason common to that age.
She was without question the daughter of the great Don Juan,
but her father had never bothered to marry her mother, so the
child was put in the convent to expiate her father’s sin. She was
gracious, well educated and tender in spirit. She was also romantic
and often wondered what her life might have been if she were not
illegitimate. Finally, she was dreadfully uninformed about life in
the world at large, for like all female bastards of the royal line she
had been stuck away in the convent at the age of six and had
known only uneducated country girls who were taking orders
and who were required to address her as ‘Your Excellency.’ Oh
yes, Doña Ana also had a collection of jewels, some of them so
stamped as to indicate that they were part of the crown treasure,
and this too would be important.

The only man whom Doña Ana saw regularly was her confessor,
Fray Miguel de los Santos, an Augustinian monk who had once
served as royal courier from the court of Portugal to Rome and
twice as provincial of his order. He had an intensity of spirit that
Doña Ana liked and a willingness to talk with her for extended
periods following her confession. He told her that he supposed
he was the most saintly of all living men in that he prayed most
of each night, disciplined himself three times each week and gave
all his money to the needy. Then he told her something which
must have excited her profoundly. ‘I believe God has selected me
for some special task, because each day of my life, when I come
to the most solemn part of the Mass, I see in the heavens a giant
crucifix, and beside it dressed in kingly armor with a baton of
gold and flag of green silk a blond young man whose face I cannot
see.’‘Who might the young king be?’ Doña Ana asked. ‘I wouldn’t
know,’ her confessor replied. ‘When God wants us to know who
he is, we’ll see his face.’ What no one in Madrigal seemed to know
was that Fray Miguel had once been preacher to the royal family
of Portugal.