FOOTNOTES:
[3] In the course of sixteen years, Torquemada, first Inquisitor-General of Spain, committed to the flames eight thousand eight hundred victims.
[4] About twopence halfpenny. The real is the basis of the whole monetary system of Spain.
CHAPTER V.
AGAIN ON THE RAIL.—VALLADOLID.—THE FONDA DEL SIGLO DE ORO.—THE COLEGIO MAYOR DE SANTA CRUZ.—CONVENT INTERIOR.—CHAMBER OF HORRORS.—COLEGIO DE SAN GREGORIO.—THE CATHEDRAL.—SPANISH CHARACTERISTICS.—THE THEATRE.—USE OF TOBACCO.
AS the train moved away from Burgos, the city and the great cathedral melted away from our sight, and we glided over the wide African-like plains and dried-up watercourses, past the stony hills which, extending to the far horizon, reflected the dazzling rays of the sun. Not a blade of grass or sprig of green was there to refresh the eye of man, or for cattle to ruminate on. No wonder the butter of the country is made of lard, or the milk we drink taken from the mare!
At a little station where the train stopped, an old lady, closely hooded in black serge, and looking like the popular representation of Old Bogey, entered our carriage, together with a monk. Where they came from it was impossible to conjecture, as there was no sign of village or habitation within sight of this very purposeless station in the desert. They were attended, however, by the usual escort in vogue in this country, a portion of which immediately leapt upon us and bit us. The poor insects had made but a scanty meal of their innutritious monk, and came to us for their chasse café, or rather chasse moine.
We arrived in the evening at Valladolid, once the capital town of Spain. Indeed, in spite of its position in the centre of a wide, wind-swept, sandy plain, which causes the city to be the sport of a chronic simoom, it seems to be a capital town still. For trade and agriculture the situation appears convenient, for, wonderful to say, they have got some water amidst the tierras de campos, which consequently yield abundant produce; added to which, the river Duero connects the city with the Atlantic—in a rather difficult and spasmodic manner, however—and the railroad maintains its commercial relations with the south and north. The name of Valladolid is supposed to be derived from the Moorish Belad Walid, or land of the Walid. This may be, however, as "our bore" said at the table d'hôte, "inwalid," and not to be relied upon.
In the Plaza Mayor of this city, the great Alvarez de Luna, "Spain's haughty constable," was beheaded. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," and how uneasy must sit the head that trusts in princes, especially old princes who marry young queens, for all sense of honour, justice, and gratitude seems to walk out of the door when uxoriousness comes in at the window.
Here, in 1506, Columbus departed this life, and Philip II., the fortunate possessor of our sweet queen, Mary of England, came into it on May 21st, 1527. Here, in the sixteenth century, auto-da-fés and periodical bonfires of heretics were kept up with great spirit,—one being under the especial patronage of the above-mentioned blessed monarch, upon a scale of unprecedented magnificence. Here, Cervantes lived and wrote, and here, we regret to be obliged to add, the Duke of Wellington made his public entry, and took up his residence in the bishop's palace.
The Fonda del Siglo de Oro, although rather ambitious in its choice of a name, is a tolerable house enough, and the provision for the necessaries of life is not quite so primitive here as at Burgos. As regards that essential element of civilisation, the bath, the Spaniard seems still proudly wrapped in primeval darkness. On the morning after our arrival at the Hotel of the Golden Age,—where one would think all would be surrounded by pure delights,—the egregious desire for a bath took possession of us as usual; but, as in other places, we had some difficulty in obtaining that refreshing article. We pull the bell, the waiter appears; we utter the word "baños," in a low and rather humble tone, as if knowing it was vain to expect a favourable reply. The waiter inquires, "Caliente?" We answer, "No, frio." "Frio!" screams the waiter, with blanched visage, and instantly disappears like a harlequin through a trap. Presently, however, he reappears with another waiter, both looking as scared and uncomfortable as if they expected to be cross-examined at a coroner's inquest as two suspicious witnesses connected with our decease. Again we venture to ask timidly for "baños." Both waiters exclaim, in a tone of helpless amazement, "Frio?" to which query we reply in the affirmative by a nod, and they withdraw, muttering and gesticulating all down the stairs. The Spanish pathologist observes that the fit of hydromania generally attacks the Englishman between the hours of eight and ten.
In a few minutes, after a deal of scuffling outside the door, the two waiters appeared again, followed by the landlord, his wife, and a strange gentleman, carrying between them an object which had some resemblance to the state-chair of St. Peter in the basilica of that name at Rome. When this ponderous piece of furniture was settled in the middle of our room, we discovered that the seat had been removed, and a square tin pan fixed beneath, containing about two pints of brown water. Into this we madly plunged, and although perfectly sober at the time, imagined we were enjoying a refreshing sponge bath. However, this sort of thing is one of the cosas de España, so we suppose it was all right.
À propos of the general wonder expressed at any one wishing for cold water to wash in, there seems in Spain to be an equal terror of fresh air. Upon one occasion we had been in bed but a short time when a waiter entered the room to inquire if Señor had all he required. His eyes had no sooner rested upon the open window, which admitted the clear night air, than his whole countenance became locked and rigid, as if some dreadful personage—the travelling prophet of Khorassan, it might be—had suddenly presented himself at the window. The functionary in question, however, soon recovered his presence of mind, and having cast one anxious glance at our bed, to satisfy himself that all was right with us, he flew across the room with a bound and an oath, slammed the casements together, and the shutters after them, flinging the cross bar into its socket with such force as to show that he intended it to remain there.
The hotels in Spain, in the larger towns, are generally clean and well kept; though some persons, perhaps, might be able to dispense with a little of that universal odour of onions and ammonia which constantly prevails throughout the house; and the goods and chattels of travellers in the various rooms would not be absolutely endangered if common beggars from the streets were prevailed upon not to spend quite so much of their time on the stairs between the bed-chambers and the ground-floor.
Valladolid being a town of considerable importance in the history of Spain, we were eager to see it, and were soon threading our way through the sunny streets, underneath the broad band of blue overhead, until we found ourselves face to face with the Colegio Mayor de Santa Cruz, a grand old palace founded by Cardinal Mendoza in 1479, and now standing with all its beautiful fretwork clogged with wild weeds, and its light arcades, Saracenic columns, and Gothic porches mouldering away in sun and silence. On we wandered, through the long galleries, till we reached the library, apparently so called on account of the total absence of books, but which is filled with a mine of wealth in the shape of a profusion of specimens of the most exquisite carvings in walnut wood and dark oak. There are salas after salas filled with old musty pictures, carvings, and wooden sculptures, collected from the various convents at the period of their suppression. The pictures are mostly bad, though many of them are curious. Of course there are numbers of hoary old saints in rags, with gold quoits fixed on to the backs of their heads, glorifying in the lying label placed beneath them. A long room is filled with fearful painted figures carved in wood, representing troops of gigantic ruffians in the act of persecuting Christ, more grotesquely hideous than anything we could imagine in our worst dreams. Is it in order to inspire a due reverence and affection for Our Saviour that the figure of the Redeemer is represented in these productions as a meagre, wan, and emaciated skeleton of a man, covered all over with blood, dirt, the marks of stripes, and tangled masses of real red hair? or is it to render more intense the dislike with which we regard his persecutors? These individuals are represented belabouring their unfortunate victim with cudgels considerably larger than their own bodies, which have the most revolting appearance from deformity and disease, enormous tumours being generally appended to their throats.
In the midst of these delectable horrors, and placed on a large plate, is a painted wood-carving of the decapitated head of St. Paul, with which any amateur executioner may regale himself to his heart's content. So faithfully rendered is the last look of horror in the half-closed glass eyes, that one cannot help doubting, when he first glances at it, whether it is only a model. We were glad to escape from this religious Madame Tussaud's into the bright sun and open air, where we could dismiss the fancies inspired by such horrible sights.
We felt quite relieved when we found ourselves again in the great square, alive with dark-skinned men and women, with their gay dresses and sonorous voices. The jingling mules even were a pleasant sight to us, and we gazed with delight on the white walls, reflecting with such dazzling brilliance the rays of the sun, and on the universal dust, which almost half choked us, not to speak of the blue sky and the green acacia trees. In fact, the very odour of garlic was not so detestable to us as it used to be. Certainly those vast, prison-like convents standing on the outskirts of the town, are most fitting places in which to immure for life young men and women—fitting for their purpose, that is, inasmuch as there is nought to be seen from the grated windows to tempt them back to the world they have left. They may strain their dimming eyes as much as they please through the bars, they will see no stirring crowds in pursuit of business or pleasure, no happy pairs, no manly form or sweet face, to make the still warm heart thrill with joyful memories; they will see nought but wild tracts of desert, and yellow plains fading into the hot horizon, and spreading away like a burning ocean. We have by chance upon rare occasions caught sight of faces at convent gratings, and their glance fell like an icicle on the heart—faces which, though young in years, were aged in sadness, and perchance with the remorse—most probably with the regret—that comes too late. I saw, on one occasion, two young girls, pale from confinement within the yellow walls of a religious prison at Valladolid, and the bloodless cheek rendered the dark blaze of the gazelle-like eyes almost unnaturally bright with a false lustre, the lustre caught from the soul loosened by the partial decay of its prison-house, and struggling to be free. How strange that so much young, ardent life, so much beauty, so many loving hearts, and so much generous energy should choose to rot uselessly away in such prison-houses, like pale and lonely lamps flickering in a tomb! Strange that their mission as tender women, who might have soothed the griefs and tempered the hardness of many an honest man, who in return might have loved them as his life, his pride, his all, should be—as citizens of the world—tied to a destiny so awfully aimless, hopeless, and loveless: so dead in their life, and in only too many cases so utterly heart-weary and forlorn!
Well, to proceed with our stroll through the picturesque old Spanish streets. We say Spanish,—for it is not every town even in Spain that is Spanish in the character of its architecture. Madrid, for instance, with the exception of a few of the old quarters, has nothing nationally characteristic about it. The sun was now beginning to make itself felt with more than usual vigour; but that was to be expected here, for it is one of the cosas de España. From the yellow walls of churches and palaces, its rays were reflected, while overhead there hung one spotless lake of blue. Down a melancholy silent street, where lean dogs were quarrelling for offal, and fierce-eyed, ragged fowl were pecking savagely amongst the dust, was a plain square house, with a few small windows closed by shutters. In this house Columbus died, as the stranger is informed by the following inscription over the door: "Acqui murio Colon."
A little further on we came upon an avenue of dry poplars, bordering a small sluggish stream, through which was seen a telescopic view of hot, yellow hills beyond, dotted here and there with rare patches of green, as if the genius of fecundity, in flying over them, had by accident occasionally dropped from his cornucopia a huge bunch of cress. By the side of a ditch, we observed hundreds of washerwomen on their knees, washing shirts in mud, with a large stone. The chattering they made induced "our bore," whom we suddenly met on the bridge, to observe that "there seemed to be a great deal more talking about one thing and another than about anything else." What he meant, goodness knows! A little beyond, was a boy on his stomach, drinking from the stream, not, like the wolf in the fable, above the lamb, here typified by the washerwomen, but below. No wonder cholera is more than usually fatal in Spain, for, certainly, many of their practices invite the approach of pestilence!
It seems an innocent practice enough, the taking notes occasionally in a pocket-book; but here, in the Peninsula, it is rather nervous work. For example, we had scarcely finished a few lines in pencil on one occasion, when we became aware of the close proximity of two gendarmes, who were both looking aslant over our shoulder, into the book. For half an hour or so, they followed us persistently wherever we went, occasionally stopping and conferring earnestly together, until we feared we were going to be apprehended and thrown into a dungeon for plotting against Queen Isabel, now dethroned, and taking notes of the weak points in the character of her government and people, of which, by the way, the mode of washing linen is one.
In all the walks outside Valladolid, everything reminds us forcibly of the East, and affords evidence of the Oriental descent of the Spaniard. There is, in fact, much truth in the assertion that Spain is but l'Afrique qui continue. There are the same hot, white, dusty roads, bordered by feathery acacias, and giving birth to the aloe; the same brazen, dry, and wide sandy plains and stunted trees. There are many of the same flat-roofed houses, against whose dazzling walls the fig and oleander cast their shadows. There are the same brown, semi-nude urchins, shouting Arabic-sounding words and whacking mules harnessed with coloured drapery.
When we look towards the town, we see vast convent walls standing defiantly, as those of fortresses, and pile after pile of great square buildings, domes, and towers, rising against the blue, sleepy sky in all their solemn beauty. When we enter the city, and walk along the cool high streets, leaving the sultry plains behind us baking in dust and glare, the eye turns upon old palaces converted into barracks and alms-houses, and upon Moorish courts and Gothic halls, apparently tenantless of any one save flea-bitten beggars, mumbling Babel only knows what language, who crawl about, scratching themselves, half asleep, amidst princely porticoes and noble columns. Everywhere we observe groups of graceful, hooded women, men swathed in red sash, striped cloak, and yellow shirt, looking out keenly from beneath the sombrero's shade. The Spaniard seems to delight in gaudy hues. Mules are clad in gay trappings, and the houses are painted in bright colours; yet everywhere, too, we see dirt, decay, and sloth, and are repelled by abominable smells.
In our rambles we went past the façade of the church of San Pablo, the stone ornaments of which are like lace-work executed three hundred years ago. This, one of the finest façades in Castile, was begun in the fifteenth century by the Abbot of Valladolid, Fr. Juan de Torquemada, and finished by the Duke of Lerma at the beginning of the seventeenth century. We passed into the beautiful patio and court of the Colegio de San Gregorio, and walked amidst the tall spiral pillarets, supporting Gothic arches, light and lovely. We then sauntered up the rich staircase, with its carved stone balustrades, diminishing away in needle-like delicacy, and looked out upon the open court with all its chiselled galleries. Even in these beautiful structures neglect was visible. Weeds in many places covered the marble, and the smell of death seemed somehow to linger around.
To a dreamy mind, or to one which easily vibrates to a touch of poetry, it is a grand luxury to turn into those fine old churches, where the light is subdued and the air is cool, from the scorching sun and glare without. We thus, occasionally, lifted the curtain, and passed under the porch of the cathedral of Valladolid. Its enormous square Corinthian columns stand in all their granite strength, as if to outwatch the world. The colour prevailing in this church is grey and sober. There is something grand and harmonious in its huge proportions; but in its simplicity it appears more like some massive sepulchre of the past than the temple of an ostentatious religion. Scattered groups of women are kneeling before the altars, and the still forms of devotees are bending on the cold pavement. Brazen gates and lofty railings surround the choir, through which coloured figures move indistinctly, as in a dream. There is some magnificent dark oak carving. Clusters of tapers pierce through the gloom, and the melancholy chaunt of distant choristers echoes softly through the aisles. Out again into a sunny market-place, with gipsy-like women squatting on the ground, amongst the melons and tomatoes, the pots and pans. Dirty though graceful men, smoking cigarettes, and entangled in rusty cloaks, with their heads tied up in gaudy kerchiefs, are lounging about in picturesque squalor; while others in black sombrero, velveteen breeches, and jacket adorned with metal buttons, are lading great mules, decked in vivid housings. Farther on are more Moorish-looking women, with pitcher on head, resting by a fountain side; and above are little boys, perched in the belfries, clanging the church bells with hearty good-will.
The Spaniard is certainly very courteous by nature, and although generally shy of foreigners, most anxious to please them when he finds them chez lui, and to send them away with good impressions both of his country and of himself. We were looking, on one occasion, at some monument in the town, when two young gentlemen of finished manners suddenly addressed us by raising their hats, and after politely offering us cigarettes, requested us to oblige them by an inspection of their club. Of course we were glad to do so. This establishment, which we found to be cool and comfortable enough, consisted of a suite of lofty rooms, decorated à la Watteau, filled with little knots of polite young men of easy manners, all dressed very soberly in black cloth, and with remarkably tall hats of the latest Parisian fashion. Most of them were chatting, playing cards, or smoking the cigarette, around a small billiard table, with very large balls and a set of skittles in the centre. A small fireplace, recently put up, was introduced to our notice, and we were favoured with a description of its functions, which could not have been given with greater pride if it had been some grand scientific discovery intended to enlighten and benefit the world. After we had been entertained for a short time, we took leave of this society of very pleasant young gentlemen, who again took off their tall hats as we bowed to them, exchanged expressions of undying respect, and favoured us with a few more cigarillos.
Spaniards seem to be generally very accommodating persons; but they must never be hurried, and never asked twice for a light for the same cigarette. They are ordinarily reserved, and have a keen sense of private dignity; but when treated with perfect consideration, are most gracious in return. Their politeness may proceed, perhaps, from a sense of patriotic obligation more than from any serious love for your person.
The ladies possess the same characteristics, and although exacting as to formalities, are generally agreeable and good-natured. It must be admitted, however, that they are very idle, entirely lacking the quick vivacity and wit of their lively neighbours, the French. The languid blood of their Moorish ancestors, and their sultry, oppressive climate, may account greatly for the indolence which is common to both sexes.
The Gran Teatro Calderon has a very pretty interior, and is quite Parisian in appearance. When filled almost exclusively with sparkling dresses and gorgeous uniforms, it has a brilliant effect. Notwithstanding recent events, the Spanish people, when we were at Valladolid, seemed to be enthusiastically loyal. Just before the performance began, a large picture of Queen Isabel, placed in the centre of the house, immediately over the royal box, was suddenly unveiled. All in the theatre with one accord stood up, turning reverentially towards it. The gendarmes posted in various parts of the salle presented arms, and the orchestra played the national hymn. The performance of some never-before-heard-of opera, with a title that, to us foreigners, was incomprehensible, did not, in a musical sense, do much credit to Spanish talent. However, if the prompter perhaps had not shouted so loud all through the piece, we should have heard the singers to better advantage. As it was, there was one singular duet, at all events, between a very fat, square little tenor and a long, lean baritone, of which no adequate idea can be presented, unless it be that of a two-part song performed by some person in the agonies of death and an old hound shut up in a kennel when the rest of the pack are out hunting.
What we liked very much, at all events while on our travels, was to be able to light cigarettes at the lamps in the grand saloon. Here in Spain one smokes well nigh everywhere. Oftentimes in the middle of the table d'hôte, if the entr'acte between the courses be at all a long one, cigarettes are lighted, and thrown away after a dozen puffs or so. Now women cannot naturally dislike tobacco, for in Spain tobacco is smoked everywhere, and the ladies don't faint or turn up the whites of their eyes in pretended horror of the filthy weed. On the contrary, smoking with themselves is a favourite pastime in private, if not in public, and the ladies' apartments are often fragrant with more than a soupçon of that herb the odour of which was so abominable to the British Solomon. And, indeed, why should it not be so? There are many worse smells that are endured without a murmur than the fresh aroma of pure Havanna tobacco, King James's Counterblast notwithstanding.
After the before-mentioned exhilarating duet, we thought that for the first dose we had better not exceed or try the human system too much; for, like the people who can in the course of time and practice take as much laudanum as would kill an ox, there was no knowing what we might be brought to endure. We strolled, therefore, into the Teatro Lope, where a farce "was on," as they say in dramatic phrase. The sources of amusement—the characters, plots, and style of playing—appeared to be pretty nearly the same as they are in England. There were, as on our stage, heavy fathers, walking ladies, housemaids, lovers concealed in cupboards, rejected suitors favoured by stern parents, but suffering much from the practical jokes of the faithful groom of the family, all shaken up together into a confused plot, and holding hands in a row when the piece was brought to the usual happy termination. When the curtain falls, cigars are lighted, and the tobacco smoke rises in clouds, until the entire house, as well as the brains of the audience, is entirely befogged. All the private boxes at this house were thickly padded with stuffed and quilted leather, with what object it was difficult to conjecture. The orchestral arrangements were conducted upon rather a laissez aller principle; and the boy who played the cymbals seemed scarcely to be what we should call a regular musician, but one engaged for the nonce. Being a quick-witted, sharp-eyed lad, however, he managed, by keeping his gaze steadily fixed on the leader, to play his noisy instrument with some discretion, guided by an occasional wink from that functionary. He was probably paid so much a smash, like the man with the great drum at Jullien's concerts, who received twopence per whack.
Valladolid is an exceedingly pleasant place, and we enjoyed very much this existence de flâneur, going about during the day from sight to sight, and passing the evening in the theatre. Indeed, when one is associated with a kindred spirit, what more charming holiday can there be than to be carried past a panorama of ever-changing scenes, and, with all care left behind with the London fogs and lawyers, to witness views of life, nature, and character dissolving one into the other by easy gradations, now light, now grave, now humorous, now gently sad? It was with equal delight that we wandered through the busy city and in the mountain breeze, under balmy skies, and over the azure sea. So, then, Valladolid, addios!
CHAPTER VI.
EN ROUTE FOR MADRID.—TYPES OF NATIONAL CHARACTER.—GEOLOGICAL CONNECTION OF SPAIN AND AFRICA.—A STATION IN THE WILDERNESS.—AVILA.—A FUNERAL.—THE GUADARRAMA HILLS.—THE ADUANEROS.—MADRID.—HOTEL DE LOS PRINCIPES.—PUERTA DEL SOL.
WE had the advantage of an American gentleman's society in the railway carriage when we started for Madrid; also that of a rather pedantic Englishman—both types of their respective nations. It was most interesting to observe how, by asking both the same question, the peculiarity of their separate nationalities was brought into curious contrast.
"Do you prefer the opera house at Valladolid to Her Majesty's?" asked we, in the course of conversation, of the Englishman.
"Sir," replied he, "upon the occasion of an examination at a public school, I was once requested to name the greater prophets, and then to name the less. I immediately refused, and observed to my examiner that I never made invidious distinctions. I now make you the same answer."
We then put the question to the American, who said,—
"Waal, stranger, I guess I prefer neither, for the manner in which you conduct operatics in Europe is a caution to snakes, and aside of being ridiculian in manner, I put it down slick as base and tyrannical, which howsomever is only as how yew poor Eurōpean critturs is suckled to enjure, except Irish cutes, who, I calculate, are absquatulating from the rotten old world, and making pretty quick tracks across the fish-pond to the Almighty States, and that's a faact."
At this juncture it seemed necessary to lead our friend back to the subject of the opera, else he would have probably dilated upon very inconvenient subjects, until, as he himself had occasion to observe, "Eternity's bell rang."
It came out, however, that the English method of conducting operatic matters was worthy only of an effete and senseless old aristocracy. In England we were assured by our independent compagnon de voyage that a prima donna who happened to have a bad sore throat was still compelled to sing as well as if her voice was in the best condition. Was there ever such cruelty? Notwithstanding the danger to that delicate and costly organ of song, the human throat, she was forced to come forward and execute the most elaborate and difficult airs, with variations, to amuse a public the most exacting and the least sympathetic in the world; whereas in America, if the lady's throat was at all in a delicate condition, she was at once excused by her enlightened audience, who never expected that impossibilities were to be accomplished for their gratification. In fact, according to this gentleman's account, America must be so free and enlightened a country, that it is a wonder that such old-fashioned notions as obligation, contract, &c., &c., should exist therein, or that prima donnas should ever sing at all during an opera, unless perfectly convenient to themselves. In fine, if our friend's judgment was to be trusted, the national motto of Columbia should be the accommodating one of that much respected establishment, suppressed a century ago, the Hell-Fire Club—to wit:—"Fay ce que voudras." [5]
The commencement of the journey, after leaving Valladolid en route for Madrid, lay through vast tracts of sandy plains, with the far horizon bounded by brazen hills like those of Africa, and long, lofty table-lands, beneath which the Nile might well be streaming. But this is indeed, at this season at all events, a dry and barren land, where no water is. However, many broad acres of this now arid country were a few months ago smiling with waving corn. Still desolation must in a great measure be the general characteristic of the scene, with Oriental-looking mountains of bare sand, on which nothing can grow but stones, and where life is rarely seen in any form save that of the wild goat, the vulture, and the outlaw. There is little doubt that, at one of those far distant epochs with which geological science makes us familiar, the two continents joined at the spot where are now the Straits of Gibraltar, and that Spain was then continuous with Africa. In point of fact, the soil of Spain, as far as Burgos, has precisely the same characteristics as that of Africa.
So on we glide, over plains and tracts of glaring sand, enlivened only here and there by a solitary peasant driving a flock of black sheep over the white expanse to places where a few miserable patches of some rank vegetation offer a meagre grazing ground for the poor animals. At long intervals there appears, seated on the plain like some low, flat island, a wretched poverty-stricken town, the burning rays of the sun reflected from its broken house-tops and off its yellow walls. In the far distance the eye may perhaps distinguish another, and after we have passed it, yet another, rising far away, isolated on the dreary waste. A large church seems to domineer over the hovels beneath, its toppling spire leaning as it were with neglect and exhaustion. Scarce a soul appears amidst these mural wildernesses. There is none of that stir, animation, and cheerfulness which generally accompany city, town, or village life in other countries. The burning sun, the sandy desert, the monotonous wilderness, have evidently left their impress on the character of the people. As we proceed rapidly over the plain, a pile of tower and battlement in ruins—a relic of heroic story, and of the glories of other days—appears before us, standing midst the solitude like the skeleton of some long-forgotten animal which had fallen there when the world was yet young, and over which now the wild birds scream and whirl, while the long, rank weeds which nearly cover it sigh to the passing breeze.
This bright October weather is like the finest July days in England, tempered by a fresh, gentle, and wholesome breeze. We stop at little stations in the midst of the wilderness; in fact, it seems that we stop pretty nearly as often as it suits the guards or engine-drivers, for the stoppages are not confined to stations or villages, but sometimes take place in the middle of fields, where there is no sign of habitation. Some woman, perhaps, may rise from the border of a ditch, where she has been resting, with a child in her arms, and all the officials will get down and have a chat with her, while the good-natured passengers, who take the stoppage as a matter of course, get out and smoke cigarettes.
When some lone station, which is represented by one small house, is reached, the carriage windows are immediately surrounded by tottering old men in ancient velvet hats with very broad brims, and with little silk balls dangling therefrom. They are all swathed in a wonderful collection of rags, pinned, sewed, nailed, and tied on to their bodies anyhow, while their legs are bound up in pieces of sacking, and their feet apparently encased in poultices. Where they come from none can tell, nor can man's ears divine their speech—some patois which even native Spaniards can hardly understand.
Amongst the specimens of drapery composing the toilet of one poor old man, whose face was simply black from dirt and sun, who seemed actually rotting alive, and who appeared to think there was nothing in his condition to regret, there were two triangular patches of green damask, with roses worked thereon, fastened somehow on to his back, together with a remnant of a sail-cloth shirt. One sleeve of the latter was of yellow cotton, while the other arm was concealed from view by a short mat of horse-hair and a piece of carpet sewn together. A sash of faded scarlet encircled his waist, and his lower extremities were enclosed in inexpressibles made of goat-skin with the hair outside. He had a long stick in his hand, and was accompanied by a lynx-like dog, who devoured greedily grape-skins as they fell from a carriage window. This poor old man had no teeth, only one eye, and was very much bent. He and the other ancients were such masses of dirt that they must have been designed by Providence as places of refuge for destitute insects.
These beggars are generally seen in small companies, and it is not advisable to approach them too nearly, as there is a deal of esprit de corps amongst them. Whence the poor wretches come, and where they live, no one can tell, for there is not even one of those decaying old towns, with the big church before mentioned, near their usual haunts. They seem to exist simply—because they don't die—from mere force of habit. There are beggars, of course, in all countries; but such degraded, miserable beings as we meet in beautiful Italy and brilliant Spain, are to be seen in no other part of the world.
After this purposeless stoppage, our express train moves on again at a good six miles per hour, and there is no further halt till we reach the ancient city of Avila, founded by Hercules, and the birth-place of St. Theresa. Its decaying old streets, its high mouldering castle, its Gothic houses, and its large churches, have all a very forsaken aspect. It is surrounded by great military walls, lofty, massive, and grey, [6] through which the listless-looking natives have egress from the city into the wilderness around by means of gateways of enormous thickness. There is something sad and impressive in seeing this ancient city, in which there are so many remains of power and grandeur, now given up to the inexorable hand of time and the cold blight of desolation. What a sermon might be preached from such a text on the mutability of all earthly grandeur!
As if to make the solemnity of the scene more complete, while we were sauntering during our hour's halt through the dark old streets of Avila, a funeral procession came by, preceded by a troupe of ghoul-like creatures, bearing their stiff and soul-less burden, hooded in black from crown to sole, with scarce a semblance of humanity in them, save the unholy-looking eyes, which, amidst the deep drapery, glanced furtively at us from out the cavernous eyeholes in the masks which they wore. The mournful procession consisted, as usual, of shaven priests, attendants bearing flambeaux, and children singing the Miserere; in a word, there was all the empty pageantry with which the Catholic Church deposits the dead in their last earthly home. The coffin was painted a bright crimson colour, and a key was fastened near the lock by a chain, to be in readiness at the Day of Judgment.
When we had taken our places in the train again, the steam was put on, and we moved off, gradually increasing our speed till it reached the unprecedented velocity of nine miles an hour. This greatly alarmed a lady in the carriage, who, no doubt, was of that Spanish Conservative party which prefers things as they are. People in America, even the ladies, take matters much more quietly. An ancient dame was travelling by rail for the first time in her life, and when the "smash up," which is almost a matter of course among our go-a-head friends, came, and fatigue-parties arrived to carry her off with the other wounded on a stretcher, she was quite astonished when told that it was an accident, as she had thought the whole thing a regular pre-arranged part of the business of every-day railway travelling, and took it all quite comfortably. In fact, she was rather interested than otherwise in her initiation into one of those stirring incidents which it is the fortune of travellers to encounter more frequently in America than elsewhere.
Meanwhile we glide on through dreary regions, the far distance bounded by barren mountains. We pass over vast treeless plains strewn in all directions, as far as the horizon, with huge broken masses and boulders of granite. A scene more expressive of gloom and desolation cannot be imagined. The huge fragments, scattered about as far as the eye can reach, are piled up occasionally into enormous heaps, which look like the remains of ruined cities of an unknown age; or spread widely over the grey expanse, like the tombs of the races which once inhabited these regions. It is impossible, indeed, to conceive anything more austere than the effect produced by a scene at once so grand and so desolate.
The railroad now began to ascend by gradual inclines, making wide casts over the stony tracts. The amount of engineering skill, money, patience, and gunpowder it must have taken to cut through, in some places, miles of solid granite, must have been great. We were now commencing the ascent of the Guadarrama Mountains, which overlook from afar the capital of Spain. This fine ferrocarril, the construction of which is somewhat similar to that of the railroad over the Sömmering Pass near Trieste, surmounts altitudes by curves and gradual inclines.
The Guadarrama Mountains, with other sierras, of which the principal are the Somo Sierra, the Sierra Morena, the Alpuxarras, the Sierra Nevada, and the Sierra de Ronda, are remarkable features in the aspect of Spain. Surrounding the plains of Castile and La Mancha, the highest of such extent in Europe, with strong natural bulwarks, they are invaluable to the Spaniard in the defence of his native land. They even seem to constitute distinct moral divisions of the inhabitants. The whole country thus appears to be formed of several intrenched camps, and is admirably adapted for a war of posts—particularly for guerilla warfare, by their skill in which the Spanish mountaineers were enabled to offer such a successful resistance to their French invaders.
Higher and higher wound the road, until we suddenly burst into a region of pine forests, which darkened the sides of the mountains. The profound gorges, the aspect of which was so savage, were rapidly filling with purple mist as the sunset left them, to fall in various tints of farewell glory upon the loftier ranges of distant mountains, which seemed to melt away, wave on wave, against the clear, far heavens. The middle ground was filled with a broad expanse of warm, rose-lit plains, from the bosom of which, at unequal distances, towered enormous rocks, clothed to their summits with pine-trees. What a prospect it was! Such a scene of mingled gloom and glory the pencil of Salvator alone could render—the funereal plumage of the deep forests waving on the mountain's side, and the long rays of the sinking sun shooting through the darkness like celestial arrows, while high above a few feathery cloudlets sailed tranquil through the liquid ether, like troops of supernal messengers.
The shades of evening were falling upon the earth, when a vast, grey edifice of gloomy majesty loomed ghostly in the twilight, resting under the shadows of a darkening mountain, and all alone amidst a region of wild and desolate grandeur. This was the Escorial, the grand convent-palace of Philip II., and the burial-house of the Spanish kings. Such an edifice, almost the vastest in the world, in such a spot, and seen for the first time at such an hour, impressed one with a feeling of wonder and awe. We had little more than a glimpse of this historical building as we glided past. Our carriage moved on, now filled with dark women with brown babies, and soldiers with white kepis and red trousers; while, of course, a dash of garlic was not wanting, with the odour of five cigarettes going simultaneously, to render unbearable the atmosphere in the carriage, all the windows of which were hermetically closed, in order to exclude the terrible fresh air.
At last, however, to our joy, Madrid was reached. Nothing could exceed the extreme polish and urbanity of the aduaneros, of whose severity we had heard so much. Instead of ransacking the luggage, and making hay of one's shirts, a very handsome dark young man in uniform, having satisfied himself of the truth of our statement, that we were not professional smugglers, offered us a cigarette, gave us a light from his own, took off his hat, observed that he immensely admired the British Constitution, and then ordered us a brougham. The existence of such a class of officials at a terminus is really not an unmixed good. Imagine what might have occurred had we been susceptible daughters of Albion on their travels with an invalid or sleepy mamma! We tremble for the peace of mind of future English young ladies, travellers to Madrid.
Madrid, looked upon merely as the capital town of Spain, is extremely disappointing, [7] and simply a bad imitation of Paris, with little or nothing in it of original Spanish customs or life. The street architecture is modern, garish; it has a gingerbread appearance, and the use of whitewash has been too liberal. Although in the centre of Spain there are no remains of the Moorish or mediæval periods, nothing to represent the better class of art; and if you would find a bit of downright, dirty, picturesque Spanish street, you must penetrate to the back settlements, or the St. Giles's of Madrid—in fact, to the Calle de Toledo. There, beneath a blue sky, with squatting brown women suckling naked brown babies in the sun, gaudy churches, squalid houses, priests and beggars, not to speak of fish, vegetables, offal, and dogs, you may, after removing your handkerchief for one moment from your nose, imagine yourself amongst the slums of Naples.
With the exception of some few women of the middle and lower classes, who pin black silk aprons on to the backs of modern chignons, and on Sunday, or at the bull-fight, perhaps a bit of old lace, none are seen wearing the graceful mantilla, or those dark robes with ample skirts that sweep the streets. The traveller has rarely an opportunity of observing in the capital that delicate and piquant flirting with the fan which we always associate with our ideas of Spanish ladies; but he may occasionally remark very bright and meaning glances directed to the opposite sex by eyes of dazzling lustre. To see the romance of old Spain, however, one must go down south to warm Seville and historic Granada, where, by the way, we do not intend to go, as everybody has been there before; and it has now become a matter of legitimate pride to be able to say: "Behold before you a man who has not been to the Alhambra!"
The men in Madrid, although sometimes wrapped from heel to nose in the orthodox conspirator cloak, make themselves very eccentric in appearance by crowning their heads with that latest invention of the Evil One, the modern French chimney-hat; and that, too, in a very exaggerated form. The utter incongruity of these two articles of manly dress must be seen and felt to be thoroughly appreciated. To a tourist, indeed, who travels at a vast outlay of time and expense—to say nothing of cheerfully delivering up his body as a pasture-ground for innumerable fleas—in order to see Spain and the Spaniards as they ought to be, it really enters like iron into the soul (although, for the life of us, we could never understand that anatomical operation), to see Spain and Spaniards, in the matter of costume, at all events, as they are, and as they ought not to be.
However, here we are, for better or for worse, safely landed at the best hotel in Madrid, on the Puerta del Sol, and we are bound to say we did not find it as a married man, on the authority of a well-known anecdote, is said to have found his wife,—all worse and no better. The Hotel de los Principes will take a deal of beating from any hotel in Europe in point of comfort, cleanliness, and civility. Situated on the sunny side of the Puerta del Sol one has the pleasure of looking on an ever-changing and busy scene below, as he smokes the morning cigarillo in the balcony. On this spot, in former days, according to a popular legend, there stood a church upon whose door the sun, for some mystic reason, remained long after it had left all other doors. The gateway or door of this church was consequently called La Puerta del Sol, from which the present plaza derives its name.
This open space is the life and heart of Madrid, all the principal arteries of the city proceeding from it. Here, all business is done, and pleasure taken; speculations are entered into, and politics discussed (as much as is consistent with personal security); and, consequently, it is the first place to which foreigners resort. It is the exchange, the betting-ring, and the general lounge. The garrison, with flags and band, march through it once a day; and to those who were so minded, here was the best chance, at the time of our visit, of looking upon the countenance of Queen Isabel II., as she passed in her chariot and four-in-hand of mules.