Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

A piece of news, well calculated to throw a whole Spanish town into a state of commotion, had suddenly been bruited about Granada, to the great delight of the aficionados. The new circus at Malaga was at last finished, after having cost the contractor five million reals. In order to inaugurate it solemnly, by exploits worthy of the palmy days of the art, the great Montes de Chielana—Montes, the first espada of Spain, the brilliant successor of Romero and Pepe Illo—had been engaged with his quadrille, and was to appear in the ring three days consecutively. We had already been present at several bull-fights, but we had not been fortunate enough to see Montes, who was prevented by his political opinions from making his appearance in the circus at Madrid; and to quit Spain without having seen Montes would be something as barbarous and savage as to leave Paris without having witnessed the performance of Mademoiselle Rachel. Although, had we taken the direct road, we ought to have proceeded at once to Cordova, we could not resist this temptation, and we resolved, in spite of the difficulties of the journey and the short time at our disposal, to make a little excursion to Malaga.

There is no diligence from Granada to Malaga, and the only means of transport are the galeras or mules: we chose the latter as being surer and quicker, for we were under the necessity of taking the cross-roads through the Alpurjas, in order to arrive even on the very day of the fight.

Our friends in Granada recommended us a cosario (conductor of a convoy) named Lanza, a good-looking honest fellow, and very intimate with the brigands. This fact would certainly not tell much in his favour in France, but on the other side of the Pyrenees the case is different. The muleteers and conductors of the galeras know the robbers and make bargains with them; for so much a head, or so much for the whole convoy, according to the terms agreed upon, they obtain a free passage, and are never attacked. These arrangements are observed by both parties with the most scrupulous probity, if I may use the word, and if it is not too much out of place when talking of transactions of this description. When the chief of the gang infesting a peculiar track, takes advantage of the indulto,[10] or, for some reason or other, cedes his business and customers to any one else, he never neglects presenting officially to his successor those cosarios who pay him "black mail," in order that they may not be molested by mistake. By this system, travellers are sure of not being pillaged, while the robbers avoid the risk of making an attack and meeting with a degree of resistance which is often accompanied with danger to them; so that the arrangement is advantageous to both parties.

One night, between Alhama and Velez, our cosario had dropped to sleep upon the neck of his mule, in the rear of the convoy, when suddenly he was awakened by shrill cries, and saw a number of trabucos glistening at the road-side. There was no doubt about the matter; the convoy was attacked. In the greatest state of surprise, he threw himself from his mule, and averting the muzzles of the blunderbusses with his hand, declared who he was. "Ah! we beg your pardon, Señor Lanza," said the brigands, quite confused at their mistake, "but we did not recognise you. We are honest men, totally incapable of so indelicate a proceeding as to molest you. We have too much honour to deprive you of even so much as a single cigar."

If you do not travel with a man who is known along the road, it is absolutely necessary to be accompanied by a numerous escort, armed to the teeth, and which cost a great deal, besides offering less security, for the escopeteros are generally retired robbers.

It is the custom in Andalusia, when a person travels on horseback, and goes to the bull-fights, to put on the national costume. Accordingly our little caravan was rather picturesque, and made a very good appearance as it left Granada. Seizing with delight this opportunity of disguising myself out of Carnival time, and quitting, for a short space, my horrible French attire, I donned my majo's costume, consisting of a peaked hat, embroidered jacket, velvet waistcoat, with filigree buttons, red silk sash, webbed breeches, and gaiters open at the calf. My travelling companion wore his dress of green velvet and Cordova leather. Some of the others wore monteras, black jackets, and breeches decorated with silk trimmings of the same colour, and yellow cravats and sashes. Lanza was remarkable for the magnificence of his silver buttons, made of pillared dollars, soldered to a shank, and the floss-silk embroideries of his second jacket, which he wore hanging from his shoulder like a hussar's pelisse.

The mule that had been assigned to me was close-shaved halfway up his body, so that I was enabled to study his muscular development with as much ease as if he had been flayed. The saddle was composed of two variegated horse-cloths, put on double, in order to soften as much as possible the projecting vertebræ, and the sloping shape of the animal's backbone. On each side hung down, in the guise of stirrups, two kinds of wooden troughs, rather resembling our rat-traps. The head-trappings were so loaded with rosettes, tufts, and other gewgaws, that it was almost impossible to distinguish the capricious brute's sour crabbed profile through the mass of ornament fluttering about it.

Whenever they travel, Spaniards resume their ancient originality, and eschew the imitation of anything foreign. The national characteristics reappear in all their pristine vigour, in these convoys through the mountains—convoys which cannot differ much from the caravans through the desert. The roughness of the roads, that are scarcely marked out, the grand savage aspects of the various places you pass through, the picturesque costume of the arrieros, and the strange trappings of the mules, horses, and asses, marching along in files, all transport you a thousand miles away from civilized life. Travelling becomes a reality, an action in which you take a part. In a diligence a man is no longer a man, he is but an inert object, a bale of goods, and does not much differ from his portmanteau. He is thrown from one place to the other, and might as well stop at home. The pleasure of travelling consists in the obstacles, the fatigue, and even the danger. What charm can any one find in an excursion, when he is always sure of reaching his destination, of having horses ready waiting for him, a soft bed, an excellent supper, and all the ease and comfort which he can enjoy in his own house? One of the great misfortunes of modern life is the want of any sudden surprise, and the absence of all adventures. Everything is so well arranged, so admirably combined, so plainly labelled, that chance is an utter impossibility; if we go on progressing, in this fashion, towards perfection for another century, every man will be able to foresee everything that will happen to him from the day of his birth to the day of his death. Human will will be completely annihilated. There will be no more crimes, no more virtues, no more characters, no more originality. It will be impossible to distinguish a Russian from a Spaniard, an Englishman from a Chinese, or a Frenchman from an American. People will not even be able to recognise one another, for every one will be alike. An intense feeling of ennui will then take possession of the universe, and suicide will decimate the population of the globe, for the principal spring of life, namely, curiosity, will have been destroyed for ever.

A journey in Spain is still a perilous and romantic affair. You must risk your life, and possess courage, patience, and strength. You are exposed to danger at every step you take. Privations of all kinds, the absence of the most indispensable articles, the wretched state of the roads, that would offer insurmountable difficulties to any but an Andalusian muleteer, the most horrible heat, with the sun darting its rays upon you as if it were about to split your skull, are the most trifling inconveniences. Besides all this, there are the factions, the robbers, and the innkeepers, all ready to plunder and ill-treat you, and who regulate their honesty by the number of carbines that accompany you. Peril encircles you, follows you, goes before you, is all around you. You hear nothing but terrible and mysterious stories discussed in a low, terrified tone. Yesterday the bandits supped in the very posada at which you alight. A caravan has been attacked and carried off into the mountains by the brigands, in the hope that their prisoners will be ransomed. Pallilos is lying in ambush at such and such a spot, which you will have to pass! Without doubt there is a good deal of exaggeration in all this, but however incredulous you may be, you cannot avoid believing something of it, when, at each turn of the road, you perceive wooden crosses with inscriptions of this kind—Aqui mataron à un hombre, Aqui murio de maupairada.

We had left Granada in the evening, and were to travel all night. It was not long before the moon rose, frosting with silver the precipitous rocks exposed to her beams. These rocks threw their long strange shadows over the road we were following, and produced some very singular optical effects. We heard in the distance, like the notes of an harmonica, the tinkling of the asses' bells, for the asses had been sent on beforehand with our luggage, or some mozo de mulas singing some amorous couplets with that guttural tone and peculiar far-sounding pitch of voice, so poetical when heard at night and in the mountains. The song was delightful; and the reader will perhaps thank us for giving two stanzas, which were probably improvised, and which, from their graceful quaintness, have ever since remained engraved on our memory: