Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

The wind was, indeed, blowing with frightful violence; the rigging quivered like the strings of a fiddle under the bow of a frantic player; the flag kept flapping with a kind of harsh sound, and its bunting threatened every moment to be rent into shreds and fly away to sea; the blocks creaked, groaned, and whistled, sometimes emitting shrill cries, which seemed to proceed from the breast of some human being: two or three sailors who had been mast-headed, for some offence or other, had all the trouble in the world to prevent themselves from being blown away.

All this did not prevent our making an excellent dinner, washed down with the best wines, and seasoned with the most agreeable conversation, as well as, by the bye, with the most diabolical Indian spices, which would cause even a person afflicted with hydrophobia to drink. The next day, as the weather was still so bad that it was impossible to send a boat to fetch fresh provisions from the land, our dinner was no less delicate; but it was rather remarkable from the fact of every dish being rather ancient in date. We had green peas of 1836, fresh butter of 1835, and cream of 1834; all preserved in a miraculous fashion. The bad weather lasted for two days, during which time I walked up and down the deck, never weary of admiring the scrupulous cleanliness, which would have done honour to a Dutch housewife; the finish of the details, and the talent visible in the arrangement of that prodigy of the human mind which is simply termed a vessel. The brass of the carronades glittered like gold, and the planks were as polished as the finest satin-wood furniture. Every morning the crew have to dress the vessel for the day; and though the rain were to come down like a waterspout, the deck would be washed, inundated, sponged, and swabbed all the same.

At the expiration of two days, the wind fell, and we were conveyed on shore in a boat manned by ten rowers.

My black coat, however, which was strongly impregnated with sea-water, obstinately refused, when dry, to resume its former elasticity, and was ever after spangled with brilliant crystal-like particles, and as stiff as a salted cod.

The aspect of Cadiz from the sea is charming. When the town is seen thus, with its buildings of dazzling white between the azure of the sea and the azure of the sky, you might almost mistake it for an immense crown of silver filigree work; while the dome of the cathedral, which is painted yellow, appears to be a silver-gilt tiara placed in the middle. The flower-pots, volutes, and turrets, which crown the houses, give their outlines an infinite variety. Byron has characterised the physiognomy of Cadiz in a marvellous manner, and with a single touch:

"Fair Cadiz, rising from the dark blue sea!"

In the next stanza, the English poet does not speak in the very highest terms of the virtue of the women of Cadiz, and he, no doubt, had good reasons for his opinion. As far as I am concerned, and without at present going into this delicate question, I shall content myself with saying they are very beautiful, and that their beauty is of a very peculiar and decided cast; their complexion is remarkable for that whiteness of polished marble which shows off the purity of feature to such advantage. Their nose is less aquiline than that of the women of Seville; their forehead is small, and their cheek-bones not at all prominent; their whole physiognomy bears a great resemblance to that of the women of Greece. They also struck me as being fatter and taller than other Spanish women. Such at least was the result of the observations I was enabled to make while walking in El Salon, or on the Plaza de la Constitucion, or when I was at the theatre, where I may parenthetically mention, I saw the Gamin de Paris (el Piluelo de Paris), exceedingly well played by an actress in male attire, and some Boleros danced in a very animated and sprightly manner.

But however agreeable Cadiz may be, the idea of being cooped up within its narrow limits, first by the ramparts and secondly by the sea, makes you desire to leave it. It seems to me that the only wish islanders can have, is to go upon the Continent; and this explains the perpetual emigrations of the English, who are everywhere save at London, where there are only Italians and Poles. As a proof of this, the people of Cadiz are perpetually crossing from Cadiz to Puerto de Santa Maria, and vice versâ. A sort of marine omnibus, in the form of a small steamer, which leaves every hour, sailing vessels, and boats are always lying in readiness, and exciting the vagabond inclinations of the inhabitants. One fine morning my companion and myself recollected that we had a letter of introduction from a friend of ours in Granada to his father, who was a rich merchant in Jeres. The aforesaid letter was couched in these terms: "Open your heart, your house, and your cellar, to the two gentlemen whom you will receive herewith." This being the case, we clambered on board the steamer; in the cabin we saw a bill stuck up, announcing a bull-fight, interspersed with comic interludes, to take place the same evening, at Puerto de Santa Maria. This filled up our day admirably, for by taking a calessin, we might go from Puerto to Jeres, stop there a few hours, and return in time to witness the bull-fight. After having swallowed a hasty breakfast in the Fonda de Vista Alegre, which most certainly deserves its name, we made a bargain with a driver who promised that he would bring us back by five o'clock, in time for the funcion, which is the name given in Spain to every public amusement, no matter what. The road to Jeres runs through a hilly, rugged plain, as dry as a piece of pumice-stone. This desert is said to be covered, in the spring, with a rich carpet of verdure, enamelled with wild flowers; broom, lavender and thyme, scent the air with their aromatic emanations; but at the time of year when we beheld it, all traces of vegetation had disappeared. The only thing we saw was, here and there, a little plot of dry, yellow, filamentous grass all powdered over with dust. This road, if we may believe the local chronicle, is very dangerous, being much infested by rateros, that is to say, peasants, who, without being professional brigands, avail themselves of the opportunity of taking a purse whenever they can, and never resist the pleasure of plundering any solitary traveller. These rateros are more to be dreaded than real robbers, who always act with the regularity of an organized body, under the command of a chief, and who spare the travellers, in order to extort something more from them at some other time. Besides this, you do not attempt to resist a brigade of twenty or twenty-five on horseback, well equipped and armed to the teeth, whereas you will struggle with a couple of rateros, and get killed, or at least wounded. And then the ratero who is about to attack you, may be that cowherd just passing, that ploughman who touches his hat to you, that ragged, bronzed muchacho who is sleeping, or pretending to sleep, under a narrow strip of shade, in a cleft of the ravine, or even your calesero himself who is taking you into some snare. You do not know where to look for the danger—it is everywhere and nowhere. From time to time the police cause the most dangerous and best known of these wretches to be assassinated in some tavern quarrel, got up expressly for the purpose by its agents. This is rather a summary and barbarous mode of justice, but it is the only one possible, on account of the absence of all proofs and witnesses, and the difficulty of apprehending criminals in a country where it would require an army to arrest each single man, and where a system of counter-police is carried out with such intelligence and passion by a people who entertain ideas with respect to meum and tuum, hardly more advanced than those of the Kabyls of Africa. On this occasion, however, the promised brigands did not make their appearance, and we reached Jeres without the slightest accident.

Jeres, like all the small towns of Andalusia, is whitewashed from head to foot, and has nothing remarkable in the way of buildings, save its bodegas, or wine warehouses, immense structures, with tiled roofs and long white walls devoid of windows. The gentleman to whom the letter was addressed was absent, but it produced its desired effect in spite of this circumstance, and we were immediately ushered into the cellars. Never was a more glorious spectacle presented to the gaze of a toper; we walked through alleys of casks, of four or five stories high. We were under the necessity of tasting every wine there, at least all the principal kinds, and there is an infinity of principal kinds. We ran through the whole gamut, from the sherry that was eighty-four years old, dark and thick, having the flavour of Muscat, and the strange colour of the green wine of Béziers, down to the dry, pale straw-coloured sherry, with a flavour of gun-flints, and a resemblance to Sauterne. Between these two extreme notes, there is a whole register of intermediate wines, with tints like burnt topazes or orange peel, and an extreme variety of taste. They are all, however, more or less mixed with brandy, especially those intended for England, where they would not otherwise be found strong enough, for, to please English throats, wine must be disguised as rum.