Wanderings in Spain

As the ascent was toilsome, I walked as far as the gates of the town, and, turning round, cast a last look of farewell upon France. It was truly a magnificent sight. The chain of the Pyrenees sloped away in harmonious undulations towards the blue surface of the sea, crossed here and there by bars of silver; while, thanks to the excessive clearness of the air, in the far, far distance was seen a faint line of pale salmon-colour, which advanced in the immeasurable azure, and formed an immense indentation in the side of the coast. Bayonne and its advanced guard, Biarritz, occupied the extremity of this point, and the Bay of Biscay was mapped out as sharply as on a geographical chart. After this, we shall see the sea no more until we are in Andalusia. Good night, honest Ocean!

The coach ascended and descended at full gallop the most rapid declivities: a kind of exercise, without a balancing-pole, upon the tight rope, which can only owe its success to the prodigious dexterity of the drivers, and the extraordinary sure-footedness of the mules. Despite this velocity, however, there would, from time to time, fall in our laps a branch of laurel, a little nosegay of wild flowers, or a wreath of mountain strawberries – ruddy pearls strung upon a blade of grass. These nosegays were flung in by little beggars, boys and girls, who kept running after the coach with their bare feet upon the sharp stones. This manner of asking alms, by first making a present themselves, has something noble and poetic about it.

The landscape, though rather Swiss perhaps, was charming, and exceedingly varied. Mountain ridges, the interstices of which permitted the eye to dwell upon others more elevated still, rose up on each side of the road; their sides goffered with different crops and wooded with green oaks, stood out vigorously against the distant and vapoury peaks. Villages, with their roofs of red tiles, bloomed amid thickets at the mountains' feet, and every moment I expected to see Ketly or Getly walk out of these new châlets. Fortunately, Spain does not push its Opéra Comique so far.

Torrents, as capricious as a woman, come and go, form little cascades, divide, meet each other again, after traversing rocks and flint stones, in the most amusing fashion, and serve as an excuse for a number of the most picturesque bridges in the world. These bridges, thus indefinitely multiplied, have a singular characteristic: the arches are hollowed out almost up to the very railing, so that the road over which the coach passes does not appear to be more than six inches thick. A kind of triangular pile, shaped like a bastion, generally occupies the middle. The business of a Spanish bridge is not a very fatiguing one; there was never a more perfect sinecure; three quarters of the year you can walk under it. There it stands, with an imperturbable calmness and patience worthy of a better lot, waiting for a river, a rill of water, or even a little moisture, for it feels that its arches are merely arcades, and that their title of "bridge" is pure flattery. The torrents I have just mentioned have at most but four or five inches of water in them, but they are sufficient to make a great deal of noise, and serve to give life to the solitudes which they traverse. At long intervals they turn some mill or other machinery, by means of sluices, built in a manner that would enchant a landscape-painter. The houses, which are scattered over the country in little groups, are of a strange colour. They are neither black, nor white, nor yellow, but of the colour of a roasted turkey. This definition is of the most striking truth, although it is trivial and culinary. Tufts of trees, and patches of green oaks, impart a happy effect to the large outlines and the misty and severe tints of the mountains. I dwell particularly upon these trees, because nothing is more rare in all Spain, and henceforth I shall hardly have occasion to describe any.

We changed mules at Oyarzun, and at nightfall reached Astigarraga, where we were to sleep. We had not yet had a taste of a Spanish inn. The picaresque and "lively" descriptions of Don Quixote and Lazarille de Tormes occurred to our memory, and our whole bodies shuddered at the very thought. We made up our minds to omelettes adorned with Merovingian hairs and mixed up with feathers and birds' feet, to gammons of rancid bacon with all the bristles, equally adapted for making soup or brushing boots, to wine in goat-skins, like those which the good knight de la Mancha cut so furiously into, and we even made up our minds to nothing at all, which is much worse, and trembled lest all we should get would be the fresh evening breeze, supposing we were not obliged to sup, like the valorous Don Sancho, off the dry air of a mandoline.

Taking advantage of the little daylight that remained, we went to look at the church, which, to speak truth, was more like a fortress than a temple; the smallness of the windows, formed like loopholes, together with the solidity of the buttresses, gave it a robust and massive appearance, more warlike than pensive. This form occurs in every church in Spain. All around stretched a sort of open cloister, in which was hung a bell of immense size, which is rung by moving the clapper with a rope, instead of putting in motion the vast metal capsule itself.

On being shown to our rooms, we were dazzled with the whiteness of the beds and windows, the Dutch cleanliness of the floors, and the scrupulous care shown in every particular. Fine handsome, strapping girls, exceedingly well dressed, and with their magnificent tresses falling upon their shoulders, not bearing the slightest resemblance to the Maritornes we had been led to expect, bustled about with an activity that augured well for the supper, which did not keep us long waiting: it was excellent, and very well dished up. I will run the risk of appearing too minute, and describe it; for the difference between one people and another consists in the thousand little details which travellers neglect for those profound poetical and political considerations which anyone may very well write without ever having been in the country itself. First of all comes a meat soup, which differs from ours from the fact of its having a reddish tinge, due to the saffron with which it is flavoured. Red soup! I hope this is a pretty good commencement of local colouring. The bread is very white, of exceedingly close texture, with a smooth crust, slightly glazed over with yolk of egg; it is salted in a manner very apparent to Parisian palates. The handles of the forks are turned the wrong way, and the points are flat and shaped like the teeth of a comb. The spoons, too, have a spatula-kind of appearance not possessed by our plate. The table linen is a sort of coarse damask. As for the wine, I must confess that it was of the most beautiful violet, and thick enough to be cut with a knife, and the decanters which held it did not tend to increase its transparency.

After the soup, we had the puchero, an eminently Spanish dish, or rather the only Spanish dish – for they eat it every day from Irun to Cadiz, and reciprocally. A comfortable puchero is compounded of a quarter of veal, a piece of mutton, a fowl, some pieces of a sausage stuffed full of pepper, and called chorizo, with allspice and other spices, slices of bacon and ham, and, to crown all, a violent tomato and saffron sauce. So much for the animal portion. The vegetable part, called verdura, varies with the season; but cabbages and garbanzos always play a principal part. The garbanzo is not much known at Paris, and I cannot define it better than "as a pea which aspires to be considered as a haricot-bean, and succeeds but too well." All this is served up in different dishes, and the ingredients then mixed up on your plate, so as to produce a Mayonnaise of a complicated description and excellent flavour. This mixture will appear rather barbarous to those connoisseurs who read Carême, Brillat-Savarin, Grimat de la Reynière, and Mons. de Cussy; it has, however, its charm, and cannot fail to please the Eclectics and Pantheists. Next come fowls cooked in oil, for butter is an article unknown in Spain; trout or salt cod, roasted lamb, asparagus, and salad; and, for dessert, little macaroons, almonds browned in a frying-pan, and of a most delicious taste, with goats'-milk cheese, queso de Burgos, which enjoys a high reputation, that it sometimes deserves. As a finish, they bring you a set of bottles with Malaga, sherry, brandy, aguardiente, resembling French aniseed, and a little cup (fuego) filled with live cinders to light the cigarettes. Such, with a few trifling variations, is the invariable meal in all Spain.

We left Astigarraga in the middle of the night. As there was no moon, there is naturally a gap in our account. We passed through the small town of Ernani, the name of which conjures up the most romantic recollections; but we did not perceive aught save a heap of huts and rubbish vaguely sketched on the obscurity. We traversed Tolosa without stopping. We saw some houses decorated with frescoes, and gigantic blazons sculptured in stone. It was market-day, and the market-place was covered with asses, mules, picturesquely harnessed, and peasants of singular and wild appearance.

By dint of ascending and descending, of passing over torrents on bridges of uncemented stone, we at last reached Vergara, where we were to dine. We experienced a decided degree of satisfaction on our arrival, for we had almost forgotten the jicara de chocolate, which we had gulped down, half asleep, in the inn at Astigarraga.

CHAPTER III

FROM VERGARA TO BURGOS

Vergara – Vittoria; the Baile National and the French Hercules – The Passage of Pancorbo – The Asses and the Greyhounds – Burgos – A Spanish Fonda – Galley Slaves in Cloaks – The Cathedral – The Coffer of the Cid.

At Vergara, which is the place where the treaty between Espartero and Maroto was concluded, I saw, for the first time, a Spanish priest. His appearance struck me as rather grotesque, although, thank heaven, I entertain no Voltairean ideas with regard to the clergy; but the caricature of Beaumarchais' Basile involuntarily suggested itself to my recollection. Just fancy a black cassock, with a cloak of the same colour, and to crown the whole, an immense, prodigious, phenomenal, hyperbolical, and Titanic hat, of which no epithet, however inflated and gigantic, can give any idea at all approaching the reality. This hat is, at least, three feet long; the brim is turned up, and forms, before and behind the hat, a kind of horizontal roof. It would be difficult to invent a more uncouth and fantastic shape; this, however, did not prevent the worthy priest from presenting a very respectable appearance, and walking about with the air of a man whose conscience is perfectly tranquil about the form of his head-dress; instead of bands, he wore a little collar (alzacuello), blue and white, like the priests in Belgium.

Beyond Mondragon, which is the last small market-town, the last pueblo of the province of Guipuzcoa, we entered the province of Alava, and were not long before we found ourselves at the foot of the hill of Salinas. The Montagnes Russes[3 - The well-known popular source of amusement to the Parisian pleasure-seeker of days now past.] are nothing compared to this, and, at first sight, the idea of a carriage passing over it appears as preposterous as that of your walking head downwards on the ceiling like a fly. This prodigy was however effected, thanks to six oxen which were harnessed on before the mules. Never in my whole life did I hear so horrible a disturbance; the mayoral, the zagal, the escopeteros, the postilion, and the oxen-drivers, tried which could excel each other in hooting, swearing, using their whips, and exercising their goads; they thrust forward the wheels, held up the body of the coach behind, and pulled on the mules by their halters and the oxen by their horns, with a most incredible amount of fury and vehemence. The coach thus placed at the end of this long string of animals and men, produced a most astonishing effect. There were, at least, fifty paces between the first and last beast in the team. I must not forget to mention, en passant, the steeple of Salinas, which has a very pleasing Saracenic form. From the top of the hill the traveller beholds on looking back, the Pyrenees rising one above the other until lost in the distance; they resemble immense pieces of rich velvet drapery, thrown together by chance and rumpled by the whim of a Titan. At Royane, which is a little further on, I observed a magical effect in optics. A snowy mountain-top (Sierra Nevada), that the proximity of the other mountains had till then veiled from our sight, suddenly appeared standing out from the sky, which was of a blue so dark as to be almost black. Soon afterwards, at all the edges of the table-land we were traversing, more mountains raised, in a most curious manner, their summits loaded with snow and bathed in clouds. This snow was not compact, but divided into thin veins like sides of gauze worked with silver; it appeared still whiter from the contrast it formed with the azure and lilac tints of the precipices. The cold was tolerably severe, and became more intense in proportion as we advanced. The wind had not warmed itself by caressing the pale cheeks of these beautiful and chilly virgins, and came to us as icy as if it had arrived direct from the North or South Pole. We wrapped ourselves up as hermetically as we could in our cloaks, for it is extremely scandalous to have your nose frost-bitten in a torrid clime; I should not have cared had we been merely fried.

The sun was setting when we entered Vittoria; after threading all sorts of streets, of but middling architectural style and very bad taste, the coach stopped at the parador vejo, where our luggage was scrupulously examined. Our Daguerreotype especially alarmed the worthy custom-house officers a good deal; they approached it with the greatest precautions, like people who are afraid of being blown up; I think they imagined it to be an electrifying machine, and I took care not to undeceive them.

As soon as our things had been searched and our passports stamped, we had the right to scatter ourselves over the pavement of the town. We immediately took advantage of this, and, crossing a fine square surrounded by arcades, proceeded straightway to the church. The shades of night already filled the nave, and lowered with a mysterious and threatening look in obscure corners, where phantom-like forms might now and then be seen. A few small lamps, yellow and smoky, trembled ominously like stars in a fog. A sort of sepulchral chill came over me, and it was not without a slight feeling of dread that I heard a mournful voice murmur, just at my elbow, the stereotyped formula "Caballero, una limosina por l'amor de Dios." It was a poor wretch of a soldier who had been wounded, and who was asking an alms of us. In this country the soldiers beg; this is excusable on account of their miserable state of destitution, for they are paid very irregularly. In the church at Vittoria I became acquainted with those frightful sculptures in coloured wood, the use of which the Spaniards carry to such excess.

After a supper (cena) which caused us to regret that at Antigarraga, we suddenly thought of going to the play. We had been allured, as we passed along, by a pompous poster announcing the extraordinary performances of two French Herculeses, which were to terminate with a certain baile nacional (national dance), which we pictured to ourselves big with cachuchas, boleros, fandangos, and other diabolical dances.

The theatres in Spain have generally no façade, and are only distinguished from the houses around by two or three smoky lamps stuck before the door. We took two orchestra-stalls, surnamed places de lunette (asientos de luneta), and bravely precipitated ourselves into a corridor, where the floor was neither planked nor paved, but was nothing more or less than the bare earth. The frequenters of the place are not very particular about the uses to which they turn the walls of the corridor, but, by hermetically sealing our noses, we reached our places not more than half suffocated. When I add that smoking is perpetually practised between the acts, the reader will not have a very fragrant idea of a Spanish theatre.

The interior of the house is, however, more comfortable than the approaches to it promise; the boxes are tolerably arranged, and although the decorations are simple, they are fresh and clean. The asientos de luneta are armchairs placed in rows and numbered; there is no checktaker at the door to take your tickets, but a little boy comes round for them before the end of the performance; at the outer door you are merely asked for the card that admits you within the theatre.

We had hoped to find the true type of the Spanish woman, of which we had as yet seen but few specimens; but the ladies who filled the boxes and galleries had nothing Spanish about them save the mantilla and the fan: this was a good deal, it is true, but not sufficient. The audience was mostly composed of the military, which is the case in all garrison towns. In the pit, the spectators stand as in the most primitive theatres. There was, in truth, but a row of candles and a candle-snuffer wanting to give the place the appearance of the Hôtel de Bourgogne; the lamps, however, were enclosed by thin plates of glass, disposed in the shape of a melon, and united at the top by a circle of tin: this was certainly no great sign of an advanced state of the industrial arts. The orchestra, which consisted of one row of musicians, almost all of whom played brass instruments, blew most valiantly on their cornets-à-piston an air which was always the same, and recalled to one's recollection the flourishes of the band at Franconi's.

Our Herculean compatriots raised immense weights, and bent a considerable number of iron bars, to the great delight of the assembly; while the lighter of the two made an ascent upon the tight rope, and performed a variety of other feats, rather stale in Paris, but new, probably, to the population of Vittoria. During this time we were dying with impatience in our stalls, and I was cleaning the glass of my lorgnette with a furious degree of activity, in order not to lose anything of the baile nacional. At last, the supports of the tight-rope were loosened, and the stage-carpenters, dressed as Turks, cleared away the weights and all the other paraphernalia of the Herculeses. Think, dear reader, of the frightful anxiety of two enthusiastic and romantic young Frenchmen about to behold, for the first time, a Spanish dance … in Spain!

At last the curtain rose upon a scene which seemed to entertain a feeble desire, which was certainly not gratified, of being enchanting and fairy-like. The cornets-à-piston played, with more fury than ever, the strain already described, and the baile nacional advanced in the form of a danseur and danseuse, armed with a pair of castagnettes each. Never have I seen anything more sad and lamentable than these two miserable ruins qui ne se consolaient pas entre eux: a penny theatre never bore upon its worm-eaten boards a couple more used-up, more worn-out, more toothless, more blear-eyed, more bald, and more dilapidated. The wretched woman, who had besmeared herself with bad Spanish white, had a sky-blue complexion, which recalled to your mind the Anacreontic pictures of a person who had died of cholera, or been drowned some time; the two dabs of rouge that she had placed upon her prominent cheek-bones, to add a little brilliancy to her fishy eyes that seemed as if they had been boiled, contrasted strangely with the aforesaid blue. With her veiny and emaciated hands she shook a pair of cracked castagnettes, which chattered like the teeth of a man who has got a fever, or like the wires of a skeleton in motion. From time to time, she stretched, with a desperate effort, the relaxed fibres of her calves, and managed to raise her poor old baluster-looking leg, so as to produce a nervous little capriole, like a dead frog submitted to the operation of the voltaic battery, and, for a second, to cause the copper spangles of the doubtful rags which served her for a robe, to sparkle and glisten. As for the man, he kept fluttering about most horribly in his own corner; he rose and fell flatly, like a bat crawling along upon its stumps; he looked like a grave-digger burying himself. His forehead, wrinkled like a boot, and his goat-like cheeks, gave him a most fantastic air: if, instead of castagnettes, he had only had a Gothic rebec in his hands, he might have set up to lead the Dance of Death at Basle.

During all the time the dance lasted, they did not once raise their eyes on one another; it struck you that they were frightened of their reciprocal ugliness, and feared lest they should burst into tears at seeing themselves so old, so decrepit, and so mournful. The man, especially, avoided his companion as if she had been a spider, and appeared to shiver in his old parchment skin every time the figure of the dance forced him to approach her. This lively bolero lasted five or six minutes, after which the fall of the curtain put an end to the torture of these two wretched beings, … and to ours.

Such was the specimen of the bolero which greeted our poor eyes, so enamoured of "local colouring." Spanish dancers exist only at Paris, like the shells which are only found at the curiosity-shops, and never on the sea shore. O Fanny Elssler, who art now in America, among the savages! even before going to Spain, we always had an idea that it was thou who inventedst the cachucha!

We went to bed rather disappointed. In the middle of the night we were woke up to resume our journey. The cold was still intense, to a Siberian extent; this is accounted for by the height of the table-land we were crossing, and the snow by which we were surrounded. At Miranda, our trunks were once more examined, and then we entered Old Castile (Castilla la Vieja), the kingdom of Castile and Leon, symbolically represented by a lion holding a shield studded with castles. These lions, which are repeated until you are sick of them, are generally of a greyish granite, and have rather an imposing heraldic appearance.

Between Ameyugo and Cubo, small insignificant towns, where we changed mules, the landscape is extremely picturesque; the mountains contract and draw near one another, while immense perpendicular rocks, as steep as cliffs, rise up at the road-side. On the left, a torrent, crossed by a bridge with a truncated ogive arch, whirls round and round at the bottom of a ravine, turns a mill, and covers with spray the stones that stop its course. That nothing may be wanting to complete the effect, a gothic church, falling to ruin, with its roof staved in, and its walls covered with parasite plants, rises in the midst of the rocks; in the background is seen the vague and bluish outline of the Sierra. The view is certainly very fine, but the passage of Pancorbo carries off the palm for singularity and grandeur. There the rocks leave only just room enough for the road, and there is one point where two immense granite masses, leaning towards one another, give you the idea of a gigantic bridge, which has been cut in the middle, to stop the march of an army of Titans. A second, but smaller, arch, pierced through the thickness of the rock, adds still more to the illusion. Never did a scene-painter imagine a more picturesque and more admirably-contrived scene. When you are accustomed to the flat views of plains, the astonishing effects met with at every step, in the mountains, appear impossible and fabulous.

The posada where we stopped to dine had a stable for a vestibule. This architectural arrangement is invariably repeated in all Spanish posadas, and to reach your room you are obliged to pass behind the cruppers of the mules. The wine, which was blacker than usual, had a certain taste of goat-skin sufficiently local. The maidservants of the inn wore their hair hanging down to the middle of their backs, but, with this exception, their dress was the same as that of French women of the lower classes. The national costumes are, in general, seldom preserved, save in Andalusia, and, at present, there are very few ancient costumes in Castile. The men wore the pointed hat, edged with velvet and silk tufts, or a wolf-skin cap of rather ferocious shape, and the inevitable tobacco or dirty-coloured mantle. Their faces, however, had nothing characteristic about them.

Between Pancorbo and Burgos we fell in with three or four little villages, such as Briviesca, Castil de Peones, and Quintanapalla, half in ruins, as dry as pumice-stone, and of the colour of a toast. I doubt whether Decamps ever found in the heart of Asia Minor, any walls more roasted, more reddened, more tawny, more seedy, more crusty, and more scratched over, than these. Along these said walls wandered carelessly certain asses, who are decidedly well worth the Turkish ones, and which I would advise him to go and study. The Turkish ass is a fatalist, and, as is evident from his humble air, resigned to the blows which Fate has in store for him, and which he endures without a murmur. The Castilian ass has a more philosophical and deliberate look; he is aware that people cannot do without him; he makes one of the family; he has read Don Quixote, and he flatters himself that he is descended in a straight line from the celebrated donkey of Sancho Panza. Side by side with these asses were also dogs of the purest blood and most superb breed, with splendid claws, broad backs, and beautiful ears, and among the rest some large greyhounds, in the style of Paul Veronese and Velasquez, of most magnificent size and beauty, not to speak of some dozen muchachos, or boys, whose eyes glistened in the midst of their rags, like so many black diamonds.

Old Castile is, doubtless, so called, on account of the great number of old women you meet there; and what old women! The witches in "Macbeth" crossing the heath of Dunsinane, to prepare their diabolical cookery, are charming young girls in comparison: the abominable hags in the capricious productions of Goya, which I had till then looked upon as monstrous nightmares and chimeras, are but portraits frightfully like; most of these old women have a beard like mouldy cheese, and moustaches like French grenadiers; and then, their dress! You might take a piece of cloth, and work hard ten years to dirty, to rub, to tear, to patch, and to make it lose all traces of its original colour, and you would not even then attain the same sublimity of raggedness! These charms are increased by a haggard and savage look, very different from the humble and piteous mien of the poor wretches in France.

A little before reaching Burgos, a large edifice, situated upon a hill, was, in the distance, pointed out to us. It was the Cartuja de Miraflores (Carthusian convent), of which I shall have occasion, later, to speak more at length. Soon afterwards the spires of the Cathedral displayed their embrasures more and more distinctly against the sky, and in another half-hour we were entering the ancient capital of Old Castile.

The public place of Burgos, in the midst of which stands a very middling bronze statue of Charles III., is large, and not without some character. Red houses, supported by pillars of bluish granite, inclose it on all sides. Under the arcades and on the place, are stationed all sorts of petty dealers, besides an infinite number of asses, mules, and picturesque peasants who promenade up and down. The rags of Castile are seen there in all their splendour. The poorest beggar is nobly draped in his cloak, like a Roman emperor in his purple. I know nothing better with which to compare these cloaks, for colour and substance, than large pieces of tinder jagged at the edges. Don Cæsar de Bazan's cloak, in the drama of "Ruy Blas," does not come near these proud and haughty rags. They are all so threadbare, so dry, and so inflammable, that it strikes you the wearers are very imprudent to smoke or strike a light. The little children, also, six or eight years old, have their cloaks, which they wear with the most ineffable gravity. I cannot help laughing at the recollection of a poor little wretch, who had nothing left but a collar which hardly covered his shoulder, and who draped himself in the absent folds with an air so comically piteous, that he would have unwrinkled the countenance of the Spleen in person. The men condemned to the presidio (convicts) sweep the town and clear away the filth, without quitting the rags in which they are swathed. These convicts in cloaks are the most astonishing blackguards it is possible to behold. After each stroke of their broom, they go and sit down, or else recline upon the door-steps. Nothing would be easier for them than to escape; and on my hinting this, I was informed that they did not do so on account of the natural goodness of their disposition.

The fonda where we alighted was a true Spanish fonda, where no one spoke a word of French; we were fairly obliged to exert our Castilian, and to tear our throats with uttering the abominable jota– a guttural and Arabian sound which does not exist in our language. I must confess that, thanks to the extreme intelligence which distinguishes the people, we made ourselves understood pretty well. They sometimes, it is true, brought us candles when we asked for water, or chocolate when we desired ink; but, with the exception of these little mistakes, which were very pardonable, everything went on beautifully. We were waited on by a population of masculine and dishevelled females, with the finest names in the world; as, for instance, Casilda, Matilda, and Balbina. Spanish names are always charming. Lola, Bibiana, Pepa, Hilaria, Carmen, Cipriana, serve to designate some of the most unpoetical beings it is possible to imagine. One of the creatures who waited on us had hair of the most fiery red. Light haired, and especially red haired persons abound in Spain, contrary to the generally-received idea.

We did not find any holy box-wood in the rooms, but branches of trees, in the shape of palms, plaited, woven, and twisted with great elegance and care. The beds possess no bolsters, but have two flat pillows placed one on the other. They are generally extremely hard, although the wool of which they are composed is good; but the Spanish are not accustomed to card their mattresses, merely turning the wool with the aid of two sticks. Opposite our windows hung a strange kind of sign-board. It belonged to a surgical practitioner, who had caused himself to be represented in the act of sawing off the arm of a poor devil seated in a chair; we also perceived the shop of a barber, who, I can assure my readers, did not bear the least resemblance to Figaro. Through the panes of his shop-front we could see a large and rather highly-polished brazen shaving-dish, which Don Quixote, had he still been of this world, might easily have mistaken for Mambrino's helmet. It is true that the Spanish barbers have lost their ancient costume, but they still retain their former skill, and shave with great dexterity.

Although Burgos was long the first city of Castile, there is nothing peculiarly Gothic in its general appearance. With the exception of one street, in which there are a few windows and door-ways of the time of the Renaissance, and ornamented with coats of arms and their supporters, the houses do not date further back than the commencement of the seventeenth century, and merely strike the observer by their very commonplace look; they are old, but they are not ancient. Burgos, however, can boast of its Cathedral, which is one of the finest in the world; but, unfortunately, like all Gothic cathedrals, it is hemmed in by a number of ignoble structures, which prevent the eye from appreciating the general disposition of the building and seizing the whole mass at one glance. The principal entrance looks out upon a large square, in the middle of which is a handsome fountain, surmounted by a delicious statue of Our Saviour in white marble. This fountain serves as a target to all the idle vagabonds of the town who can find no more amusing occupation than to throw stones at it. The entrance, which I have just mentioned is magnificent, being worked and covered with a thousand different patterns like a piece of lace. Unfortunately it has been rubbed and scraped down to the outer frieze by some Italian prelates or other, who were great admirers of architectural simplicity, of plain walls and ornaments in "good taste," and wished to arrange the cathedral in the Roman style, pitying very much the poor, barbarous architects, for not employing the Corinthian order, and not appearing to have been alive to Attic beauty and the charm of triangular frontons.

There are still many people of this way of thinking in Spain, where the so-called Messidor style flourishes in all its purity. These persons prefer to the richest and most profusely carved specimens of Gothic architecture, all sorts of abominable edifices riddled with windows, and ornamented with Pæstumian columns, exactly as was the case in France before the disciples of the Romantic School had caused the public to appreciate once more the style of the Middle Ages, and understand the meaning and the beauty of their cathedrals. Two pointed spires, carved in zigzag, and pierced as if with a punch, festooned, embroidered, and sculptured with most delicate minuteness, like the bezel of a ring, spring upwards towards Heaven with all the ardour and impetuosity of unshakable conviction. It is very certain that the campaniles of our incredulous times would never dare to rise thus into the air with nothing to support them, save so much stone lacework and nerves as thin as a spider's web. Another tower, which is also adorned with an unheard-of profusion of sculpture, but which is not so high, marks the spot where the arms of the cross join, and completes the magnificence of the outline. A countless number of statues, representing saints, archangels, kings, and monks, ornament the whole; and this population of stone is so numerous, so crowded, so multitudinous, that it must most certainly exceed the population in flesh and blood that inhabit the town.

Thanks to the charming politeness of the political chief, Don Enrico de Vedia, we were enabled to visit the cathedral most minutely. An octavo volume of description, a folio of two thousand plates, and twenty rooms filled with plaster casts would not be sufficient to convey a complete idea of this prodigious production of Gothic art with its immense mass of sculptures, more thick and more complicated than a virgin forest in Brazil. Such being the case, we shall, perhaps, be pardoned for some few slight omissions and instances of seeming negligence, having been obliged to scribble these lines hastily and from recollection, on the table of a posada.

The moment the visitor enters the church, he is forcibly arrested by a chef-d'œuvre of incomparable beauty, namely, the carved wooden door leading to the cloisters. Among the other bas-reliefs upon it, there is one representing our Saviour's entry into Jerusalem: the jambs and crosspieces are covered with delicious little figures, so elegant in their form, and of such extreme delicacy, that it is difficult to understand how so heavy and solid a substance as wood could ever be made to lend itself to so capricious and ethereal a production of the imagination. It is certainly the most beautiful door in the whole world, if we except that executed by Ghiberti, at Florence, and which Michael Angelo, who understood something about these matters, pronounced worthy of being the door of Paradise. There certainly ought to be a bronze copy taken of this admirable work of art, so that it might at least live as long as the work of men's hands can live.

The choir, in which are the stalls, called in Spanish silleria, is enclosed by gates of wrought iron of the most wonderful workmanship; the pavement, as is the custom in Spain, is covered with immense mats made of spartum, besides which, each stall has its own little carpet of dry grass or reeds. On looking up, you perceive a kind of dome formed by the interior of the tower to which I have before alluded. It is one mass of sculptures, arabesques, statues, columns, nerves, and pendentives, sufficient to make your brain turn giddy. Were a person to gaze for two years, he still would not be able to see everything in it. The various objects are as densely crowded together as the leaves of a cabbage; there is as much open work as in a fish-slice; it is as gigantic as a pyramid, and as delicate as a woman's earring. How such a piece of filigree work can have remained erect during two centuries surpasses human comprehension! What kind of men could those have been who raised these marvellous buildings, which not even a fairy palace could ever surpass in profuse magnificence? Is the race extinct? Are not we, who are always boasting of our high state of civilization, but decrepit barbarians in comparison? I am always oppressed with a profound sentiment of melancholy whenever I visit any of these prodigious edifices of the past; my heart is overwhelmed by a feeling of utter discouragement, and the only wish I have is to withdraw to some retired spot, to place a stone upon my head, and, in the immovability of contemplation, to await death, which is immovability itself. Why should I work? Why should I exert myself? The most mighty effort of which man is capable will never produce anything more magnificent than what I have just described; and yet we do not even know the name of the divine artists to whom we owe it; and, if we wish to obtain the slightest information concerning them, we are obliged to seek it in the dusty leaves of the monastical archives. When I think that I have spent the best part of my life in making ten or twelve thousand verses, in writing six or seven wretched octavo volumes, and three or four hundred bad articles for the newspapers, and that I feel fatigued with my exertions, I am ashamed of myself and of the times in which I live, when so much exertion is required in order to produce so little. What is a thin sheet of paper compared to a mountain of granite?

If the reader will take a turn with me in this immense madrepore, constructed by the prodigious human polypi of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, we will commence by visiting the little sacristy, which, notwithstanding its name, is a very good-sized room, and contains an "Ecce Homo" and a "Christ on the Cross" by Murillo, as well as a "Nativity" by Jordäens. It is lined with the most beautifully carved woodwork. In the middle is placed a large brazero, which serves to light the censers, and perhaps the cigarettes also, for many of the Spanish priests smoke, a practice that does not strike me as being more unbecoming than that of taking snuff, in which the French clergy indulge, without the slightest scruple. The brazero is a large copper vessel, placed upon a tripod, and filled with burning embers, or little fruitstones covered with fine cinders, which produce a gentle heat. In Spain, the brazeros are used instead of fireplaces, which are very rare.

In the great sacristy, which is next to the little one, the visitor remarks a "Christ on the Cross" by Domenico Theotocopuli, surnamed El Greco, an extravagant and singular painter, whose pictures might be mistaken for sketches by Titian, if there were not a certain affectation of sharp and hastily-painted forms about them, which causes them to be immediately recognised. In order that his works may appear to have been painted with great boldness, he throws in, here and there, touches of the most inconceivable petulance and brutality, and thin sharp lights which traverse the portions of the picture which are in shadow, like so many sword-blades. All this, however, does not prevent El Greco from being a fine painter. The good specimens of his second style greatly resemble the romantic pictures of Eugène Delacroix.

The reader has seen, no doubt, in the Spanish Gallery at Paris, the portrait of El Greco's daughter; a magnificent head that no master would disown. It enables us to form an opinion as to what an admirable painter Domenico Theotocopuli must have been when he was in his right senses. It appears that his constant wish to avoid any resemblance to Titian, whose scholar he is said to have been, troubled his understanding, and led him to adopt an extravagance and capriciousness of style, that allowed the magnificent faculties with which nature had endowed him to gleam forth only at rare intervals. Besides being a painter, El Greco was also an architect and a sculptor, – a sublime union, a triangle of light, which is often met with in the highest region of art.

The walls of this apartment are covered with panelled wainscoting, with florid and festooned columns of the greatest richness. Above the wainscoting there is a row of Venice mirrors; for what purpose they are placed there, unless it is simply for ornament, I am at a loss to say, as they are hung too high for any one to see himself in them. Above the mirrors are ranged, in chronological order, – the most ancient touching the ceiling, – the portraits of all the bishops of Burgos, down from the very first, to the prelate who now occupies the see. These portraits, although in oil-colours, look like crayon drawings, or sketches in distemper. This is occasioned by the practice they have in Spain of never varnishing their pictures, a want of precaution which has been the cause of a great number of very valuable masterpieces having been destroyed by the damp. Although most of these portraits present a tolerably imposing appearance, they are not first-rate paintings; besides, they are hung too high for any one to form a just opinion of the merit of the execution. The middle of the room is occupied by an immense side-board and enormous baskets, made of spartum, in which the church ornaments and sacred vessels are kept. Under two glass cases are preserved, as curiosities, two coral trees, whose branches, however, are far less complicated than the smallest arabesque in the cathedral. The door is ornamented with the arms of Burgos in relief, sprinkled with small crosses, gules.

Juan Cuchiller's room, which we traverse after the one I have just described, offers nothing remarkable in the way of architecture, and we were hastening to leave it as soon as possible, when our guide requested us to raise our eyes and look at an object of the greatest curiosity. This object was a large chest, firmly attached to the wall by iron cramps: it would be difficult to conceive anything more patched, more worm-eaten, or more rotten. It is decidedly the oldest chest in the world; but the following inscription, in black letters, Cofre del Cid, instantly imparted, as the reader may imagine, an immense degree of importance to its four planks of mouldering wood. This chest, if we can believe the old chronicle, is the very same that the famous Ruy Diaz de Bivar, more generally known under the name of the Cid Campeador, – being once, hero though he was, pressed for money, exactly as a mere author might be, – caused to be filled with sand and stones, and left in pledge at the house of an honest Jewish usurer, who made advances on this kind of security. The Cid forbad him, however, to open the mysterious deposit until he, the Cid Campeador, had paid back the sum borrowed. This proves that the usurers of that period were of a much more confiding disposition than those of the present time. We should now-a-days find but few Jews, and I believe but few Christians either, so innocent and obliging as to accept a pledge of this description. Monsieur Casimir Delavigne has used this legend in his piece entitled "La Fille du Cid;" but, for the enormous chest, he has substituted an almost imperceptible coffer, which, in sober truth, could only contain the gold of the Cid's word; and there is no Jew, and there never was one, not even in those heroic times, who would have lent anything upon such a toy. The historical chest is high, broad, massive, deep, and garnished with all sorts of locks and padlocks. When full of sand, it must have required at least six horses to move it; so that the worthy Israelite might have supposed it to be crammed with apparel, jewellery, or plate, and thus have been more easily induced to humour the Cid's caprice, which is one that, like many other heroical freaks, is duly provided for by the criminal law. The real chest being such as I have described, I feel myself necessitated, without wishing to hurt the feelings of Mons. Antenoz Joly, to pronounce the mise en scène at the Théâtre de la Renaissance to be inexact.

CHAPTER IV

BURGOS —continued

The Cloisters; Paintings and Sculptures – The Cid's House; the Casa del Cordon; the Puerta de Santa Maria – The Theatre and the Actors – La Cartuja de Miraflores – General Thibaut and the Cid's bones.

On leaving the room of Juan Cuchiller, you enter another which is decorated in a very picturesque manner. The walls are wainscoted with oak and hung with red tapestry, while the ceiling is artesonado, and produces a most pleasing effect. There is a "Nativity" by Murillo, a "Conception," and a figure of "Our Saviour" in flowing robes, all exceedingly well painted.

The cloisters are filled with tombs, most of which are enclosed by strong iron railings placed very close together. These tombs, all of them belonging to various illustrious personages, are placed in recesses hollowed out in the thickness of the wall; they are covered with armorial bearings and decorated with sculpture. On one of them I observed an excessively beautiful group of the Virgin Mary and Our Saviour holding a book in his hand, as well as a most strange and surprising production of the imagination, representing a fanciful monster, half animal, half arabesque. On all these tombs are stretched statues the size of life, of knights in armour, or bishops in full episcopal costume; so truthful are the attitudes in which they are lying, and so minute are the details, that any one looking at them through the iron railings might almost mistake these statues for the persons they represent.

On the jamb of a door, I remarked as I passed along, a charming little statue of the Virgin, executed in the most delicious manner and conceived with extraordinary boldness. Instead of the contrite and modest air that is generally given to the statues and paintings of the Blessed Virgin, the sculptor has represented her with a mixed expression of voluptuousness and ecstasy, and intoxicated with all the pleasure of a woman in the act of conceiving a God. She is standing up with her head thrown backwards, and seems to be inhaling with her whole soul and body, and also with the most original union of passion and purity, the ray of flame which is breathed upon her by the symbolical dove. It was a difficult task to produce any novelty in the treatment of a subject that had been so often used, but for genius nothing is too common.