Lodging at Madrid—My Hostess—British
Ambassador—Mendizabal—Baltasar—Duties of a National—Young Blood—The
Execution—Population of Madrid—The Higher Orders—The Lower Classes—The
Bull-fighter—The Crabbed Gitáno.
It was the commencement of February when I reached Madrid. After staying
a few days at a posada, I removed to a lodging which I engaged at No. 3,
in the Calle de la Zarza, a dark dirty street, which, however, was close
to the Puerta del Sol, the most central point of Madrid, into which four
or five of the principal streets debouche, and which is, at all times of
the year, the great place of assemblage for the idlers of the capital,
poor or rich.
It was rather a singular house in which I had taken up my abode. I
occupied the front part of the first floor; my apartments consisted of an
immense parlour, and a small chamber on one side in which I slept; the
parlour, notwithstanding its size, contained very little furniture: a few
chairs, a table, and a species of sofa, constituted the whole. It was
very cold and airy, owing to the draughts which poured in from three
large windows, and from sundry doors. The mistress of the house,
attended by her two daughters, ushered me in. “Did you ever see a more
magnificent apartment?” demanded the former; “is it not fit for a king’s
son? Last winter it was occupied by the great General Espartero.”
The hostess was an exceedingly fat woman, a native of Valladolid, in Old
Castile. “Have you any other family,” I demanded, “besides these
daughters?” “Two sons,” she replied; “one of them an officer in the
army, father of this urchin,” pointing to a wicked but clever looking boy
of about twelve, who at that moment bounded into the room; “the other is
the most celebrated national in Madrid: he is a tailor by trade, and his
name is Baltasar. He has much influence with the other nationals, on
account of the liberality of his opinions, and a word from him is
sufficient to bring them all out armed and furious to the Puerta del Sol.
He is, however, at present confined to his bed, for he is very dissipated
and fond of the company of bull-fighters and people still worse.”
As my principal motive for visiting the Spanish capital was the hope of
obtaining permission from the government to print the New Testament in
the Castilian language, for circulation in Spain, I lost no time, upon my
arrival, in taking what I considered to be the necessary steps.
I was an entire stranger at Madrid, and bore no letters of introduction
to any persons of influence, who might have assisted me in this
undertaking, so that, notwithstanding I entertained a hope of success,
relying on the assistance of the Almighty, this hope was not at all times
very vivid, but was frequently overcast with the clouds of despondency.
Mendizabal was at this time prime minister of Spain, and was considered
as a man of almost unbounded power, in whose hands were placed the
destinies of the country. I therefore considered that if I could by any
means induce him to favour my views, I should have no reason to fear
interruption from other quarters, and I determined upon applying to him.
Before talking this step, however, I deemed it advisable to wait upon Mr.
Villiers, the British ambassador at Madrid; and with the freedom
permitted to a British subject, to ask his advice in this affair. I was
received with great kindness, and enjoyed a conversation with him on
various subjects before I introduced the matter which I had most at
heart. He said that if I wished for an interview with Mendizabal, he
would endeavour to procure me one, but, at the same time, told me frankly
that he could not hope that any good would arise from it, as he knew him
to be violently prejudiced against the British and Foreign Bible Society,
and was far more likely to discountenance than encourage any efforts
which they might be disposed to make for introducing the Gospel into
Spain. I, however, remained resolute in my desire to make the trial, and
before I left him, obtained a letter of introduction to Mendizabal.
Early one morning I repaired to the palace, in a wing of which was the
office of the Prime Minister; it was bitterly cold, and the Guadarama, of
which there is a noble view from the palace-plain, was covered with snow.
For at least three hours I remained shivering with cold in an ante-room,
with several other aspirants for an interview with the man of power. At
last his private secretary made his appearance, and after putting various
questions to the others, addressed himself to me, asking who I was and
what I wanted. I told him that I was an Englishman, and the bearer of a
letter from the British Minister. “If you have no objection, I will
myself deliver it to His Excellency,” said he; whereupon I handed it to
him and he withdrew. Several individuals were admitted before me; at
last, however, my own turn came, and I was ushered into the presence of
Mendizabal.
He stood behind a table covered with papers, on which his eyes were
intently fixed. He took not the slightest notice when I entered, and I
had leisure enough to survey him: he was a huge athletic man, somewhat
taller than myself, who measure six feet two without my shoes; his
complexion was florid, his features fine and regular, his nose quite
aquiline, and his teeth splendidly white: though scarcely fifty years of
age, his hair was remarkably grey; he was dressed in a rich morning gown,
with a gold chain round his neck, and morocco slippers on his feet.
His secretary, a fine intellectual looking man, who, as I was
subsequently informed, had acquired a name both in English and Spanish
literature, stood at one end of the table with papers in his hands.
After I had been standing about a quarter of an hour, Mendizabal suddenly
lifted up a pair of sharp eyes, and fixed them upon me with a peculiarly
scrutinizing glance.
“I have seen a glance very similar to that amongst the Beni Israel,”
thought I to myself. . . .
* * * * *
My interview with him lasted nearly an hour. Some singular discourse
passed between us: I found him, as I had been informed, a bitter enemy to
the Bible Society, of which he spoke in terms of hatred and contempt, and
by no means a friend to the Christian religion, which I could easily
account for. I was not discouraged, however, and pressed upon him the
matter which brought me thither, and was eventually so far successful, as
to obtain a promise, that at the expiration of a few months, when he
hoped the country would be in a more tranquil state, I should be allowed
to print the Scriptures.
As I was going away he said, “Yours is not the first application I have
had; ever since I have held the reins of government I have been pestered
in this manner, by English calling themselves Evangelical Christians, who
have of late come flocking over into Spain. Only last week a hunchbacked
fellow found his way into my cabinet whilst I was engaged in important
business, and told me that Christ was coming. . . . And now you have made
your appearance, and almost persuaded me to embroil myself yet more with
the priesthood, as if they did not abhor me enough already. What a
strange infatuation is this which drives you over lands and waters with
Bibles in your hands. My good sir, it is not Bibles we want, but rather
guns and gunpowder, to put the rebels down with, and above all, money,
that we may pay the troops; whenever you come with these three things you
shall have a hearty welcome, if not, we really can dispense with your
visits, however great the honour.”
_Myself_.—There will be no end to the troubles of this afflicted country
until the gospel have free circulation.
_Mendizabal_.—I expected that answer, for I have not lived thirteen years
in England without forming some acquaintance with the phraseology of you
good folks. Now, now, pray go; you see how engaged I am. Come again
whenever you please, but let it not be within the next three months.
“Don Jorge,” said my hostess, coming into my apartment one morning,
whilst I sat at breakfast with my feet upon the brasero, “here is my son
Baltasarito, the national; he has risen from his bed, and hearing that
there is an Englishman in the house, he has begged me to introduce him,
for he loves Englishmen on account of the liberality of their opinions;
there he is, what do you think of him?”
I did not state to his mother what I thought; it appeared to me, however,
that she was quite right calling him Baltasarito, which is the diminutive
of Baltasar, forasmuch as that ancient and sonorous name had certainly
never been bestowed on a more diminutive personage: he might measure
about five feet one inch, though he was rather corpulent for his height;
his face looked yellow and sickly, he had, however, a kind of
fanfaronading air, and his eyes, which were of dark brown, were both
sharp and brilliant. His dress, or rather his undress, was somewhat
shabby: he had a foraging cap on his head, and in lieu of a morning gown,
he wore a sentinel’s old great coat.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, señor nacional,” said I to him,
after his mother had departed, and Baltasar had taken his seat, and of
course lighted a paper cigar at the brasero. “I am glad to have made
your acquaintance, more especially as your lady mother has informed me
that you have great influence with the nationals. I am a stranger in
Spain, and may want a friend; fortune has been kind to me in procuring me
one who is a member of so powerful a body.”
_Baltasar_.—Yes, I have a great deal to say with the other nationals;
there is none in Madrid better known than Baltasar, or more dreaded by
the Carlists. You say you may stand in need of a friend; there is no
fear of my failing you in any emergency. Both myself and any of the
other nationals will be proud to go out with you as padrinos, should you
have any affair of honour on your hands. But why do you not become one
of us? We would gladly receive you into our body.
_Myself_.—Is the duty of a national particularly hard?
_Baltasar_.—By no means; we have to do duty about once every fifteen
days, and then there is occasionally a review, which does not last long.
No! the duties of a national are by no means onerous, and the privileges
are great. I have seen three of my brother nationals walk up and down
the Prado of a Sunday, with sticks in their hands, cudgelling all the
suspicious characters, and it is our common practice to scour the streets
at night, and then if we meet any person who is obnoxious to us, we fall
upon him, and with a knife or a bayonet generally leave him wallowing in
his blood on the pavement: no one but a national would be permitted to do
that.
_Myself_.—Of course none but persons of liberal opinions are to be found
amongst the nationals?
_Baltasar_.—Would it were so! There are some amongst us, Don Jorge, who
are no better than they should be; they are few, however, and for the
most part well known. Theirs is no pleasant life, for when they mount
guard with the rest they are scouted, and not unfrequently cudgelled.
The law compels all of a certain age either to serve in the army or to
become national soldiers on which account some of these Godos are to be
found amongst us.
_Myself_.—Are there many in Madrid of the Carlist opinion?
_Baltasar_.—Not among the young people; the greater part of the
Madrilenian Carlists capable of bearing arms departed long ago to join
the ranks of the factious in the Basque provinces. Those who remain are
for the most part grey-beards and priests, good for nothing but to
assemble in private coffee-houses, and to prate treason together. Let
them prate, Don Jorge; let them prate; the destinies of Spain do not
depend on the wishes of ojalateros and pasteleros, but on the hands of
stout gallant nationals like myself and friends, Don Jorge.
_Myself_.—I am sorry to learn from your lady mother, that you are
strangely dissipated.
_Baltasar_.—Ho, ho, Don Jorge, she has told you that, has she; what would
you have, Don Jorge? I am young, and young blood will have its course.
I am called Baltasar the gay by all the other nationals, and it is on
account of my gaiety and the liberality of my opinions that I am so
popular among them. When I mount guard I invariably carry my guitar with
me, and then there is sure to be a function at the guard-house. We send
for wine, Don Jorge, and the nationals become wild, Don Jorge, dancing
and drinking through the night, whilst Baltasarito strums the guitar and
sings them songs of Germania:
“Una romi sin pachi
Le peno á su chindomar,” &c., &c.
That is Gitano, Don Jorge; I learnt it from the toreros of Andalusia, who
all speak Gitano, and are mostly of Gypsy blood. I learnt it from them;
they are all friends of mine, Montes Sevilla and Poquito Pan. I never
miss a function of bulls, Don Jorge. Baltasar is sure to be there with
his amiga. Don Jorge, there are no bull-functions in the winter, or I
would carry you to one, but happily to-morrow there is an execution, a
funcion de la horca; and there we will go, Don Jorge.
We did go to see this execution, which I shall long remember. The
criminals were two young men, brothers; they suffered for a most
atrocious murder, having in the dead of night broke open the house of an
aged man, whom they put to death, and whose property they stole.
Criminals in Spain are not hanged as they are in England, or guillotined
as in France, but strangled upon a wooden stage. They sit down on a kind
of chair with a post behind, to which is affixed an iron collar with a
screw; this iron collar is made to clasp the neck of the prisoner, and on
a certain signal it is drawn tighter and tighter by means of the screw,
until life becomes extinct. After we had waited amongst the assembled
multitude a considerable time, the first of the culprits appeared; he was
mounted on an ass, without saddle or stirrups, his legs being allowed to
dangle nearly to the ground. He was dressed in yellow sulphur-coloured
robes, with a high-peaked conical red hat on his head, which was shaven.
Between his hands he held a parchment, on which was written something, I
believe the confession of faith. Two priests led the animal by the
bridle; two others walked on either side, chanting litanies, amongst
which I distinguished the words of heavenly peace and tranquillity, for
the culprit had been reconciled to the church, had confessed and received
absolution, and had been promised admission to heaven. He did not
exhibit the least symptom of fear, but dismounted from the animal and was
led, not supported, up the scaffold, where he was placed on the chair,
and the fatal collar put round his neck. One of the priests then in a
loud voice commenced saying the Belief, and the culprit repeated the
words after him. On a sudden, the executioner, who stood behind,
commenced turning the screw, which was of prodigious force, and the
wretched man—was almost instantly a corpse; but, as the screw went round,
the priest began to shout, “_pax et misericordia et tranquillitas_,” and
still as he shouted, his voice became louder and louder, till the lofty
walls of Madrid rang with it: then stooping down, he placed his mouth
close to the culprit’s ear, still shouting, just as if he would pursue
the spirit through its course to eternity, cheering it on its way. The
effect was tremendous. I myself was so excited that I involuntarily
shouted “_misericordia_,” and so did many others. God was not thought
of; Christ was not thought of; only the priest was thought of, for he
seemed at that moment to be the first being in existence, and to have the
power of opening and shutting the gates of heaven or of hell, just as he
should think proper. A striking instance of the successful working of
the Popish system, whose grand aim has ever been to keep people’s minds
as far as possible from God, and to centre their hopes and fears in the
priesthood. The execution of the second culprit was precisely similar;
he ascended the scaffold a few minutes after his brother had breathed his
last.
I have visited most of the principal capitals of the world, but upon the
whole none has ever so interested me as this city of Madrid, in which I
now found myself. I will not dwell upon its streets, its edifices, its
public squares, its fountains, though some of these are remarkable
enough: but Petersburg has finer streets, Paris and Edinburgh more
stately edifices, London far nobler squares, whilst Shiraz can boast of
more costly fountains, though not cooler waters. But the population!
Within a mud wall, scarcely one league and a half in circuit, are
contained two hundred thousand human beings, certainly forming the most
extraordinary vital mass to be found in the entire world; and be it
always remembered that this mass is strictly Spanish. The population of
Constantinople is extraordinary enough, but to form it twenty nations
have contributed; Greeks, Armenians, Persians, Poles, Jews, the latter,
by the by, of Spanish origin, and speaking amongst themselves the old
Spanish language; but the huge population of Madrid, with the exception
of a sprinkling of foreigners, chiefly French tailors, glove-makers and
peruquiers, is strictly Spanish, though a considerable portion are not
natives of the place. Here are no colonies of Germans, as at Saint
Petersburg; no English factories, as at Lisbon; no multitudes of insolent
Yankees lounging through the streets as at the Havannah, with an air
which seems to say, the land is our own whenever we choose to take it;
but a population which, however strange and wild, and composed of various
elements, is Spanish, and will remain so as long as the city itself shall
exist. Hail, ye aguadores of Asturia! who, in your dress of coarse
duffel and leathern skull-caps, are seen seated in hundreds by the
fountain sides, upon your empty water-casks, or staggering with them
filled to the topmost stories of lofty houses. Hail, ye caleseros of
Valencia! who, lolling lazily against your vehicles, rasp tobacco for
your paper cigars whilst waiting for a fare. Hail to you, beggars of La
Mancha! men and women, who, wrapped in coarse blankets, demand charity
indifferently at the gate of the palace or the prison. Hail to you,
valets from the mountains, mayordomos and secretaries from Biscay and
Guipuscoa, toreros from Andalusia, riposteros from Galicia, shopkeepers
from Catalonia! Hail to ye, Castilians, Estremenians and Aragonese, of
whatever calling! And lastly, genuine sons of the capital, rabble of
Madrid, ye twenty thousand manolos, whose terrible knifes, on the second
morning of May, worked such grim havoc amongst the legions of Murat!
And the higher orders—the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and
señoras; shall I pass them by in silence? The truth is I have little to
say about them; I mingled but little in their society, and what I saw of
them by no means tended to exalt them in my imagination. I am not one of
those who, wherever they go, make it a constant practice to disparage the
higher orders, and to exalt the populace at their expense. There are
many capitals in which the high aristocracy, the lords and ladies, the
sons and daughters of nobility, constitute the most remarkable and the
most interesting part of the population. This is the case at Vienna, and
more especially at London. Who can rival the English aristocrat in lofty
stature, in dignified bearing, in strength of hand, and valour of heart?
Who rides a nobler horse? Who has a firmer seat? And who more lovely
than his wife, or sister, or daughter? But with respect to the Spanish
aristocracy, the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and señoras, I
believe the less that is said of them on the points to which I have just
alluded the better. I confess, however, that I know little about them;
they have, perhaps, their admirers, and to the pens of such I leave their
panegyric. Le Sage has described them as they were nearly two centuries
ago. His description is anything but captivating, and I do not think
that they have improved since the period of the sketches of the immortal
Frenchman. I would sooner talk of the lower class, not only of Madrid
but of all Spain. The Spaniard of the lower class has much more interest
for me, whether manolo, labourer, or muleteer. He is not a common being;
he is an extraordinary man. He has not, it is true, the amiability and
generosity of the Russian mujik, who will give his only rouble rather
than the stranger shall want; nor his placid courage, which renders him
insensible to fear, and at the command of his Tsar, sends him singing to
certain death. {127} There is more hardness and less self-devotion in
the disposition of the Spaniard; he possesses, however, a spirit of proud
independence, which it is impossible but to admire. He is ignorant, of
course; but it is singular that I have invariably found amongst the low
and slightly educated classes far more liberality of sentiment than
amongst the upper. It has long been the fashion to talk of the bigotry
of the Spaniards, and their mean jealousy of foreigners. This is true to
a certain extent: but it chiefly holds good with respect to the upper
classes. If foreign valour or talent has never received its proper meed
in Spain, the great body of the Spaniards are certainly not in fault. I
have heard Wellington calumniated in this proud scene of his triumphs,
but never by the old soldiers of Aragon and the Asturias, who assisted to
vanquish the French at Salamanca and the Pyrenees. I have heard the
manner of riding of an English jockey criticized, but it was by the
idiotic heir of Medina Celi, and not by a picador of the Madrilenian bull
ring.
Apropos of bull-fighters:—Shortly after my arrival, I one day entered a
low tavern in a neighbourhood notorious for robbery and murder, and in
which for the last two hours I had been wandering on a voyage of
discovery. I was fatigued, and required refreshment. I found the place
thronged with people, who had all the appearance of ruffians. I saluted
them, upon which they made way for me to the bar, taking off their
sombreros with great ceremony. I emptied a glass of val de peñas, and
was about to pay for it and depart, when a horrible looking fellow,
dressed in a buff jerkin, leather breeches, and jackboots, which came
half way up his thighs, and having on his head a white hat, the rims of
which were at least a yard and a half in circumference, pushed through
the crowd, and confronting me, roared:—
“_Otra copita_! _vamos Inglesito_: _Otra copita_!”
“Thank you, my good sir, you are very kind, you appear to know me, but I
have not the honour of knowing you.”
“Not know me!” replied the being. “I am Sevilla, the torero. I know you
well; you are the friend of Baltasarito, the national, who is a friend of
mine, and a very good subject.”
Then turning to the company, he said in a sonorous tone, laying a strong
emphasis on the last syllable of every word, according to the custom of
the gente rufianesca throughout Spain:
“Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend of
mine. _Es mucho hombre_. There is none like him in Spain. He speaks
the crabbed Gitano though he is an Inglesito.”
“We do not believe it,” replied several grave voices. “It is not
possible.”
“It is not possible, say you? I tell you it is. Come forward, Balseiro,
you who have been in prison all your life, and are always boasting that
you can speak the crabbed Gitano, though I say you know nothing of
it—come forward and speak to his worship in the crabbed Gitano.”
A low, slight, but active figure stepped forward. He was in his shirt
sleeves, and wore a montero cap; his features were handsome, but they
were those of a demon.
He spoke a few words in the broken Gypsy slang of the prison, inquiring
of me whether I had ever been in the condemned cell, and whether I knew
what a Gitana {128} was?
“Vamos Inglesito,” shouted Sevilla in a voice of thunder; “answer the
monro in the crabbed Gitano.”
I answered the robber, for such he was, and one, too, whose name will
live for many a year in the ruffian histories of Madrid; I answered him
in a speech of some length, in the dialect of the Estremenian Gypsies.
“I believe it is the crabbed Gitano,” muttered Balseiro. “It is either
that or English, for I understand not a word of it.”
“Did I not say to you,” cried the bull-fighter, “that you knew nothing of
the crabbed Gitano? But this Inglesito does. I understood all he said.
Vaya, there is none like him for the crabbed Gitano. He is a good
ginete, too; next to myself, there is none like him, only he rides with
stirrup leathers too short. Inglesito, if you have need of money, I will
lend you my purse. All I have is at your service, and that is not a
little; I have just gained four thousand chulés by the lottery. Courage,
Englishman! Another cup. I will pay all. I, Sevilla!”
And he clapped his hand repeatedly on his breast, reiterating “I,
Sevilla! I—”