Intrigues at Court—Quesada and Galiano—Dissolution of the Cortes—The
Secretary—Aragonese Pertinacity—The Council of Trent—The Asturian—The
Three Thieves—Benedict Mol—The Men of Lucerne—The Treasure.
Mendizabal had told me to call upon him again at the end of three months,
giving me hopes that he would not then oppose himself to the publication
of the New Testament; before, however, the three months had elapsed, he
had fallen into disgrace, and had ceased to be prime minister.
An intrigue had been formed against him, at the head of which were two
quondam friends of his, and fellow-townsmen, Gaditanians, Isturitz and
Alcala Galiano; both of them had been egregious liberals in their day,
and indeed principal members of those cortes which, on the Angouleme
invasion, had hurried Ferdinand from Madrid to Cadiz, and kept him
prisoner there until that impregnable town thought proper to surrender,
and both of them had been subsequently refugees in England, where they
had spent a considerable number of years.
These gentlemen, however, finding themselves about this time exceedingly
poor, and not seeing any immediate prospect of advantage from supporting
Mendizabal; considering themselves, moreover, quite as good men as he,
and as capable of governing Spain in the present emergency; determined to
secede from the party of their friend, whom they had hitherto supported,
and to set up for themselves.
They therefore formed an opposition to Mendizabal in the cortes; the
members of this opposition assumed the name of moderados, in
contradistinction to Mendizabal and his followers, who were ultra
liberals. The moderados were encouraged by the Queen Regent Christina,
who aimed at a little more power than the liberals were disposed to allow
her, and who had a personal dislike to the minister. They were likewise
encouraged by Cordova, who at that time commanded the army, and was
displeased with Mendizabal, inasmuch as the latter did not supply the
pecuniary demands of the general with sufficient alacrity, though it is
said that the greater part of what was sent for the payment of the troops
was not devoted to that purpose, but, was invested in the French funds in
the name and for the use and behoof of the said Cordova.
It is, however, by no means my intention to write an account of the
political events which were passing around me at this period; suffice it
to say, that Mendizabal finding himself thwarted in all his projects by
the regent and the general, the former of whom would adopt no measure
which he recommended, whilst the latter remained inactive and refused to
engage the enemy, which by this time had recovered from the check caused
by the death of Zumalacarregui, and was making considerable progress,
resigned and left the field for the time open to his adversaries, though
he possessed an immense majority in the cortes, and had the voice of the
nation, at least the liberal part of it, in his favour.
Thereupon, Isturitz became head of the cabinet, Galiano minister of
marine, and a certain Duke of Rivas minister of the interior. These were
the heads of the moderado government, but as they were by no means
popular at Madrid, and feared the nationals, they associated with
themselves one who hated the latter body and feared nothing, a man of the
name of Quesada, a very stupid individual, but a great fighter, who, at
one period of his life, had commanded a legion or body of men called the
Army of the Faith, whose exploits both on the French and Spanish side of
the Pyrenees are too well known to require recapitulation. This person
was made captain general of Madrid.
By far the most clever member of this government was Galiano, whose
acquaintance I had formed shortly after my arrival. He was a man of
considerable literature, and particularly well versed in that of his own
country. He was, moreover, a fluent, elegant, and forcible speaker, and
was to the moderado party within the cortes what Quesada was without,
namely, their horses and chariots. Why he was made minister of marine is
difficult to say, as Spain did not possess any; perhaps, however, from
his knowledge of the English language, which he spoke and wrote nearly as
well as his own tongue, having indeed during his sojourn in England
chiefly supported himself by writing for reviews and journals, an
honourable occupation, but to which few foreign exiles in England would
be qualified to devote themselves.
He was a very small and irritable man, and a bitter enemy to every person
who stood in the way of his advancement. He hated Mendizabal with
undisguised rancour, and never spoke of him but in terms of unmeasured
contempt. “I am afraid that I shall have some difficulty in inducing
Mendizabal to give me permission to print the Testament,” said I to him
one day. “Mendizabal is a jackass,” replied Galiano. “Caligula made his
horse consul, which I suppose induced Lord—to send over this huge burro
of the Stock Exchange to be our minister.”
It would be very ungrateful on my part were I not to confess my great
obligations to Galiano, who assisted me to the utmost of his power in the
business which had brought me to Spain. Shortly after the ministry was
formed, I went to him and said, “that now or never was the time to make
an effort in my behalf.” “I will do so,” said he, in a waspish tone; for
he always spoke waspishly whether to friend or foe; “but you must have
patience for a few days, we are very much occupied at present. We have
been outvoted in the cortes, and this afternoon we intend to dissolve
them. It is believed that the rascals will refuse to depart, but Quesada
will stand at the door ready to turn them out, should they prove
refractory. Come along, and you will perhaps see a funcion.”
After an hour’s debate, the cortes were dissolved without it being
necessary to call in the aid of the redoubtable Quesada, and Galiano
forthwith gave me a letter to his colleague the Duke of Rivas, in whose
department he told me was vested the power either of giving or refusing
the permission to print the book in question. The duke was a very
handsome young man, of about thirty, an Andalusian by birth, like his two
colleagues. He had published several works, tragedies, I believe, and
enjoyed a certain kind of literary reputation. He received me with the
greatest affability; and having heard what I had to say, he replied with
a most captivating bow, and a genuine Andalusian grimace: “Go to my
secretary; go to my secretary—_el hara por usted el gusio_.” So I went
to the secretary, whose name was Oliban, an Aragonese, who was not
handsome, and whose manners were neither elegant nor affable. “You want
permission to print the Testament?” “I do,” said I. “And you have come
to His Excellency about it,” continued Oliban. “Very true,” I replied.
“I suppose you intend to print it without notes.” “Yes.” “Then His
Excellency cannot give you permission,” said the Aragonese secretary: “it
was determined by the Council of Trent that no part of the Scripture
should be printed in any Christian country without the notes of the
church.” “How many years was that ago?” I demanded. “I do not know how
many years ago it was,” said Oliban; “but such was the decree of the
Council of Trent.” “Is Spain at present governed according to the
decrees of the Council of Trent?” I inquired. “In some points she is,”
answered the Aragonese, “and this is one. But tell me who are you? Are
you known to the British minister?” “O yes, and he takes a great
interest in the matter.” “Does he?” said Oliban; “that indeed alters the
case: if you can show me that His Excellency takes in interest in this
business, I certainly shall not oppose myself to it.”
The British minister performed all I could wish, and much more than I
could expect; he had an interview with the Duke of Rivas, with whom he
had much discourse upon my affair: the duke was all smiles and courtesy.
He moreover wrote a private letter to the duke, which he advised me to
present when I next paid him a visit, and, to crown all, he wrote a
letter directed to myself, in which he did me the honour to say that he
had a regard for me, and that nothing would afford him greater pleasure
than to hear that I had obtained the permission which I was seeking. So
I went to the duke, and delivered the letter. He was ten times more kind
and affable than before: he read the letter, smiled most sweetly, and
then, as if seized with sudden enthusiasm, he extended his arms in a
manner almost theatrical, exclaiming, “_Al secretario_, _el hara por
usted el gusto_.” Away I hurried to the secretary, who received me with
all the coolness of an icicle: I related to him the words of his
principal, and then put into his hand the letter of the British minister
to myself. The secretary read it very deliberately, and then said that
it was evident His Excellency did take an interest in the matter. He
then asked me my name, and taking a sheet of paper, sat down as if for
the purpose of writing the permission. I was in ecstasy—all of a sudden,
however, he stopped, lifted up his head, seemed to consider a moment, and
then putting his pen behind his ear, he said, “Amongst the decrees of the
Council of Trent is one to the effect” . . .
“Oh dear!” said I.
“A singular person is this Oliban,” said I to Galiano; “you cannot
imagine what trouble he gives me: he is continually talking about the
Council of Trent.”
“I wish he was in the Trent up to the middle,” said Galiano, who, as I
have observed already, spoke excellent English; “I wish he was there for
talking such nonsense. However,” said he, “we must not offend Oliban, he
is one of us, and has done us much service; he is, moreover, a very
clever man, but he is an Aragonese, and when one of that nation once gets
an idea into his head, it is the most difficult thing in the world to
dislodge it; however, we will go to him; he is an old friend of mine, and
I have no doubt but that we shall be able to make him listen to reason.”
So the next day I called upon Galiano, at his marine or admiralty office
(what shall I call it?), and from thence we proceeded to the bureau of
the interior, a magnificent edifice, which had formerly been the casa of
the Inquisition, where we had an interview with Oliban, whom Galiano took
aside to the window, and there held with him a long conversation, which,
as they spoke in whispers, and the room was immensely large, I did not
hear. At length Galiano came to me and said, “There is some difficulty
with respect to this business of yours, but I have told Oliban that you
are a friend of mine, and he says that that is sufficient; remain with
him now, and he will do anything to oblige you; your affair is
settled—farewell”; whereupon he departed and I remained with Oliban, who
proceeded forthwith to write something, which having concluded, he took
out a box of cigars, and having lighted one and offered me another, which
I declined as I do not smoke, he placed his feet against the table, and
thus proceeded to address me, speaking in the French language.
“It is with great pleasure that I see you in this capital, and, I may
say, upon this business. I consider it a disgrace to Spain that there is
no edition of the Gospel in circulation, at least such a one as would be
within the reach of all classes of society, the highest or poorest; one
unencumbered with notes and commentaries, human devices, swelling it to
an unwieldy bulk. I have no doubt that such an edition as you propose to
print, would have a most beneficial influence on the minds of the people,
who, between ourselves, know nothing of pure religion; how should they?
seeing that the Gospel has always been sedulously kept from them, just as
if civilization could exist where the light of the Gospel beameth not.
The moral regeneration of Spain depends upon the free circulation of the
Scriptures; to which alone England, your own happy country, is indebted
for its high state of civilization, and the unmatched prosperity which it
at present enjoys; all this I admit, in fact, reason compels me to do so,
but—”
“Now for it,” thought I.
“But”—and then he began to talk once more of the wearisome Council of
Trent, and I found that his writing in the paper, the offer of the cigar,
and the long and prosy harangue were—what shall I call it?—mere φλυαρία.
By this time the spring was far advanced, the sides though not the tops
of the Guadarama hills had long since lost their snows; the trees of the
Prado had donned their full foliage, and all the Campina in the
neighbourhood of Madrid smiled and was happy: the summer heats had not
commenced, and the weather was truly delicious.
Towards the west, at the foot of the hill on which stands Madrid, is a
canal running parallel with the Manzanares for some leagues, from which
it is separated by pleasant and fertile meadows. The banks of this
canal, which was begun by Carlos Tercero, and has never been completed,
are planted with beautiful trees, and form the most delightful walk in
the neighbourhood of the capital. Here I would loiter for hours looking
at the shoals of gold and silver fish which basked on the surface of the
green sunny waters, or listening, not to the warbling of birds—for Spain
is not the land of feathered choristers—but to the prattle of the
narangero or man who sold oranges and water by a little deserted watch
tower just opposite the wooden bridge that crosses the canal, which
situation he had chosen as favourable for his trade, and there had placed
his stall. He was an Asturian by birth, about fifty years of age, and
about five feet high. As I purchased freely of his fruit, he soon
conceived a great friendship for me, and told me his history; it
contained, however, nothing very remarkable, the leading incident being
an adventure which had befallen him amidst the mountains of Granada,
where, falling into the hands of certain Gypsies, they stripped him
naked, and then dismissed him with a sound cudgelling. “I have wandered
throughout Spain,” said he, “and I have come to the conclusion that there
are but two places worth living in, Malaga and Madrid. At Malaga
everything is very cheap, and there is such an abundance of fish, that I
have frequently seen them piled in heaps on the sea-shore: and as for
Madrid, money is always stirring at the Corte, and I never go supperless
to bed; my only care is to sell my oranges, and my only hope that when I
die I shall be buried yonder.”
And he pointed across the Manzanares, where, on the declivity of a gentle
hill, at about a league’s distance, shone brightly in the sunshine the
white walls of the Campo Santo, or common burying ground of Madrid.
He was a fellow of infinite drollery, and, though he could scarcely read
or write, by no means ignorant of the ways of the world; his knowledge of
individuals was curious and extensive, few people passing his stall with
whose names, character, and history he was not acquainted. “Those two
gentry,” said he, pointing to a magnificently dressed cavalier and lady,
who had dismounted from a carriage, and arm in arm were coming across the
wooden bridge, followed by two attendants; “those gentry are the Infante
Francisco Paulo, and his wife the Neapolitana, sister of our Christina;
he is a very good subject, but as for his wife—vaya—the veriest scold in
Madrid; she can say carrajo with the most ill-conditioned carrier of La
Mancha, giving the true emphasis and genuine pronunciation. Don’t take
off your hat to her, amigo—she has neither formality nor politeness—I
once saluted her, and she took no more notice of me than if I had not
been what I am, an Asturian and a gentleman, of better blood than
herself. Good day, Señor Don Francisco. Que tal (_how goes it_)? very
fine weather this—_vaya su merced con Dios_. Those three fellows who
just stopped to drink water are great thieves, true sons of the prison; I
am always civil to them, for it would not do to be on ill terms; they pay
me or not, just as they think proper. I have been in some trouble on
their account: about a year ago they robbed a man a little farther on
beyond the second bridge. By the way, I counsel you, brother, not to go
there, as I believe you often do—it is a dangerous place. They robbed a
gentleman and ill-treated him, but his brother, who was an escribano, was
soon upon their trail, and had them arrested; but he wanted someone to
identify them, and it chanced that they had stopped to drink water at my
stall, just as they did now. This the escribano heard of, and forthwith
had me away to the prison to confront me with them. I knew them well
enough, but I had learnt in my travels when to close my eyes and when to
open them; so I told the escribano that I could not say that I had ever
seen them before. He was in a great rage and threatened to imprison me;
I told him he might and that I cared not. Vaya, I was not going to
expose myself to the resentment of those three and to that of their
friends; I live too near the Hay Market for that. Good day, my young
masters.—Murcian oranges, as you see; the genuine dragon’s blood. Water
sweet and cold. Those two boys are the children of Gabiria, comptroller
of the queen’s household, and the richest man in Madrid; they are nice
boys, and buy much fruit. It is said their father loves them more than
all his possessions. The old woman who is lying beneath yon tree is the
Tia Lucilla; she has committed murders, and as she owes me money, I hope
one day to see her executed. This man was of the Walloon guard;—Señor
Don Benito Mol, how do you do?”
This last named personage instantly engrossed my attention; he was a
bulky old man, somewhat above the middle height, with white hair and
ruddy features; his eyes were large and blue, and whenever he fixed them
on any one’s countenance, were full of an expression of great eagerness,
as if he were expecting the communication of some important tidings. He
was dressed commonly enough, in a jacket and trousers of coarse cloth of
a russet colour, on his head was an immense sombrero, the brim of which
had been much cut and mutilated, so as in some places to resemble the
jags or denticles of a saw. He returned the salutation of the
orange-man, and bowing to me, forthwith produced two scented wash-balls
which he offered for sale in a rough dissonant jargon, intended for
Spanish, but which seemed more like the Valencian or Catalan.
Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between
us:
“I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol by name, once a soldier in the
Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your service.”
“You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly,” said I; “how long
have you been in the country?”
“Forty-five years,” replied Benedict; “but when the guard was broken up,
I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language without acquiring
the Catalan.”
“You have been a soldier of the king of Spain,” said I; “how did you like
the service?”
“Not so well, but that I should have been glad to leave it forty years
ago; the pay was bad, and the treatment worse. I will now speak Swiss to
you, for, if I am not much mistaken, you are a German man, and understand
the speech of Lucerne; I should soon have deserted from the service of
Spain, as I did from that of the Pope, whose soldier I was in my early
youth before I came here; but I had married a woman of Minorca, by whom I
had two children; it was this that detained me in those parts so long;
before, however, I left Minorca, my wife died, and as for my children,
one went east, the other west, and I know not what became of them; I
intend shortly to return to Lucerne, and live there like a duke.”
“Have you, then, realized a large capital in Spain?” said I, glancing at
his hat and the rest of his apparel.
“Not a cuart, not a cuart; these two wash-balls are all that I possess.”
“Perhaps you are the son of good parents, and have lands and money in
your own country wherewith to support yourself.”
“Not a heller, not a heller; my father was hangman of Lucerne, and when
he died, his body was seized to pay his debts.”
“Then doubtless,” said I, “you intend to ply your trade of soap-boiling
at Lucerne; you are quite right, my friend, I know of no occupation more
honourable or useful.”
“I have no thoughts of plying my trade at Lucerne,” replied Bennet; “and
now, as I see you are a German man, Lieber Herr, and as I like your
countenance and your manner of speaking, I will tell you in confidence
that I know very little of my trade, and have already been turned out of
several fabriques as an evil workman; the two wash-balls that I carry in
my pocket are not of my own making. _In kurtzen_, I know little more of
soap-boiling than I do of tailoring, horse-farriery, or shoe-making, all
of which I have practised.”
“Then I know not how you can hope to live like a hertzog in your native
canton, unless you expect that the men of Lucerne, in consideration of
your services to the Pope and to the king of Spain, will maintain you in
splendour at the public expense.”
“Lieber Herr,” said Benedict, “the men of Lucerne are by no means fond of
maintaining the soldiers of the Pope and the king of Spain at their own
expense; many of the guard who have returned thither beg their bread in
the streets, but when I go, it shall be in a coach drawn by six mules,
with a treasure, a mighty schatz which lies in the church of Saint James
of Compostella, in Galicia.”
“I hope you do not intend to rob the church,” said I; “if you do,
however, I believe you will be disappointed. Mendizabal and the liberals
have been beforehand with you. I am informed that at present no other
treasure is to be found in the cathedrals of Spain than a few paltry
ornaments and plated utensils.”
“My good German Herr,” said Benedict, “it is no church schatz, and no
person living, save myself, knows of its existence: nearly thirty years
ago, amongst the sick soldiers who were brought to Madrid, was one of my
comrades of the Walloon Guard, who had accompanied the French to
Portugal; he was very sick and shortly died. Before, however, he
breathed his last, he sent for me, and upon his deathbed told me that
himself and two other soldiers, both of whom had since been killed, had
buried in a certain church at Compostella a great booty which they had
made in Portugal: it consisted of gold moidores and of a packet of huge
diamonds from the Brazils; the whole was contained in a large copper
kettle. I listened with greedy ears, and from that moment, I may say, I
have known no rest, neither by day nor night, thinking of the schatz. It
is very easy to find, for the dying man was so exact in his description
of the place where it lies, that were I once at Compostella, I should
have no difficulty in putting my hand upon it; several times I have been
on the point of setting out on the journey, but something has always
happened to stop me. When my wife died, I left Minorca with a
determination to go to Saint James, but on reaching Madrid, I fell into
the hands of a Basque woman, who persuaded me to live with her, which I
have done for several years; she is a great hax, {138} and says that if I
desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to me for ever.
_Dem Got sey dank_,—she is now in the hospital, and daily expected to
die. This is my history, Lieber Herr.”
I have been the more careful in relating the above conversation, as I
shall have frequent occasion to mention the Swiss in the course of these
journals; his subsequent adventures were highly extraordinary, and the
closing one caused a great sensation in Spain.