Lisbon--The two Kings of Portugal, and of Barataria--King Fernando
and the Countess--A Lisbon bull-fight--The "hat-trick"--Courtship
window-parade--The spurred youth of Lisbon--Portuguese
politeness--The De Reszke family--The Opera--Terrible personal
experiences in a circus--The bounding Bishop--Ecclesiastical
possibilities--Portuguese coinage--Beauty of Lisbon--Visits of the
British Fleet--Misguided midshipmen--The Legation Whaleboat--"Good
wine needs no bush"--A delightful orange-farm--Cintra--Contrast
between the Past and Present of Portugal.
A professional diplomat becomes used to rapid changes in his
environment. He has also to learn to readjust his monetary
standards, for after calculating everything in roubles for, let us
say, four years, he may find himself in a country where the peseta or
the dollar are the units. At every fresh post he has to start again
from the beginning, as he endeavours to learn the customs and above
all the mentality of the new country. He has to form a brand-new
acquaintance, to get to know the points of view of those amongst whom
he is living, and in general to shape himself to totally new
surroundings. A diplomat in this way insensibly acquires
adaptability.
It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to Petrograd than
Lisbon, which was my next post. {212} After the rather hectic gaiety
of Petrograd, with its persistent flavour of an exotic and artificial
civilisation, the placid, uneventful flow of life at Lisbon was
restful, possibly even dull.
Curiously enough, in those days there were two Kings of Portugal at
the same time. This state of things (which always reminded me
irresistibly of the two Kings of Barataria in Gilbert and Sullivan's
"Gondoliers") had come about quite naturally. Queen Maria II (Maria
da Gloria) had married in 1836 Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg, who
was raised next year to the title of King Consort. Maria II died in
1853 and was succeeded by Pedro V. During his son's minority King
Ferdinand acted as Regent, and Pedro, dying unmarried eight years
after, was succeeded in turn by his brother Luiz, also a son of King
Ferdinand.
When the Corps Diplomatique were received at the Ajuda Palace on New
Year's Day, the scene always struck me as being intensely comical.
The two Kings (universally known as Dom Fernando and Dom Luiz)
entered simultaneously by different doors. When they met Dom Luiz
made a low bow to Dom Fernando, and then kissed his father's hand.
Dom Fernando responded with an equally low bow, and kissed his son's
hand. The two Kings then ascended the throne together. Had "The
Gondoliers" been already composed then, I should have expected the
two Monarchs to break into the duet from the second act, "Rising
early in the Morning," in which the two Kings of Barataria {213}
explain their multitudinous duties. As King Luiz had a fine tenor
voice, His Majesty could also in that case have brightened up the
proceedings by singing us "Take a pair of sparkling eyes."
Dom Fernando was a perfectly delightful old gentleman, very highly
cultured, full of humour, and with a charming natural courtesy of
manner. The drolly-named Necessidades Palace which he inhabited was
an unpretentious house full of beautiful old Portuguese furniture.
Most of the rooms were wainscoted with the finest "azulejos" I ever
saw; blue and white tiles which the Portuguese adopted originally
from the Moors, but learnt later to make for themselves under the
tuition of Dutch craftsmen from Delft. These "azulejos" form the
most decorative background to a room that can be imagined. A bold
pictorial design, a complete and elaborate picture in blue on white,
runs along their whole length. It is thus very difficult to remove
and re-erect "azulejos," for one broken tile will spoil the whole
design. The Portuguese use these everywhere, both for the exteriors
and interiors of their houses, and also as garden ornaments, and they
are wonderfully effective.
Dom Fernando had married morganatically, as his second wife, a dancer
of American origin. This lady had a remarkably strident voice, and
was much to the fore on the fortnightly afternoons when Dom Fernando
received the men of the Corps Diplomatique. For some reason or
other, the ladies of the Diplomatic Body always found themselves
{214} unable to attend these gatherings. The courteous, genial old
King would move about, smilingly dispensing his truly admirable
cigars, and brimful of anecdotes and jokelets. The nasal raucaus
tones of the ex-dancer, always known as "the Countess," would summon
him in English. "Say, King! you just hurry up with those cigars.
They are badly wanted here."
I imagine that in the days of her successes on the stage the lady's
outline must have been less voluminous than it was when I made her
acquaintance. The only other occasion when I heard a monarch
addressed as "King" _tout court_ was when a small relation of my own,
aged five, at a children's garden-party at Buckingham Palace insisted
on answering King Edward VII's questions with a "Yes, O King," or
"No, O King"; a form of address which had a pleasant Biblical flavour
about it.
The Portuguese are a very humane race, and are extraordinarily kind
to animals. They are also devoted to bull-fights. These two
tendencies seem irreconcilable, till the fact is grasped that a
Portuguese bull-fight is absolutely bloodless. Neither bulls nor
horses are killed; the whole spectacle resolves itself into an
exhibition of horsemanship and skill.
The bulls' horns are padded and covered with leather thongs. The
_picador_ rides a really good and highly-trained horse. Should he
allow the bull even to touch his horse with his padded horns, the
unfortunate _picador_ will get mercilessly hissed. {215} These
_picadores_ do not wear the showy Spanish dresses, but Louis Quinze
costumes of purple velvet with large white wigs. The _espada_ is
armed with a wooden sword only, which he plants innocuously on the
neck of the bull, and woe betide him should those tens of thousands
of eager eyes watching him detect a deviation of even one inch from
the death-dealing spot. He will be hissed out of the ring. On the
other hand, should he succeed in touching the fatal place with his
harmless weapon, his skill would be rewarded with thunders of
applause, and all the occupants of the upper galleries would shower
small change and cigarettes into the ring, and would also hurl their
hats into the arena, which always struck me as a peculiarly comical
way of expressing their appreciation.
The _espada_ would gaze at the hundreds of shabby battered bowler
hats reposing on the sand of the arena with the same expression of
simulated rapture that a _prima donna_ assumes as floral tributes are
handed to her across the footlights. The _espada_, his hand on his
heart, would bow again and again, as though saying, "Are these lovely
hats really for me?" But after a second glance at the dilapidated
head-gear, covering the entire floor-space of the arena with little
sub-fuse hummocks, he would apparently change his mind. "It is
really amazingly good of you, and I do appreciate it, but I think on
the whole that I will not deprive you of them," and then an
exhibition of real skill occurred. The _espada_, taking up a hat,
would {216} glance at the galleries. Up went a hand, and the hat
hurtled aloft to its owner with unfailing accuracy; and this
performance was repeated perhaps a hundred times. I always
considered the _espada's_ hat-returning act far more extraordinary
than his futile manipulation of the inoffensive wooden sword. During
the aerial flights of the hats, two small acolytes of the _espada_,
his miniature facsimiles in dress, picked up the small change and
cigarettes, and, I trust, duly handed them over intact to their
master. The bull meanwhile, after his imaginary slaughter, had
trotted home contentedly to his underground quarters, surrounded by
some twenty gaily-caparisoned tame bullocks. To my mind Spanish
bull-fighting is revolting and horrible to the last degree. I have
seen it once, and nothing will induce me to assist a second time at
so disgusting a spectacle; but the most squeamish person can view a
Portuguese bull-fight with impunity. Even though the bull has his
horns bandaged, considerable skill and great acrobatic agility come
into play. Few of us would care to stand in the path of a charging
polled Angus bull, hornless though he be. The _bandarilheros_ who
plant paper-decorated darts in the neck of the charging bull are as
nimble as trained acrobats, and vault lightly out of the ring when
hard pressed. Conspicuous at a Lisbon bull-fight are a number of
sturdy peasants, tricked out in showy clothes of scarlet and orange.
These are "the men of strength." Should a bull prove cowardly in the
ring, and decline to fight, the public {217} clamour for him to be
caught and expelled ignomiously from the ring by "the men of
strength." Eight of the stalwart peasants will then hurl themselves
on to the bull and literally hustle him out of the arena; no mean
feat. Take it all round, a Portuguese bull-fight was picturesque and
full of life and colour, though the neighbouring Spaniards affected
an immense contempt for them on account of their bloodlessness and
make-belief.
A curious Portuguese custom is one which ordains that a youth before
proposing formally for a maiden's hand must do "window parade" for
two months (in Portuguese "fazer a janella"). Nature has not
allotted good looks to the majority of the Portuguese race, and she
has been especially niggardly in this respect to the feminine element
of the population. The taste for olives and for caviar is usually
supposed to be an acquired one, and so may be the taste for
Lusitanian loveliness. Somewhat to the surprise of the foreigner,
Portuguese maidens seemed to inspire the same sentiments in the
breasts of the youthful male as do their more-favoured sisters in
other lands, but in _bourgeois_ circles the "window-parade" was an
indispensable preliminary to courtship. The youth had to pass
backwards and forwards along the street where the dwelling of his
_innamorata_ was situated, casting up glances of passionate appeal to
a window, where, as he knew, the form of his enchantress would
presently appear. The maiden, when she judged that she might at
length reveal herself {218} without unduly encouraging her suitor,
moved to the open window and stood fanning herself, laboriously
unconscious of her ardent swain in the street below. The youth would
then express his consuming passion in pantomime, making frantic
gestures in testimony of his mad adoration. The senhorita in return
might favour him with a coy glance, and in token of dismissal would
perhaps drop him a rose, which the young man would press to his lips
and then place over his heart, and so the performance came to an end,
to be renewed again the next evening. The lovesick swain would
almost certainly be wearing spurs. At first I could not make out why
the young men of Lisbon, who had probably never been on a horse in
their whole lives, should habitually walk about the town with spurs
on their heels. It was, I think, a survival of the old Peninsular
tradition, and was intended to prove to the world that they were
"cavalleiros." In Spain an immense distinction was formerly made
between the "caballero" and the "peon"; the mounted man, or
gentleman, and the man on foot, or day-labourer. The little
box-spurs were the only means these Lisbon youths had of proving
their quality to the world. They had no horses, but they _had_
spurs, which was obviously the next best thing.
Fortunes in Portugal being small, and strict economy having to be
observed amongst all classes, I have heard that these damsels of the
window-sill only dressed down to the waist. They would assume a
_corsage_ of scarlet or crimson plush, and, {219} their nether
garments being invisible from below, would study both economy and
comfort by wearing a flannel petticoat below it. It is unnecessary
for me to add that I never verified this detail from personal
observation.
Some of the old Portuguese families occupied very fine, if sparsely
furnished, houses, with _enfilades_ of great, lofty bare rooms.
After calling at one of these houses, the master of it would in
Continental fashion "reconduct" his visitor towards the front door.
At every single doorway the Portuguese code of politeness dictated
that the visitor should protest energetically against his host
accompanying him one step further. With equal insistence the host
expressed his resolve to escort his visitor a little longer. The
master of the house had previously settled in his own mind exactly
how far he was going towards the entrance, the distance depending on
the rank of the visitor, but the accepted code of manners insisted
upon these protests and counter-protests at every single doorway.
In Germany "door-politeness" plays a great part. In one of
Kotzebue's comedies two provincial notabilities of equal rank are
engaged in a duel of "door-politeness." "But I must really insist on
your Excellency passing first." "I could not dream of it, your
Excellency. I will follow you." "Your Excellency knows that I could
never allow that," and so on. The curtain falls on these two ladies
each declining to precede the other, and when it rises on the second
act the doorway is still there, {220} and the two ladies are still
disputing. Quite an effective stage-situation, and one which a
modern dramatist might utilise.
In paying visits in Lisbon one was often pressed to remain to dinner,
but the invitation was a mere form of politeness, and was not
intended to be accepted. You invariably replied that you deeply
regretted that you were already engaged. The more you were urged to
throw over your engagement, the deeper became your regret that this
particular engagement must be fulfilled. The engagement probably
consisted in dining alone at the club, but under no circumstances
must the invitation be accepted. In view of the straitened
circumstances of most Portuguese families, the evening meal would
probably consist of one single dish of _bacalhao_ or salt cod, and
you would have put your hosts to the greatest inconvenience.
With the exception of the Opera, the Lisbon theatres were most
indifferent. When I first arrived there the Lisbon Opera had been
fortunate enough to secure the services of a very gifted Polish
family, a sister and two brothers, the latter of whom were destined
later to become the idols of the London public. They were Mlle. de
Reszke and Jean and Edouard de Reszke, all three of them then
comparatively unknown. Mlle. de Reszke had the most glorious voice.
To hear her singing with her brother Jean in "Faust" was a perfect
revelation. Mlle. de Reszke appeared to the best advantage when the
stalwart Jean sang with her, for she was {221} immensely tall, and
towered over the average portly, stumpy, little operatic tenor. The
French say, cruelly enough, "bête comme un ténor." This may or may
not be true, but the fact remains that the usual stage tenor is
short, bull-necked, and conspicuously inclined to adipose tissue.
When her brother Jean was out of the cast, it required an immense
effort of the imagination to picture this splendid creature as being
really desperately enamoured of the little paunchy, swarthy
individual who, reaching to her shoulder only, was hurling his high
notes at the public over the footlights.
At afternoon parties these three consummate artists occasionally sang
unaccompanied trios. I have never heard anything so perfectly done.
I am convinced that had Mlle. de Reszke lived, she would have
established as great a European reputation as did her two brothers.
The Lisbon musical public were terribly critical. They had one most
disconcerting habit. Instead of hissing, should an artist have been
unfortunate enough to incur their displeasure, the audience stood up
and began banging the movable wooden seats of the stalls and dress
circle up and down. This produced a deafening din, effectually
drowning the orchestra and singers. The effect on the unhappy artist
against whom all this pandemonium was directed may be imagined. On
gala nights the Lisbon Opera was decorated in a very simple but
effective manner. Most Portuguese families own a number of
"colchas," or embroidered bed-quilts. These are of satin, silk,
{222} or linen, beautifully worked in colours. On a gala night,
hundreds of these "colchas" were hung over the fronts of the boxes
and galleries, with a wonderfully decorative effect. In the same
way, on Church festivals, when religious processions made their way
through the streets, many-lined "colchas" were thrown over the
balconies of the houses, giving an extraordinarily festive appearance
to the town.
As at Berlin and Petrograd, there was a really good circus at Lisbon.
I, for one, am sorry that this particular form of entertainment is
now obsolete in England, for it has always appealed to me, in spite
of some painful memories connected with a circus which, if I may be
permitted a long digression, I will relate.
Nearly thirty years ago I left London on a visit to one of the
historic châteaux of France, in company with a friend who is now a
well-known member of Parliament, and also churchwarden of a famous
West-end church. We travelled over by night, and reached our
destination about eleven next morning. We noticed a huge circular
tent in the park of the château, but paid no particular attention to
it. The first words with which our hostess, the bearer of a great
French name, greeted us were, "I feel sure that I can rely upon you,
_mes amis_. You have to help us out of a difficulty. My son and his
friends have been practising for four months for their amateur
circus. Our first performance is to-day at two o'clock. We have
sold eight hundred tickets for the benefit of the French Red Cross,
{223} and yesterday, only yesterday, our two clowns were telegraphed
for. They have both been ordered to the autumn manoeuvres, and you
two must take their places, or our performance is ruined. _Je sais
que vous n'allez pas me manquer_." In vain we both protested that we
had had no experience whatever as clowns, that branch of our
education having been culpably neglected. Our hostess insisted, and
would take no denial. "Go and wash; go and eat; and then put on the
dresses you will find in your rooms." I never felt so miserable in
my life as I did whilst making up my face the orthodox dead white,
with scarlet triangles on the cheeks, big mouth, and blackened nose.
The clown's kit was complete in every detail, with wig, conical hat,
patterned stockings and queer white felt shoes. As far as externals
went, I was orthodoxy itself, but the "business," and the "wheezes"!
The future church-warden had been taken in hand by some young
Frenchmen. As he was to play "Chocolat," the black clown, they
commenced by stripping him and blacking him from head to foot with
boot-blacking. They then polished him.
I entered the ring with a sinking heart. I was to remain there two
hours, and endeavour to amuse a French audience for that period
without any preparation whatever. "Business," "gag," and "patter"
had all to be improvised, and the "patter," of course, had to be in
French. Luckily, I could then throw "cart-wheels" and turn
somersaults to an indefinite extent. So I made my entrance in {224}
that fashion. Fortunately I got on good terms with my audience
almost at once, and with confidence came inspiration; and with
inspiration additional confidence, and a judicious recollection of
the stock-tricks of clowns in various Continental capitals. Far
greater liberties can be taken with a French audience than would be
possible in England, but if anyone thinks it an easy task to go into
a circus ring and to clown for two hours on end in a foreign
language, without one minute's preparation, let him try it. The
ring-master always pretends to flick the clown; it is part of the
traditional "business"; but this amateur ring-master (most
beautifully got up) handled his long whip so unskilfully that he not
only really flicked my legs, but cut pieces out of them. When I
jumped and yelled with genuine pain, the audience roared with
laughter, so of course the ring-master plied his whip again. At the
end of the performance my legs were absolutely raw. The clown came
off badly too in some of the "roughs-and-tumbles," for the clown is
always fair game. The French amateurs gave a really astonishingly
good performance. They had borrowed trained horses from a real
circus, and the same young Hungarian to whom I have alluded at the
beginning of these reminiscences as having created a mild sensation
by appearing at Buckingham Palace in a tiger-skin tunic trimmed with
large turquoises, rode round the ring on a pad in sky-blue tights,
bounding through paper hoops and over garlands of artificial flowers
as easily and {225} gracefully as though he had done nothing else all
his life. Later on in the afternoon this versatile Hungarian
reappeared in flowing Oriental robes and a false beard as "Ali Ben
Hassan, the Bedouin Chief." Riding round the ring at full gallop,
and firing from the saddle with a shot-gun, he broke glass balls with
all the dexterity of a trained professional. That young Hungarian is
now a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church. Before 1914 I had
occasion to meet him frequently. Whenever I thought that on the
strength of his purple robes he was assuming undue airs of
ecclesiastical superiority (to use the word "swanking" would be an
unpardonable vulgarism, especially in the case of a bishop), I
invariably reminded his lordship of the afternoon, many years ago,
when, arrayed in sky-blue silk tights, he had dashed through paper
hoops in a French amateur circus. My remarks were usually met with
the deprecatory smile and little gesture of protest of the hand so
characteristic of the Roman ecclesiastic, as the bishop murmured,
"_Cher ami, tout cela est oublié depuis longtemps,_" I assured the
prelate that for my own part I should never forget it, if only for
the unexpected skill he had displayed; though I recognise that
bishops may dislike being reminded of their past, especially when
they have performed in circuses in their youth.
In addition to the Hungarian's "act," there was another beautiful
exhibition of horsemanship. A boy of sixteen, a member of an
historic French family, by dint of long, patient, and painful {226}
practice, was able to give an admirable performance of the familiar
circus "turn" known as "The Courier of St. Petersburg," in which the
rider, standing a-straddle on two barebacked ponies, drives four
other ponies in front of him; an extraordinary feat for an amateur to
have mastered. My friend the agile ecclesiastic is portrayed,
perhaps a little maliciously, in Abel Hermant's most amusing book
"Trains de Luxe," under the name of "Monseigneur Granita de Caffe
Nero." It may interest ladies to learn that this fastidious prelate
always had his purple robes made by Doucet, the famous Paris
dressmaking firm, to ensure that they should "sit" properly. On the
whole, our circus was really a very creditable effort for amateurs.
The entertainment was, I believe, pronounced a tremendous success,
and at its conclusion the only person who was the worse for it was
the poor clown. He had not only lost his voice entirely, from
shouting for two hours on end, but he was black and blue from head to
foot. Added to which, his legs were raw and bleeding from the
ring-master's pitiless whip. I am thankful to say that in the course
of a long life that was my one and only appearance in the ring of a
circus. My fellow-clown, "Chocolat," the future member of Parliament
and churchwarden, had been so liberally coated with boot-blacking by
his French friends that it refused to come off, and for days
afterwards his face was artistically decorated with swarthy patches.
Before 1914, I had frequently pointed out to my {227} friend the
bishop that should he wish to raise any funds in his Hungarian
diocese he could not do better than repeat his performance in the
French circus. As a concession to his exalted rank, he might wear
tights of episcopal purple. Should he have retained any of the
nimbleness of his youth, his flock could not fail to be enormously
gratified at witnessing their chief pastor bounding through paper
hoops and leaping over obstacles with incredible agility for his age.
The knowledge that they had so gifted and supple a prelate would
probably greatly increase his moral influence over them and could
scarcely fail to render him amazingly popular. Could his lordship
have convinced his flock that he could demolish the arguments of any
religious opponent with the same ease that he displayed in
penetrating the paper obstacles to his equestrian progress, he would
certainly be acclaimed as a theological controversialist of the first
rank. In the same way, I have endeavoured to persuade my friend the
member of Parliament that he might brighten up the proceedings in the
House of Commons were he to appear there occasionally in the clown's
dress he wore thirty years ago in France. Failing that, his
attendance at the Easter Vestry Meeting of his West-end church with a
blackened face might introduce that note of hilarity which is often
so markedly lacking at these gatherings.
All this has led me far away from Lisbon in the "'eighties." Mark
Twain has described, in "A Tramp Abroad," the terror with which a
foreigner {228} is overwhelmed on being presented with his first
hotel bill on Portuguese territory. The total will certainly run
into thousands of reis, and the unhappy stranger sees bankruptcy
staring him in the face.
As a matter of fact, one thousand reis equal at par exactly four and
twopence. It follows that a hundred reis are the equivalent of
fivepence, and that one rei is the twentieth of a penny.
A French colleague of mine insisted that the Portuguese were actuated
by national pride in selecting so small a monetary unit. An
elementary calculation will show that the proud possessor of £222
10_s._ can claim to be a millionaire in Portugal. According to my
French friend, Portugal was anxious to show the world that though a
small country, a larger proportion of her subjects were millionaires
than any other European country could boast of. In the same way the
Frenchman explained the curious Lisbon habit of writing a number over
every opening on the ground floor of a house, whether door or window.
As a result the numbers of the houses crept up rapidly to the most
imposing figures. It was not uncommon to find a house inscribed No.
2000 in a comparatively short street. Accordingly, Lisbon, though a
small capital, was able to gain a spurious reputation for immense
size.
A peculiarity of Lisbon was the double set of names of the principal
streets and squares: the official name, and the popular one. I have
never known this custom prevail anywhere else. Thus the {229}
principal street was officially known as Rua Garrett, and that name
was duly written up. Everyone, though, spoke of it as the "Chiada."
In the same way the splendid square facing the Tagus which English
people call "Black Horse Square" had its official designation written
up as "Praça do Comercio." It was, however, invariably called
"Terreiro do Paço." The list could be extended indefinitely. Street
names in Lisbon did not err in the matter of shortness. "Rua do
Sacramento a Lapa de Baixio" strikes me as quite a sufficiently
lengthy name for a street of six houses.
Lisbon is certainly a handsome town. It has been so frequently
wrecked by earthquakes that there is very little mediæval
architecture remaining, in spite of its great age. Two notable
exceptions are the Tower of Belem and the exquisitely beautiful
cloisters of the Hieronymite Convent, also at Belem. The tower
stands on a promontory jutting into the Tagus, and the convent was
built in the late fifteen-hundreds to commemorate the discovery of
the sea route to India by Vasco da Gama. These two buildings are
both in the "Manoeline" style, a variety of highly ornate late Gothic
peculiar to Portugal. It is the fashion to sneer at Manoeline
architecture, with its profuse decoration, as being a decadent style.
To my mind the cloisters of Belem (the Portuguese variant of
Bethlehem) rank as one of the architectural masterpieces of Europe.
Its arches are draped, as it were, with a lace-work of intricate and
minute stone carving, as delicate {230} almost as jewellers' work.
The warm brown colour of the stone adds to the effect, and anyone but
an architectural pedant must admit the amazing beauty of the place.
The finest example of Manoeline in Portugal is the great Abbey of
Batalha, in my day far away from any railway, and very difficult of
access.
At the time of the great earthquake of 1755 which laid Lisbon in
ruins, Portugal was fortunate enough to have a man of real genius at
the head of affairs, the Marquis de Pombal. Pombal not only
re-established the national finances on a sound basis, but rebuilt
the capital from his own designs. The stately "Black Horse Square"
fronting the Tagus and the streets surrounding it were all designed
by Pombal. I suppose that there is no hillier capital in the world
than Lisbon. Many of the streets are too steep for the tramcars to
climb. The Portuguese fashion of coating the exteriors of the houses
with bright-coloured tiles of blue and white, or orange and white,
gives a cheerful air to the town,--the French word "riant" would be
more appropriate--and the numerous public gardens, where the
palm-trees apparently grow as contentedly as in their native tropics,
add to this effect of sunlit brightness. As in Brazil and other
Portuguese-speaking countries, the houses are all very tall, and
sash-windows are universal, as in England, contrary to the custom of
other Continental countries.
House rent could not be called excessive in Portugal. In my day
quite a large house, totally lacking {231} in every description of
modern convenience, but with a fine staircase and plenty of lofty
rooms, could be hired for £30 a year, a price which may make the
Londoner think seriously of transferring himself to the banks of the
Tagus.
In the "'eighties" Lisbon was the winter headquarters of our Channel
Squadron. I once saw the late Admiral Dowdeswell bring his entire
fleet up the Tagus under sail; a most wonderful sight! The two
five-masted flagships, the _Minotaur_ and the _Agincourt_, had very
graceful lines, and with every stitch of their canvas set, they were
things of exquisite beauty. The _Northumberland_ had also been
designed as a sister ship, but for some reason had had two of her
masts removed. The old _Minotaur,_ now alas! a shapeless hulk known
as _Ganges II_, is still, I believe, doing useful work at Harwich.
As may be imagined, the arrival of the British Fleet infused a
certain element of liveliness into the sleepy city. Gambling-rooms
were opened all over Lisbon, and as the bluejackets had a habit of
wrecking any place where they suspected the proprietor of cheating
them, the Legation had its work cut out for it in endeavouring to
placate the local authorities and smooth down their wounded
susceptibilities. One gambling-house, known as "Portuguese Joe's,"
was frequented mainly by midshipmen. They were strictly forbidden to
go there, but the place was crammed every night with them, in spite
of official prohibition. The British midshipman being a creature of
impulse, the {232} moment these youths (every one of whom thought it
incumbent on his dignity to have a huge cigar in his mouth, even
though he might still be of very tender years) suspected any foul
play, they would proceed very systematically and methodically to
smash the whole place up to matchwood. There was consequently a good
deal of trouble, and the Legation quietly put strong pressure on the
Portuguese Government to close these gambling-houses down
permanently. This was accordingly done, much to the wrath of the
midshipmen, who were, I believe, supplied with free drinks and cigars
by the proprietors of these places. It is just possible that the
Admiral's wishes may have been consulted before this drastic action
was taken. Midshipmen in those days went to sea at fourteen and
fifteen years of age, and consequently needed some shepherding.
As our Minister had constantly to pay official visits to the Fleet,
the British Government kept a whale-boat at Lisbon for the use of the
Legation. The coxswain, an ex-naval petty officer who spoke
Portuguese, acted as Chancery servant when not afloat. When the boat
was wanted, the coxswain went down to the quay with two bagfuls of
bluejackets' uniforms, and engaged a dozen chance Tagus boatmen. The
Lisbon boatman, though skilful, is extraordinarily unclean in his
person and his attire. I wish the people who lavished praises on the
smart appearance of the Legation whaleboat and of its scratch crew
could have seen, as I {233} often did, the revoltingly filthy
garments of these longshoremen before they drew the snowy naval white
duck trousers and jumpers over them. Their persons were even
dirtier, and--for reasons into which I need not enter--it was
advisable to smoke a strong cigar whilst they were pulling. The
tides in the Tagus run very strong; at spring-tides they will run
seven or eight knots, so considerable skill is required in handling a
boat. To do our odoriferous whited sepulchres of boatmen justice,
they could pull, and the real workmanlike man-of-war fashion in which
our coxswain always brought the boat alongside a ship, in spite of
wind and tremendous tide, did credit to himself, and shed a mild
reflected glory on the Legation.
The country round Lisbon is very arid. It produces, however, most
excellent wines, both red and white, and in my time really good wine
could be bought for fourpence a bottle. At the time of the vintage,
all the country taverns and wine shops displayed a bush tied to a
pole at their doors, as a sign that they had new wine, "green wine,"
as the Portuguese call it, for sale. Let the stranger beware of that
new wine! Though pleasant to the palate and apparently innocuous, it
is in reality hideously intoxicating, as a reference to the 13th
verse of the second chapter of the Acts will show. I think that the
custom of tying a bush to the door of a tavern where new wine is on
sale must be the origin of the expression "good wine needs no bush."
{234}
The capabilities of this apparently intractable and arid soil when
scientifically irrigated were convincingly shown on a farm some
sixteen miles from Lisbon, belonging to a Colonel Campbell, an
Englishman. Colonel Campbell, who had permanently settled in
Portugal, had bought from the Government a derelict monastery and the
lands attached to it at Torres Vedras, where Wellington entrenched
himself in his famous lines in 1809-10. A good stream of water ran
through the property, and Colonel Campbell diverted it, and literally
caused the desert to blossom like the rose. Here were acres and
acres of orange groves, and it was one of the few places in Europe
where bananas would ripen. Colonel Campbell supplied the whole of
Lisbon with butter, and the only mutton worth eating came also from
his farm. It was a place flowing, if not with milk and honey, at all
events with oil and wine. Here were huge tanks brimful of
amber-coloured olive oil; whilst in vast dim cellars hundreds of
barrels of red and white wine were slowly maturing in the mysterious
shadows. Outside the sunlight fell on crates of ripe oranges and
bananas, ready packed for the Lisbon market, and in the gardens
tropical and sub-tropical flowering trees had not only thoroughly
acclimatised themselves, but had expanded to prima-donna-like
dimensions. The great rambling tiled monastery made a delightful
dwelling-house, and to me it will be always a place of pleasant
memories--a place of sunshine and golden orange groves; of {235}
rustling palms and cool blue and white tiles; of splashing fountains
and old stonework smothered in a tangle of wine-coloured
Bougainvillea.
The environs of all Portuguese towns are made dreary by the miles and
miles of high walls which line the roads. These people must surely
have some dark secrets in their lives to require these huge barriers
between themselves and the rest of the world. Behind the wall were
pleasant old _quintas_, or villas, faced with my favourite "azulejos"
of blue and white, and surrounded with attractive, ill-kept gardens,
where roses and oleanders ran riot amidst groves of orange and lemon
trees.
Cintra would be a beautiful spot anywhere, but in this sun-scorched
land it comes as a surprising revelation; a green oasis in a desolate
expanse of aridity.
Here are great shady oak woods and tinkling fern-fringed brooks,
pleasant leafy valleys, and a grateful sense of moist coolness. On
the very summit of the rocky hill of Pena, King Fernando had built a
fantastic dream-castle, all domes and pinnacles. It was exactly like
the "enchanted castle" of one of Gustave Doré's illustrations, and
had, I believe, been partly designed by Doré himself. Some of the
details may have been a little too flamboyant for sober British
tastes, but, perched on its lofty rock, this castle was surprisingly
effective from below with its gilded turrets and Moorish tiles. As
the castle occupied every inch of the summit of the Pena hill, the
only approach to it {236} was by a broad winding roadway tunnelled
through the solid rock. Openings had been cut in the sides of the
tunnel giving wonderful views over the valleys far down below. This
approach was for all the world like the rocky ways up which Parsifal
is led to the temple of the Grail in the first act of Wagner's great
mystery drama. The finest feature about Pena, to my mind, was the
wood of camellias on its southern face. These camellias had grown to
a great size, and when in flower in March they were a most beautiful
sight.
There was a great deal of work at the Lisbon Legation, principally of
a commercial character. There were never-ending disputes between
British shippers and the Custom House authorities, and the extremely
dilatory methods of the Portuguese Government were most trying to the
temper at times.
I shall always cherish mildly agreeable recollections of Lisbon. It
was a placid, sunlit, soporific existence, very different from the
turmoil of Petrograd life. The people were friendly, and as
hospitable as their very limited financial resources enabled them to
be. They could mostly speak French in a fashion, still their limited
vocabulary was quite sufficient for expressing their more limited
ideas.
I never could help contrasting the splendid past of this little
nation with its somewhat inadequate present, for it must be
remembered that Portugal in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was
the leading maritime Power of Europe. Portugal had {237} planted her
colonies and her language (surely the most hideous of all spoken
idioms!) in Asia, Africa, and South America long before Great Britain
or France had even dreamed of a Colonial Empire.
They were a race of hardy and fearless seamen. Prince Henry the
Navigator, the son of John of Portugal and of John of Gaunt's
daughter, discovered Madeira, the Azores, and the Cape Verde islands
in the early fourteen-hundreds.
In the same century Diaz doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and Vasco da
Gama succeeded in reaching India by sea, whilst Albuquerque founded
Portuguese colonies in Brazil and at Goa in India. This race of
intrepid navigators and explorers held the command of the sea long
before the Dutch or British, and by the middle of the sixteenth
century little Portugal ranked as one of the most powerful monarchies
in Europe.
Portugal, too, is England's oldest ally, for the Treaty of Windsor
establishing an alliance between the two countries was signed as far
back as 1386.
This is not the place in which to enter into the causes which led to
the gradual decadence of this wonderful little nation, sapped her
energies and atrophied her enterprise. To the historian those causes
are sufficiently familiar.
Let us only trust that Lusitania's star may some day rise again.
{238}