The Chevalier de Roxas.--Excursion to the palace and gardens of the
Buen Retiro.--The Turkish Ambassador and his numerous
train.--Farinelli’s apartments.
Dec. 14th, 1785.
One of the best informed and pleasantest of Spaniards, the Chevalier de
Roxas, who had been very intimate both with Verdeil and me at Lausanne,
came in a violent hurry this morning to give us a cordial embrace. He
seems to have set his heart upon showing us about Madrid, and rendering
our stay here as lively as he could make it. Fifty schemes did he
propose in half a minute, of visiting museums, churches, and public
buildings; of goings to balls, theatres, and tertullias.
I took alarm at this busy prospect, drew back into my shell, and began
wishing myself in the most perfect incognito; but, alas! to no purpose,
it was all in vain.
Roxas, most eager to enter upon his office of cicerone, fidgeted to the
window, observed we had still an hour or two of daylight, and proposed
an excursion to the palace and gardens of the Buen Retiro. Upon entering
the court of the palace, which is surrounded by low buildings, with
plastered fronts, sadly battered by wind and weather, I espied some
venerable figures in caftans and turbans, leaning against a doorway.
My sparks of orientalism instantly burst into a flame at such a sight:
“Who are those picturesque animals?” said I to our conductor. “Is it
lawful to approach them?” “As often as you please,” answered Roxas.
“They belong to the Turkish ambassador, who is lodged, with all his
train, at the Buen Retiro, in the identical apartments once occupied by
Farinelli; where he held his state levees and opera rehearsals; drilling
ministers one day, and tenors and soprani the other: if you have a mind,
we will go up-stairs and examine the whole menagerie.”
No sooner said, no sooner done. I cleared four steps at a leap, to the
great delight of his sublime excellency’s pages and attendants, and
entered a saloon spread with the most sumptuous carpets, and perfumed
with the fragrance of the wood of aloes. In a corner of this magnificent
chamber sat the ambassador, Achmet Vassif Effendi, wrapped up in a
pelisse of the most precious sables, playing with a light cane he had in
his hand, and every now and then passing it under the noses of some
tall, handsome slaves, who were standing in a row before him. These
figures, fixed as statues, and to all appearance equally insensible,
neither moved hand nor eye. As I advanced to make my salam to the grand
seignor’s representative, who received me with a most gracious nod of
the head; his interpreter announced to what nation I belonged, and my
own individual warm partiality for the Sublime Porte.
As soon as I had taken my seat in a ponderous fauteuil of figured
velvet, coffee was carried round in cups of most delicate china, with
gold enamelled saucers. Notwithstanding my predilection for the east and
its customs, I could hardly get this beverage down, it was so thick and
bitter; whilst I was making a few wry faces in consequence, a low
murmuring sound, like that of flutes and dulcimers, accompanied by a
sort of tabor, issued from behind a curtain which separated us from
another apartment. There was a melancholy wildness in the melody, and a
continual repetition of the same plaintive cadences, that soothed and
affected me.
The ambassador kept poring upon my countenance, and appeared much
delighted with the effect his music seemed to produce upon it. He is a
man of considerable talent, deeply skilled in Turkish literature; a
native of Bagdad; rich, munificent, and nobly born, being descended from
the house of Barmek; gracious in his address, smooth and plausible in
his elocution; but not without something like a spark of despotism in a
corner of his eye. Now and then I fancied that the recollection of
having recommended the bow-string, and certain doubts whether he might
not one day or other be complimented with it in his turn, passed across
his venerable and interesting physiognomy.
My eager questions about Bagdad, the tomb of Zobeida, the vestiges of
the Dhar al Khalifat, or palace of the Abbassides, seemed to excite a
thousand remembrances which gave him pleasure; and when I added a few
quotations from some of his favourite authors, particularly Mesihi, he
became so flowingly communicative, that a shrewd dapper Greek, called
Timoni, who acted as his most confidential interpreter, could hardly
keep pace with him.
Had not the hour of prayer arrived, our conversation might have lasted
till midnight. Rising up with much stateliness, he extended his arms to
bid me a good evening, and was assisted along by two good-looking
Georgian pages, to an adjoining chamber, where his secretaries,
dragoman, and attendants, were all assembled to perform their devotions,
each on his little carpet, as if in a mosque; and it was not unedifying
to witness the solemnity and abstractedness with which these devotions
were performed.