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 Angoulême
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, {180a} 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, {180b} 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 {181a} Isturitz {181b} 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. {181c}
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 out-voted 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 hará por usted el gusto_.” {183} 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?” “Oh 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 an 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 hará 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.
“Bu—” 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.
{186}
By this time the spring was far advanced; the sides, though not the tops,
of the Guadarrama hills had long since lost their snows; the trees of the
Prado had donned their full foliage, and all the _campiña_ 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 {187} 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
water-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 seashore; 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. “These 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_. {188} 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 some one 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
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 {190} 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_, {191} 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 right, my friend; I know of no occupation more
honourable or useful.”
“I have no thoughts of plying my trade at Lucerne,” replied Benedict;
“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 kurzem_, {192} 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 _Herzog_ 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 death-bed 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; {193a} 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_, {193b} and
says that if I desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to
me for ever. _Dem Gottsey Dank_, {193c} 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.