Departure for Cordova—Carmona—German Colonies—Language—The Sluggish
Horse—Nocturnal Welcome—Carlist Landlord—Good Advice—Gomez—The Old
Genoese—The Two Opinions.
After a sojourn of about fourteen days at Seville, I departed for
Cordova. The diligence had for some time past ceased running, owing to
the disturbed state of the province. I had therefore no resource but to
proceed thither on horseback. I hired a couple of horses, and engaged
the old Genoese, of whom I have already had occasion to speak, to attend
me as far as Cordova, and to bring them back. Notwithstanding we were
now in the depths of winter, the weather was beautiful, the days sunny
and brilliant, though the nights were rather keen. We passed by the
little town of Alcalá, {223} celebrated for the ruins of an immense
Moorish castle, which stand on a rocky hill, overhanging a picturesque
river. The first night we slept at Carmona, another Moorish town,
distant about seven leagues from Seville. Early in the morning we again
mounted and departed. Perhaps in the whole of Spain there is scarcely a
finer Moorish monument of antiquity than the eastern side of this town of
Carmona, which occupies the brow of a lofty hill, and frowns over an
extensive _vega_ or plain, which extends for leagues unplanted and
uncultivated, producing nothing but brushwood and _carrasco_. Here rise
tall and dusky walls, with square towers at short distances, of so
massive a structure that they would seem to bid defiance alike to the
tooth of time and the hand of man. This town, in the time of the Moors,
was considered the key to Seville, and did not submit to the Christian
arms till after a long and desperate siege: the capture of Seville
followed speedily after. The _vega_ upon which we now entered forms a
part of the grand _despoblado_ or desert of Andalusia, once a smiling
garden, but which became what it now is on the expulsion of the Moors
from Spain, when it was drained almost entirely of its population. The
towns and villages from hence to the Sierra Morena, which divides
Andalusia from La Mancha, are few and far between, and even of these
several date from the middle of the last century, when an attempt was
made by a Spanish minister to people this wilderness with the children of
a foreign land.
At about midday we arrived at a place called Moncloa, which consisted of
a _venta_, and a desolate-looking edifice which had something of the
appearance of a _château_; a solitary palm tree raised its head over the
outer wall. We entered the _venta_, tied our horses to the manger, and
having ordered barley for them, we sat down before a large fire, which
burned in the middle of the _venta_. The host and hostess also came and
sat down beside us. “They are evil people,” said the old Genoese to me
in Italian, “and this is an evil house; it is a harbouring place for
thieves, and murders have been committed here, if all tales be true.” I
looked at these two people attentively; they were both young, the man
apparently about twenty-five years of age. He was a short thick-made
churl, evidently of prodigious strength; his features were rather
handsome, but with a gloomy expression, and his eyes were full of sullen
fire. His wife somewhat resembled him, but had a countenance more open
and better tempered; but what struck me as most singular in connexion
with these people, was the colour of their hair and complexion. The
latter was fair and ruddy, and the former of a bright auburn, both in
striking contrast to the black hair and swarthy visages which in general
distinguish the natives of this province. “Are you an Andalusian?” said
I to the hostess. “I should almost conclude you to be a German.”
_Hostess_.—And your worship would not be very wrong. It is true that I
am a Spaniard, being born in Spain; but it is equally true that I am of
German blood, for my grandparents came from Germany even like those of
this gentleman, my lord and husband.
_Myself_.—And what chance brought your grandparents into this country?
_Hostess_.—Did your worship never hear of the German colonies? There are
many of them in these parts. In old times the land was nearly deserted,
and it was very dangerous for travellers to journey along the waste,
owing to the robbers. So a long time ago, nearly a hundred years, as I
am told, some potent lord sent messengers to Germany, to tell the people
there what a goodly land there was in these parts uncultivated for want
of hands, and to promise every labourer who would consent to come and
till it, a house and a yoke of oxen, with food and provision for one
year. And in consequence of this invitation a great many poor families
left the German land and came hither, and settled down in certain towns
and villages which had been prepared for them, which places were called
German colonies, and this name they still retain.
_Myself_.—And how many of these colonies may there be?
_Hostess_.—There are several, both on this side of Cordova and the other.
The nearest is Luisiana, about two leagues from hence, from which place
both my husband and myself come; the next is Carlota, {226} which is some
ten leagues distant, and these are the only colonies of our people which
I have seen; but there are others farther on, and some, as I have heard
say, in the very heart of the Sierra Morena.
_Myself_.—And do the colonists still retain the language of their
forefathers?
_Hostess_.—We speak Spanish, or rather Andalusian, and no other language.
A few, indeed, amongst the very old people, retain a few words of German,
which they acquired from their fathers, who were born in the other
country; but the last person amongst the colonists who could understand a
conversation in German was the aunt of my mother, who came over when a
girl. When I was a child I remember her conversing with a foreign
traveller, a countryman of hers, in a language which I was told was
German, and they understood each other, though the old woman confessed
that she had lost many words: she has now been dead several years.
_Myself_.—Of what religion are the colonists?
_Hostess_.—They are Christians, like the Spaniards, and so were their
fathers before them. Indeed, I have heard that they came from a part of
Germany where the Christian religion is as much practised as in Spain
itself.
_Myself_.—The Germans are the most honest people in the world: being
their legitimate descendants, you have of course no thieves amongst you.
The hostess glanced at me for a moment, then looked at her husband and
smiled: the latter, who had hitherto been smoking without uttering a
word, though with a peculiarly surly and dissatisfied countenance, now
flung the remainder of his cigar amongst the embers, then springing up,
he muttered, “_Disparate_!” and “_Conversacion_!” and went abroad.
“You touched them in the sore place, _Signore_,” said the Genoese, after
we had left Moncloa some way behind us. “Were they honest people they
would not keep that _venta_; and as for the colonists, I know not what
kind of people they might be when they first came over, but at present
their ways are not a bit better than those of the Andalusians, but rather
worse, if there is any difference at all.”
A short time before sunset of the third day after our departure from
Seville, we found ourselves at the Cuesta del Espinal, or hill of the
thorn tree, at about two leagues from Cordova;—we could just descry the
walls of the city, upon which the last beams of the descending luminary
were resting. As the neighbourhood in which we were was, according to
the account of my guide, generally infested with robbers, we used our
best endeavours to reach the town before the night should have entirely
closed in. We did not succeed, however, and before we had proceeded half
the distance, pitchy darkness overtook us. Throughout the journey we had
been considerably delayed by the badness of our horses, especially that
of my attendant, which appeared to pay no regard to whip or spur: his
rider also was no horseman, it being thirty years, as he at length
confessed to me, since he last mounted in a saddle. Horses soon become
aware of the powers of their riders, and the brute in question was
disposed to take great advantage of the fears and weakness of the old
man. There is a remedy, however, for most things in this world. I
became so wearied at last at the snail’s pace at which we were
proceeding, that I fastened the bridle of the sluggish horse to the
crupper of mine; then sparing neither spur nor cudgel, I soon forced my
own horse into a kind of trot, which compelled the other to make some use
of his legs. He twice attempted to fling himself down, to the great
terror of his aged rider, who frequently entreated me to stop and permit
him to dismount. I, however, took no notice of what he said, but
continued spurring and cudgelling with unabated activity, and with such
success, that in less than half an hour we saw lights close before us,
and presently came to a river and a bridge, which crossing, we found
ourselves at the gate of Cordova, without having broken either our
horses’ knees or our own necks.
We passed through the entire length of the town ere we reached the
_posada_: the streets were dark and almost entirely deserted. The
_posada_ was a large building, the windows of which were well fenced with
_rejas_, or iron grating: no light gleamed from them, and the silence of
death not only seemed to pervade the house, but the street in which it
was situated. We knocked for a long time at the gate without receiving
any answer; we then raised our voices and shouted. At last some one from
within inquired what we wanted. “Open the door and you will see,” we
replied. “I shall do no such thing,” answered the individual from
within, “until I know who you are.” “We are travellers,” said I, “from
Seville.”‘ “Travellers, are you?” said the voice; “why did you not tell
me so before? I am not porter at this house to keep out travellers.
Jesus Maria knows we have not so many of them that we need repulse any.
Enter, cavalier, and welcome, you and your company.”
He opened the gate and admitted us into a spacious courtyard, and then
forthwith again secured the gate with various bolts and bars. “Are you
afraid that the Carlists should pay you a visit,” I demanded, “that you
take so much precaution?” “It is not the Carlists we are afraid of,”
replied the porter; “they have been here already, and did us no damage
whatever. It is certain scoundrels of this town that we are afraid of,
who have a spite against the master of the house, and would murder both
him and his family, could they but find an opportunity.”
I was about to inquire the cause of this enmity, when a thick bulky man,
bearing a light in his hand, came running down a stone staircase, which
led into the interior of the building. Two or three females, also
bearing lights, followed him. He stopped on the lowest stair. “Whom
have we here?” he exclaimed; then advancing the lamp which he bore, the
light fell full upon my face. “_Ola_!” he exclaimed; “is it you? Only
think,” said he, turning to the female who stood next him, a
dark-featured person, stout as himself, and about his own age, which
might border upon fifty; “only think, my dear, that at the very moment we
were wishing for a guest, an Englishman should be standing before our
doors, for I should know an Englishman at a mile’s distance, even in the
dark. Juanito,” cried he to the porter, “open not the gate any more
to-night, whoever may ask for admission. Should the nationals come to
make any disturbance, tell them that the son of Belington {230} is in the
house ready to attack them sword in hand unless they retire; and should
other travellers arrive, which is not likely, inasmuch as we have seen
none for a month past, say that we have no room, all our apartments being
occupied by an English gentleman and his company.”
I soon found that my friend the _posadero_ was a most egregious Carlist.
Before I had finished supper—during which, both himself and all his
family were present, surrounding the little table at which I sat, and
observing my every motion, particularly the manner in which I handled my
knife and fork and conveyed the food to my mouth—he commenced talking
politics. “I am of no particular opinion, _Don Jorge_,” said he, for he
had inquired my name in order that he might address me in a suitable
manner; “I am of no particular opinion, and I hold neither for King
Carlos nor for the _chica_ Isabel: nevertheless, I lead the life of a dog
in this accursed _Cristino_ town, which I would have left long ago, had
it not been the place of my birth, and did I but know whither to betake
myself. Ever since the troubles have commenced, I have been afraid to
stir into the street, for no sooner do the _canaille_ of the town see me
turning round a corner, than they forthwith exclaim, ‘Halloo, the
Carlist!’ and then there is a run and a rush, and stones and cudgels are
in great requisition; so that unless I can escape home, which is no easy
matter, seeing that I weigh eighteen stone, my life is poured out in the
street, which is neither decent nor convenient, as I think you will
acknowledge, _Don Jorge_. You see that young man,” he continued,
pointing to a tall swarthy youth who stood behind my chair, officiating
as waiter; “he is my fourth son, is married, and does not live in the
house, but about a hundred yards down the street. He was summoned in a
hurry to wait upon your worship, as is his duty: know, however, that he
has come at the peril of his life. Before he leaves this house, he must
peep out into the street to see if the coast is clear, and then he must
run like a partridge to his own door. Carlists! why should they call my
family and myself Carlists? It is true that my eldest son was a friar,
and when the convents were suppressed, betook himself to the royal ranks,
in which he has been fighting upwards of three years; could I help that?
Nor was it my fault, I trow, that my second son enlisted with Gomez and
the royalists when they entered Cordova. God prosper him, I say; but I
did not bid him go! So far from being a Carlist, it was I who persuaded
this very lad who is present to remain here, though he would fain have
gone with his brother, for he is a brave lad and a true Christian. ‘Stay
at home,’ said I, ‘for what can I do without you? Who is to wait upon
the guests when it pleases God to send them? Stay at home, at least till
your brother, my third son, comes back; for, to my shame be it spoken,
Don Jorge, I have a son a soldier and a sergeant in the _Cristino_
armies, sorely against his own inclination, poor fellow, for he likes not
the military life, and I have been soliciting his discharge for years;
indeed, I have counselled him to maim himself, in order that he might
procure his liberty forthwith. So I said to this lad, ‘Stay at home, my
child, till your brother comes to take your place and prevent our bread
being eaten by strangers, who would perhaps sell me and betray me;’ so my
son staid at home, as you see, _Don Jorge_, at my request, and yet they
call me a Carlist!”
“Gomez and his bands have lately been in Cordova,” {232} said I; “of
course you were present at all that occurred: how did they comport
themselves?”
“Bravely well,” replied the innkeeper, “bravely well, and I wish they
were here still. I hold with neither side, as I told you before, _Don
Jorge_, but I confess I never felt greater pleasure in my life than when
they entered the gate. And then to see the dogs of nationals flying
through the streets to save their lives—that was a sight, _Don Jorge_.
Those who met me then at the corner forgot to shout, ‘_Hola_!
_Carlista_!’ and I heard not a word about cudgelling. Some jumped from
the wall and ran no one knows where, whilst the rest retired to the house
of the Inquisition, which they had fortified, and there they shut
themselves up. Now you must know, _Don Jorge_, that all the Carlist
chiefs lodged at my house—Gomez, Cabrera, and the Sawyer; and it chanced
that I was talking to my Lord Gomez in this very room in which we are
now, when in came Cabrera in a mighty fury—he is a small man, _Don
Jorge_, but he is as active as a wild cat and as fierce. ‘The
_canaille_,’ said he, ‘in the _Casa_ of the Inquisition refuse to
surrender; give but the order, general, and I will scale the walls with
my men, and put them all to the sword.’ But Gomez said, ‘No, we must not
spill blood if we can avoid it. Order a few muskets to be fired at them;
that will be sufficient!’ And so it proved, _Don Jorge_, for after a few
discharges their hearts failed them, and they surrendered at discretion:
whereupon their arms were taken from them, and they were permitted to
return to their own houses. But as soon as ever the Carlists departed,
these fellows became as bold as ever, and it is now once more, ‘_Hola_!
_Carlista_!’ when they see me turning the corner; and it is for fear of
them that my son must run like a partridge to his own home, now that he
has done waiting on your worship, lest they meet him in the street, and
kill him with their knives!”
“You tell me that you were acquainted with Gomez: what kind of man might
he be?”
“A middle-sized man,” replied the innkeeper; “grave and dark. But the
most remarkable personage in appearance of them all was the Sawyer: he is
a kind of giant, so tall, that when he entered the doorway he invariably
struck his head against the lintel. The one I liked least of all was one
Palillos, who is a gloomy savage ruffian, whom I knew when he was a
postilion. Many is the time that he has been at my house of old; he is
now captain of the Manchegan thieves, for, though he calls himself a
royalist, he is neither more nor less than a thief. It is a disgrace to
the cause that such as he should be permitted to mix with honourable and
brave men. I hate that fellow, _Don Jorge_: it is owing to him that I
have so few customers. Travellers are, at present, afraid to pass
through La Mancha, lest they fall into his hands. I wish he were hanged,
_Don Jorge_, and whether by _Cristinos_ or Royalists, I care not.”
“You recognized me at once for an Englishman,” said I; “do many of my
countrymen visit Cordova?”
“_Toma_!” said the landlord, “they are my best customers; I have had
Englishmen in this house of all grades, from the son of Belington to a
young _medico_, who cured my daughter, the _chica_ here, of the earache.
How should I not know an Englishman? There were two with Gomez, serving
as volunteers. _Vaya_: _que gente_! {234} what noble horses they rode,
and how they scattered their gold about! They brought with them a
Portuguese, who was much of a gentleman, but very poor; it was said that
he was one of Don Miguel’s people, and that these Englishmen supported
him for the love they bore to royalty. He was continually singing—
‘El Rey chegou—El Rey chegou,
E en Belem desembarcou!’ {235a}
Those were merry days, _Don Jorge_. By-the-by, I forgot to ask your
worship of what opinion you are?”
The next morning whilst I was dressing, the old Genoese entered my room:
“_Signore_,” said he, “I am come to bid you farewell. I am about to
return to Seville forthwith with the horses.”
“Wherefore in such a hurry?” I replied. “Assuredly you had better tarry
till to-morrow; both the animals and yourself require rest. Repose
yourselves to-day, and I will defray the expense.”
“Thank you, _Signore_, but we will depart forthwith, for there is no
tarrying in this house.”
“What is the matter with the house?” I inquired.
“I find no fault with the house,” replied the Genoese; “it is the people
who keep it of whom I complain. About an hour since, I went down to get
my breakfast, and there, in the kitchen, I found the master and all his
family. Well, I sat down and called for chocolate, which they brought
me, but ere I could despatch it, the master fell to talking politics. He
commenced by telling me that he held with neither side, but he is as rank
a Carlist as Carlos Quinto: {235b} for no sooner did he find that I was
of the other opinion than he glared at me like a wild beast. You must
know, _Signore_, that in the time of the old constitution I kept a
coffee-house at Seville, which was frequented by all the principal
liberals, and was, indeed, the cause of my ruin; for, as I admired their
opinions, I gave my customers whatever credit they required, both with
regard to coffee and liqueurs, so that by the time the constitution was
put down and despotism re-established, I had trusted them with all I had.
It is possible that many of them would have paid me, for I believe they
harboured no evil intention; but the persecution came, the liberals took
to flight, and, as was natural enough, thought more of providing for
their own safety than of paying me for my coffee and liqueurs;
nevertheless, I am a friend to their system, and never hesitate to say
so. So the landlord, as I told your worship before, when he found that I
was of this opinion, glared at me like a wild beast. ‘Get out of my
house,’ said he, ‘for I will have no spies here;’ and thereupon he spoke
disrespectfully of the young Queen Isabel and of Christina, who,
notwithstanding she is a Neapolitan, {236a} I consider as my
countrywoman. Hearing this, your worship, I confess that I lost my
temper and returned the compliment, by saying that Carlos was a knave,
and the Princess of Beira {236b} no better than she should be. I then
prepared to swallow the chocolate, but ere I could bring it to my lips,
the woman of the house, who is a still ranker Carlist than her husband,
if that be possible, coming up to me struck the cup into the air as high
as the ceiling, exclaiming, ‘Begone, dog of a _negro_; you shall taste
nothing more in my house. May you be hanged even as a swine is hanged!’
So your worship sees that it is impossible for me to remain here any
longer. I forgot to say that the knave of a landlord told me that you
had confessed yourself to be of the same politics as himself, or he would
not have harboured you.”
“My good man,” said I, “I am invariably of the politics of the people at
whose table I sit, or beneath whose roof I sleep; at least I never say
anything which can lead them to suspect the contrary; by pursuing which
system I have more than once escaped a bloody pillow, and having the wine
I drank spiced with sublimate.”