Villafranca—The Pass—Gallegan Simplicity—The Frontier Guard—The
Horse-shoe—Gallegan Peculiarities—A Word on Language—The Courier—Wretched
Cabins—Host and Guests—Andalusians.
“Ave Maria,” said the woman; “whom have we here? This is not Gil the
clockmaker.” “Whether it be Gil or Juan,” said I, “we are in need of
your hospitality, and can pay for it.” Our first care was to stable the
horses, who were much exhausted. We then went in search of some
accommodation for ourselves. The house was large and commodious, and,
having tasted a little water, I stretched myself on the floor of one of
the rooms on some mattresses which the woman produced, and in less than a
minute was sound asleep.
The sun was shining bright when I awoke. I walked forth into the
market-place, which was crowded with people. I looked up, and could see
the peaks of tall black mountains peeping over the tops of the houses.
The town lay in a deep hollow, and appeared to be surrounded by hills on
almost every side. “_Quel pays barbare_!” said Antonio, who now joined
me; “the farther we go, my master, the wilder everything looks. I am
half afraid to venture into Galicia; they tell me that to get to it we
must clamber up those hills: the horses will founder.” Leaving the
marketplace, I ascended the wall of the town, and endeavoured to discover
the gate by which we should have entered the preceding night; but I was
not more successful in the bright sunshine than in the darkness. The
town in the direction of Astorga appeared to be hermetically sealed.
I was eager to enter Galicia, and finding that the horses were to a
certain extent recovered from the fatigue of the journey of the preceding
day, we again mounted and proceeded on our way. Crossing a bridge, we
presently found ourselves in a deep gorge amongst the mountains, down
which rushed an impetuous rivulet, overhung by the high-road which leads
into Galicia. We were in the far-famed pass of Fuencebadon.
It is impossible to describe this pass or the circumjacent region, which
contains some of the most extraordinary scenery in all Spain; a feeble
and imperfect outline is all that I can hope to effect. The traveller
who ascends it follows for nearly a league the course of the torrent,
whose banks are in some places precipitous, and in others slope down to
the waters, and are covered with lofty trees, oaks, poplars, and
chestnuts. Small villages are at first continually seen, with low walls,
and roofs formed of immense slates, the eaves nearly touching the ground;
these hamlets, however, gradually become less frequent as the path grows
more steep and narrow, until they finally cease at a short distance
before the spot is attained where the rivulet is abandoned, and is no
more seen, though its tributaries may yet be heard in many a gully, or
descried in tiny rills dashing down the steeps. Everything here is wild,
strange, and beautiful: the hill up which winds the path towers above on
the right, whilst on the farther side of a profound ravine rises an
immense mountain, to whose extreme altitudes the eye is scarcely able to
attain; but the most singular feature of this pass are the hanging fields
or meadows which cover its sides. In these, as I passed, the grass was
growing luxuriantly, and in many the mowers were plying their scythes,
though it seemed scarcely possible that their feet could find support on
ground so precipitous; above and below were driftways, so small as to
seem threads along the mountain side. A car, drawn by oxen, is creeping
round yon airy eminence; the nearer wheel is actually hanging over the
horrid descent; giddiness seizes the brain, and the eye is rapidly
withdrawn. A cloud intervenes, and when again you turn to watch their
progress, the objects of your anxiety have disappeared. Still more
narrow becomes the path along which you yourself are toiling, and its
turns more frequent. You have already come a distance of two leagues,
and still one-third of the ascent remains unsurmounted. You are not yet
in Galicia; and you still hear Castilian, coarse and unpolished, it is
true, spoken in the miserable cabins placed in the sequestered nooks
which you pass by in your route.
Shortly before we reached the summit of the pass thick mists began to
envelope the tops of the hills, and a drizzling rain descended. “These
mists,” said Antonio, “are what the Gallegans call _bretima_; and it is
said there is never any lack of them in their country.” “Have you ever
visited the country before?” I demanded. “_Non_, _mon maître_; but I
have frequently lived in houses where the domestics were in part
Gallegans, on which account I know not a little of their ways, and even
something of their language.” “Is the opinion which you have formed of
them at all in their favour?” I inquired. “By no means, _mon maître_;
the men in general seem clownish and simple, yet they are capable of
deceiving the most clever _filou_ of Paris; and as for the women, it is
impossible to live in the same house with them, more especially if they
are _camareras_, and wait upon the _señora_; they are continually
breeding dissensions and disputes in the house, and telling tales of the
other domestics. I have already lost two or three excellent situations
in Madrid, solely owing to these Gallegan chambermaids. We have now come
to the frontier, _mon maître_, for such I conceive this village to be.”
We entered the village, which stood on the summit of the mountain, and,
as our horses and ourselves were by this time much fatigued, we looked
round for a place in which to obtain refreshment. Close by the gate
stood a building which, from the circumstance of a mule or two and a
wretched pony standing before it, we concluded was the _posada_, as in
effect it proved to be. We entered: several soldiers were lolling on
heaps of coarse hay, with which the place, which much resembled a stable,
was half filled. All were exceedingly ill-looking fellows, and very
dirty. They were conversing with each other in a strange-sounding
dialect, which I supposed to be Gallegan. Scarcely did they perceive us
when two or three of them, starting from their couch, ran up to Antonio,
whom they welcomed with much affection, calling him _companheiro_. “How
came you to know these men?” I demanded in French: “_Ces messieurs sont
presque tous de ma connoissance_,” he replied, “_et_, _entre nous_, _ce
sont de __véritables vauriens_; they are almost all robbers and
assassins. That fellow with one eye, who is the corporal, escaped a
little time ago from Madrid, more than suspected of being concerned in an
affair of poisoning; but he is safe enough here in his own country, and
is placed to guard the frontier, as you see? but we must treat them
civilly, _man maître_; we must give them wine, or they will be offended.
I know them, _mon maître_—I know them. Here, hostess, bring an _azumbre_
of wine.”
Whilst Antonio was engaged in treating his friends, I led the horses to
the stable; this was through the house, inn, or whatever it might be
called. The stable was a wretched shed, in which the horses sank to
their fetlocks in mud and puddle. On inquiring for barley, I was told
that I was now in Galicia, where barley was not used for provender, and
was very rare. I was offered in lieu of it Indian corn, which, however,
the horses ate without hesitation. There was no straw to be had; coarse
hay, half green, being the substitute. By trampling about in the mud of
the stable my horse soon lost a shoe, for which I searched in vain. “Is
there a blacksmith in the village?” I demanded of a shock-headed fellow
who officiated as ostler.
_Ostler_.—_Si_, _Senhor_; {347} but I suppose you have brought horseshoes
with you, or that large beast of yours cannot be shod in this village.
_Myself_.—What do you mean? Is the blacksmith unequal to his trade?
Cannot he put on a horseshoe?
_Ostler_.—_Si_, _Senhor_; he can put on a horseshoe, if you give it him;
but there are no horseshoes in Galicia, at least in these parts.
_Myself_.—Is it not customary, then, to shoe the horses in Galicia?
_Ostler_.—_Senhor_, there are no horses in Galicia, there are only
ponies; and those who bring horses to Galicia—and none but madmen ever
do—must bring shoes to fit them; only shoes of ponies are to be found
here.
_Myself_.—What do you mean by saying that only madmen bring horses to
Galicia?
_Ostler_.—_Senhor_, no horse can stand the food of Galicia and the
mountains of Galicia long, without falling sick; and then, if he does not
die at once, he will cost you in farriers more than he is worth.
Besides, a horse is of no use here, and cannot perform amongst the broken
ground the tenth part of the service which a little pony mare can.
By-the-by, _Senhor_, I perceive that yours is an entire horse; now out of
twenty ponies that you see on the roads of Galicia, nineteen are mares;
the males are sent down into Castile to be sold. _Senhor_, your horse
will become heated on our roads, and will catch the bad glanders, for
which there is no remedy. _Senhor_, a man must be mad to bring any horse
to Galicia, but twice mad to bring an _entero_, as you have done.
“A strange country this of Galicia,” said I, and went to consult with
Antonio.
It appeared that the information of the ostler was literally true with
regard to the horseshoe; at least, the blacksmith of the village, to whom
we conducted the animal, confessed his inability to shoe him, having none
that would fit his hoof. He said it was very probable that we should be
obliged to lead the animal to Lugo, which being a cavalry station, we
might perhaps find there what we wanted. He added, however, that the
greatest part of the cavalry soldiers were mounted on the ponies of the
country, the mortality amongst the horses brought from the level ground
into Galicia being frightful. Lugo was ten leagues distant: there
seemed, however, to be no remedy at hand but patience, and, having
refreshed ourselves, we proceeded, leading our horses by the bridle.
We were now on level ground, being upon the very top of one of the
highest mountains in Galicia. This level continued for about a league,
when we began to descend. Before we had crossed the plain, which was
overgrown with furze and brushwood, we came suddenly upon half a dozen
fellows, armed with muskets, and wearing a tattered uniform. We at first
supposed them to be banditti: they were, however, only a party of
soldiers, who had been detached from the station we had just quitted to
escort one of the provincial posts or couriers. They were clamorous for
cigars, but offered us no further incivility. Having no cigars to
bestow, I gave them in lieu thereof a small piece of silver. Two of the
worst looking were very eager to be permitted to escort us to Nogales,
the village where we proposed to spend the night. “By no means permit
them, _mon maître_,” said Antonio. “They are two famous assassins of my
acquaintance; I have known them at Madrid. In the first ravine they will
shoot and plunder us.” I therefore civilly declined their offer and
departed. “You seem to be acquainted with all the cut-throats in
Galicia,” said I to Antonio, as we descended the hill.
“With respect to those two fellows,” he replied, “I knew them when I
lived as cook in the family of General Q---, who is a Gallegan: they were
sworn friends of the _repostero_. All the Gallegans in Madrid know each
other, whether high or low makes no difference; there, at least, they are
all good friends, and assist each other on all imaginable occasions; and
if there be a Gallegan domestic in a house, the kitchen is sure to be
filled with his countrymen, as the cook frequently knows to his cost, for
they generally contrive to eat up any little perquisites which he may
have reserved for himself and family.”
Somewhat less than halfway down the mountain we reached a small village.
On observing a blacksmith’s shop, we stopped, in the faint hope of
finding a shoe for the horse, who, for want of one, was rapidly becoming
lame. To our great joy we found that the smith was in possession of one
single horseshoe, which some time previously he had found upon the way.
This, after undergoing much hammering and alteration, was pronounced by
the Gallegan Vulcan to be capable of serving in lieu of a better;
whereupon we again mounted, and slowly continued our descent.
Shortly ere sunset we arrived at Nogales, a hamlet situate in a narrow
valley at the foot of the mountain, in traversing which we had spent the
day. Nothing could be more picturesque than the appearance of this spot:
steep hills, thickly clad with groves and forests of chestnuts,
surrounded it on every side; the village itself was almost embowered in
trees, and close beside it ran a purling brook. Here we found a
tolerably large and commodious _posada_.
I was languid and fatigued, but felt little desire to sleep. Antonio
cooked our supper, or rather his own, for I had no appetite. I sat by
the door, gazing at the wood-covered heights above me, or on the waters
of the rivulet, occasionally listening to the people who lounged about
the house, conversing in the country dialect. What a strange tongue is
the Gallegan, with its half-singing, half-whining accent, and with its
confused jumble of words from many languages, but chiefly from the
Spanish and Portuguese! {351} “Can you understand this conversation?” I
demanded of Antonio, who had by this time rejoined me. “I cannot, _mon
maître_,” he replied; “I have acquired at various times a great many
words amongst the Gallegan domestics in the kitchens where I have
officiated as cook, but am quite unable to understand any long
conversation. I have heard the Gallegans say that in no two villages is
it spoken in one and the same manner, and that very frequently they do
not understand each other. The worst of this language is, that everybody
on first hearing it thinks that nothing is more easy than to understand
it, as words are continually occurring which he has heard before; but
these merely serve to bewilder and puzzle him, causing him to
misunderstand everything that is said; whereas, if he were totally
ignorant of the tongue, he would occasionally give a shrewd guess at what
was meant, as I myself frequently do when I hear Basque spoken, though
the only word which I know of that language is _jaunguicoa_.”
As the night closed in I retired to bed, where I remained four or five
hours, restless and tossing about, the fever of Leon still clinging to my
system. It was considerably past midnight when, just as I was sinking
into a slumber, I was aroused by a confused noise in the village, and the
glare of lights through the lattice of the window of the room where I
lay; presently entered Antonio, half dressed. “_Mon maître_,” said he,
“the grand post from Madrid to Corunna has just arrived in the village,
attended by a considerable escort, and an immense number of travellers.
The road, they say, between here and Lugo is infested with robbers and
Carlists, who are committing all kinds of atrocities; let us, therefore,
avail ourselves of the opportunity, and by midday to-morrow we shall find
ourselves safe in Lugo.” On hearing these words, I instantly sprang out
of bed and dressed myself, telling Antonio to prepare the horses with all
speed.
We were soon mounted and in the street, amidst a confused throng of men
and quadrupeds. The light of a couple of flambeaus, which were borne
before the courier, shone on the arms of several soldiers, seemingly
drawn up on either side of the road; the darkness, however, prevented me
from distinguishing objects very clearly. The courier himself was
mounted on a little shaggy pony; before and behind him were two immense
portmanteaus, or leather sacks, the ends of which nearly touched the
ground. For about a quarter of an hour there was much hubbub, shouting,
and trampling, at the end of which period the order was given to proceed.
Scarcely had we left the village when the flambeaus were extinguished,
and we were left in almost total darkness; for some time we were amongst
woods and trees, as was evident from the rustling of leaves on every
side. My horse was very uneasy and neighed fearfully, occasionally
raising himself bolt upright. “If your horse is not more quiet,
cavalier, we shall be obliged to shoot him,” said a voice in an
Andalusian accent; “he disturbs the whole cavalcade.” “That would be a
pity, sergeant,” I replied, “for he is a Cordovese by the four sides; he
is not used to the ways of this barbarous country.” “Oh, he is a
Cordovese,” said the voice; “_vaya_, I did not know that; I am from
Cordova myself. _Pobrecito_! let me pat him—yes, I know by his coat that
he is my countryman. Shoot him, indeed! _vaya_, I would fain see the
Gallegan devil who would dare to harm him. Barbarous country, _yo lo
creo_: {353} neither oil nor olives, bread nor barley. You have been at
Cordova. _Vaya_; oblige me, cavalier, by taking this cigar.”
In this manner we proceeded for several hours, up hill and down dale, but
generally at a very slow pace. The soldiers who escorted us from time to
time sang patriotic songs, breathing love and attachment to the young
Queen Isabel, and detestation of the grim tyrant Carlos. One of the
stanzas which reached my ears ran something in the following style:—
“Don Carlos is a hoary churl,
Of cruel heart and cold;
But Isabel’s a harmless girl,
Of only six years old.”
At last the day began to break, and I found myself amidst a train of two
or three hundred people, some on foot, but the greater part mounted,
either on mules or the pony mares: I could not distinguish a single horse
except my own and Antonio’s. A few soldiers were thinly scattered along
the road. The country was hilly, but less mountainous and picturesque
than the one which we had traversed the preceding day; it was for the
most part partitioned into small fields, which were planted with maize.
At the distance of every two or three leagues we changed our escort, at
some village where was stationed a detachment. The villages were mostly
an assemblage of wretched cabins; the roofs were thatched, dank, and
moist, and not unfrequently covered with rank vegetation. There were
dung-hills before the doors, and no lack of pools and puddles. Immense
swine were stalking about, intermingled with naked children. The
interior of the cabins corresponded with their external appearance: they
were filled with filth and misery.
We reached Lugo about two hours past noon. During the last two or three
leagues I became so overpowered with weariness, the result of want of
sleep and my late illness, that I was continually dozing in my saddle, so
that I took but little notice of what was passing. We put up at a large
_posada_ without the wall of the town, built upon a steep bank, and
commanding an extensive view of the country towards the east. Shortly
after our arrival, the rain began to descend in torrents, and continued
without intermission during the next two days, which was, however, to me
but a slight source of regret, as I passed the entire time in bed, and I
may almost say in slumber. On the evening of the third day I arose.
There was much bustle in the house, caused by the arrival of a family
from Corunna; they came in a large jaunting car, escorted by four
carabineers. The family was rather numerous, consisting of a father,
son, and eleven daughters, the eldest of whom might be about eighteen. A
shabby-looking fellow, dressed in a jerkin and wearing a high-crowned
hat, attended as domestic. They arrived very wet and shivering, and all
seemed very disconsolate, especially the father, who was a well-looking
middle-aged man. “Can we be accommodated?” he demanded in a gentle voice
of the man of the house; “can we be accommodated in this _fonda_?”
“Certainly, your worship,” replied the other; “our house is large. How
many apartments does your worship require for your family?”
“One will be sufficient,” replied the stranger.
The host, who was a gouty personage and leaned upon a stick, looked for a
moment at the traveller, then at every member of his family, not
forgetting the domestic, and, without any farther comment than a slight
shrug, led the way to the door of an apartment containing two or three
flock beds, and which on my arrival I had objected to as being small,
dark, and incommodious; this he flung open, and demanded whether it would
serve.
“It is rather small,” replied the gentleman; “I think, however, that it
will do.”
“I am glad of it,” replied the host. “Shall we make any preparations for
the supper of your worship and family?”
“No, I thank you,” replied the stranger; “my own domestic will prepare
the slight refreshment we are in need of.”
The key was delivered to the domestic, and the whole family ensconced
themselves in their apartment: before, however, this was effected, the
escort were dismissed, the principal carabineer being presented with a
_peseta_. The man stood surveying the gratuity for about half a minute,
as it glittered in the palm of his hand; then with an abrupt _Vamos_! he
turned upon his heel, and without a word of salutation to any person,
departed with the men under his command.
“Who can these strangers be?” said I to the host, as we sat together in a
large corridor open on one side, and which occupied the entire front of
the house.
“I know not,” he replied, “but by their escort I suppose they are people
holding some official situation. They are not of this province, however,
and I more than suspect them to be Andalusians.”
In a few minutes the door of the apartment occupied by the strangers was
opened, and the domestic appeared, bearing a cruise in his hand. “Pray,
_Señor Patron_,” demanded he, “where can I buy some oil?”
“There is oil in the house,” replied the host, “if you want to purchase
any; but if, as is probable, you suppose that we shall gain a _cuarto_ by
selling it, you will find some over the way. It is as I suspected,”
continued the host, when the man had departed on his errand; “they are
Andalusians, and are about to make what they call _gazpacho_, on which
they will all sup. Oh, the meanness of these Andalusians! they are come
here to suck the vitals of Galicia, and yet envy the poor innkeeper the
gain of a _cuarto_ in the oil which they require for their _gazpacho_. I
tell you one thing, master, when that fellow returns, and demands bread
and garlic to mix with the oil, I will tell him there is none in the
house: as he has bought the oil abroad, so he may the bread and garlic;
ay, and the water too, for that matter.”