“A BOAT, A BOAT, MY KINGDOM FOR A BOAT!”--THE VICTIMS OF A TUNNY
FISH.--SENOR BENSAKEN SPEAKS HIS MIND, AND WE ARE
REPROVED.--RUNNING WATERS.--HOWLINGS OF TARSHISH.--PEPA’S FAMILY.
We had another amusing instance of Spanish _nonchalance_ at Malaga. The
original plan of our journey was this:--to see the galleries of Madrid,
the Moorish antiquities of Cordova, Seville, and Granada, and from the
south of Spain cross over to Oran, and visit the beautiful old city of
Tclemcen, the Granada of the West. But to get to Oran it was necessary
to obtain information about boats, and this seemed an undertaking simply
impossible. We ran hither and thither to the different steam-boat
offices; we telegraphed to head-quarters at Gibraltar; we wrote dozens
of letters of inquiry; we spent time, money, and patience; all availed
nothing. Sometimes a glimpse of something like hope was vouchsafed to
us. There was a weekly boat to Algeciras. There was a fortnightly boat
from Gibraltar to Oran; there was a surfeit of boats one day, the next
none at all. We were by turns advised to trust to the Algeciras boat,
the Gibraltar boat, the Cadiz boat, till we came to the disheartening
conclusion that we must give up Tclemcen altogether. No two statements
ever agreed, and in this state of uncertainty we went off to Granada.
At six o’clock in the afternoon the diligence was to start, a great
cumbersome vehicle divided into three compartments--berlina, coupé, and
rotunda, and drawn by nine splendid mules in gay harness. We had taken
the precaution to engage the berlina to ourselves,--a precaution I
should earnestly recommend to all travellers who visit Spain before the
completion of the railways brings back another age of gold. The berlina
is a small compartment containing three seats and numerous little bags
and hooks for the stowage of small baggage; it is somewhat narrow, it is
true, and an imprisonment of fifteen hours within such a compass, not a
pleasant ordeal to go through. But what is that to the inconveniences of
the rotunda, where you are crowded and cramped so that you cannot stir a
limb, where you are stifled with smoke and deafened with the noise of
voices, where you are poisoned by foul air and bad smells, and where you
are subject to tyranny a thousand times worse than that of fleas? We had
been forewarned of these things in time, and were thus enabled to
perform the wearisome night-journey to Granada without too much fatigue.
The first part of it was amusing enough. We drove out of the town with a
tremendous dash; and as we had a coachman, a postilion, and a runner to
urge the mules on, no wonder that we got on very fast. The journey was
all up-hill, and the diligence was heavily laden; but the mules seemed
so anxious to go fast that one might have fancied a pack of wolves was
at their heels. The runner had a very bad time of it. He seemed to know
every mule by name, and made the most extraordinary noises to urge his
beasts on. Every now and then he sprang on to the step and rested
awhile; then, on a sudden, just as the mules were slackening their pace
a little, he would jump to the ground, crack his whip, and utter the
most diabolical sounds.
The night was starlight, and we were able to see something of the wild
country through which we passed. At regular intervals we came upon a
couple of _guardia civile_, or gendarmes, standing on each side of the
road. They were motionless as statues and looked very brigand-like in
their fierce sombreros, hanging cloaks, and tight-fitting gaiters. One
of these _guardia civile_, well-armed, always accompanies the diligence,
though the road is considered safe. Our escort was a thin,
cadaverous-looking, but soldierly man, who alighted whenever we changed
horses, to smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of chocolate, or glass of
water. Spaniards seem to live on cigarettes and chocolate.
At five o’clock in the morning we stopped at a posada for nearly an
hour, and very refreshing it was to stretch one’s limbs and breathe the
cool mountain air. The posada was an enormous rambling old place, but
quiet and clean. The landlord showed us, with other travellers, into a
room with a little fire, and very civilly promised us chocolate. There
were two Englishmen among the rest who bitterly complained of the coupé.
“Think of it,” they said, “we took the coupé to ourselves, and have had
such horrid company all the way--a big, strong-smelling, dried
tunny-fish!”
“Perhaps it will be taken out here,” I said, consolingly.
They shrugged their shoulders in a very low-spirited fashion and one
replied despairingly,--
“It’s ticketed to Granada, so there’s no chance for us. Five hours
longer of it! It’s enough to drive one mad.”
It was certainly enough to drive one into a very evil temper. The smell
of salted tunny-fish is nearly as bad as anything in the way of smells
can be, and reminds one of those odious combinations with which clever
chemists once proposed to supersede shot and shell in driving away one’s
enemies. The victims in this instance were very long-suffering, and
seemed to forget their troubles in a cigarette. They, too, ordered
chocolate, but, like ourselves, had to wait for it.
At the last moment, just as the diligence was ready to start, came
cakes and chocolate, and after hastily swallowing a little of both, we
entered our berlina. Here another amusing scene occurred. At the
tail-end of the last moment, such packages as were addressed to Loja,
the name of our halting-place, had to be brought from the roof to the
diligence. Amongst others, was a light deal-box, which, by some
mismanagement or other, fell with an awful crash into the gutter! Out
came, as if by magic, all the paraphernalia of some poor little maiden’s
wardrobe and belongings: mantilla, gloves, dresses, slippers,
needle-work, chocolate-boxes, love-letters tied up with ribbon, missal,
rosary,--all lay sucking up the mire in inextricable confusion. Driver,
postilion, landlord, and gendarme, stood still, looking overwhelmed and
hopeless. After some minutes the driver picked up a glove, the postilion
a shoe, the landlord a love-letter, the gendarme a thimble. Then, as if
by mutual consent, they slowly and patiently rescued the miry treasures,
stopping now and then to sigh over the ruinous condition of each. It was
a very humble little outfit, doubtless of some nursemaid or milliner’s
apprentice, which made the accident all the more deplorable, and I
daresay many of those muddy spots were washed out by tears alone. No one
grumbled at the delay, and no one seemed to think that the reason of it
was not a legitimate one. How unlike our English promptitude and bustle!
It was quite touching to see the concern of the stately gendarme when he
took up a neck-ribbon the beauty of which was gone for ever. “_La
pobrecita! La pobrecita!_ (Poor little thing! poor little thing!) she’ll
never be able to wear that again,” he ejaculated.
When everything had been replaced in the broken box, we went on. Now
came the tiresome part of the journey. The early morning air was very
cold, the road monotonous, and the berlina seemed to become narrower and
more suffocating every league we went.
At last we reached Granada. At first sight we were disappointed with the
aspect of the place; and indeed Cordova and Toledo are infinitely more
impressive as approached by the ordinary road, but afterwards our
preconceived ideas were a hundred-fold realised.
Crowds of beggars, the halt, the lame, and the blind, surrounded the
diligence, and it was with some difficulty we got out. Some of the
beggars were of loathsome appearance, victims of horrible disease and
depravity, and all were terribly importunate. Amongst the crowd was a
tall, thin, poor-looking old man, wrapped in a shabby Spanish cloak, who
came up to us at once and said in excellent English, “How much baggage
have you, ladies?” and on our replying, busied himself with it, and with
us, in a way that seemed a little unwarrantable. Commissionnaires and
guides stick to you like leeches, and we had determined to employ
Bensaken, the well-known cicerone of Ford, of Owen Jones, and of
hundreds of travellers. This old man looked more like a beggar than
anything else, and, but for his proud manner, I think I should have
bribed him with a few cuartos to go away. As it was, I sent a little lad
after a fiacre, and managed my luggage myself, not feeling inclined to
accept anonymous services, after having heard such golden reports of
Emmanuel Bensaken. Our old friend, however, seated himself on the box,
and not thinking it worth while to deprive him of the pleasure of the
drive, we said nothing, and drove off.
Never was a hotel so enchantingly situated as the Hotel Ortiz, to which
we had been recommended.
The Hotel Ortiz stands in the Alhambra gardens. The windows let in
golden sunshine, and you look over bright yellow avenues of elms and
panoramic views of plain and mountain. The Alhambra is quite near. Here
you have a glimpse of battlement, superb in colour and outline, there a
tower. The air is light, and warm, and balmy. Everybody has a pleasant
smile and a brisk air, and goes about singing. The rooms are sunny, and
have charming views, and the Alhambra is close by! It seems too good to
be true.
After a bath and some excellent tea and bread and butter, the first we
had tasted in Spain, and a little rest, we asked for Señor Bensaken.
Señor Bensaken was in the house, and would wait upon the Señoras at
once, was the reply. After waiting an hour, again we asked for Bensaken.
“Has he not been?” was the surprised answer. “We sent him to you long
ago.” But no Bensaken appeared, and as it was now late in the
afternoon, we gave up all idea of seeing the Alhambra that day, and
strolled into the gardens instead.
I should say there is no lovelier time than autumn for these beautiful
avenues of tall elms, these shelving banks and trickling streams. The
melancholy of the season harmonizes with the melancholy of this place;
and the setting suns bestow a blood-red pomp, as of a battle-field, upon
the glorious plain of the Vega.
The great charm of the Alhambra gardens is the constant purling and
plashing of water. You never lose sight or sound of this purling and
plashing of melted snow charmed from cool haunts in the Sierra Nevada,
and both sight and sound grow upon you like sweet music. The
flower-beds, once so carefully kept, are now sadly neglected, but the
borders of myrtle and violets are lovely in neglect, and the orange and
lemon trees bear blossom and fruit as of old. We lingered till sunset,
when the old towers and the yellow forest of elm-trees, were burnished
to the hue of brightly-polished copper, and the plain below was flecked
with deep shadows, black and purple, and golden. Beyond rose the blue
and grey mountains of the Sierra Nevada, their crests shining with the
silvery brightness of everlasting snow, in a belt of rosy sky. It was a
scene of enchantment.
When we returned to our hotel, we were informed that Bensaken awaited us
in the corridor, or _salle à manger_; what was our surprise to find
Bensaken, the renowned guide, and our old friend in the threadbare
cloak, one and the same person!
“Why, Señor Bensaken,” we said, “you should have introduced yourself to
us at first. We had no idea it was you, or we should have engaged you as
guide on the spot.”
The old man was evidently much offended with us.
“Señora,” he said, “it is not my habit to push myself in where I am not
wanted, and you preferred to employ that Spanish boy. _Corriente!_ you
had to please yourselves.”
“But,” we urged, “how could we know that you were Señor Bensaken? Why
did you not give us your card? We had come to Granada with the intention
of employing no other guide but Bensaken. We sent for you this
afternoon, and you did not come.” He had evidently stayed away out of
displeasure, and we found it very difficult to heal the sore of which we
felt so innocent. At last, growing a little impatient, we said
sharply,--
“Señor Bensaken, it is really through your own stupidity, and no fault
of ours, that this mistake occurred. If you are willing to act as guide
to us, we are willing to engage you, and let the matter end.”
The matter did end, and Señor Bensaken became our cicerone. He is a very
old man, stiff in manner, aristocratic in appearance, and very
entertaining when the mood takes him; full of stories of the great men
he has known, Longfellow, Irving, and others. His English is wonderfully
elegant, and he speaks several European languages, besides Arabic. But
travellers must make haste to Granada who wish to secure his services,
for he is in the sere and yellow leaf, and he coughs terribly.
The next day being Sunday, the Alhambra was not open, so we went to see
the Cathedral and the Carthusian Convent. The Convent is very rich in
inlaid doors and altars of silver, ebony, and tortoise-shell, and is
curious in many respects. On the cloister walls are some paintings that
Spanish guides show English tourists with sly looks. They represent the
persecutions of the English Carthusians by Henry VIII., and one finds
the same subject illustrated in other Carthusian convents, which is but
natural. Lutheran bigotry still appears to the orthodox Spaniard as
dreadful as it then was. The youthful Spanish mind is as vigorously
infused with a hatred and fear of heresy as ever, and in the history of
Spain used for schools and institutions of the second instruction (_Los
Institutos y Colegios de segunda enseñanza_) occur such passages as
these:--
“Por los Paises Bajos prosperaban,
Los odiosos errores de Lutero.”
(The odious errors of Luther were prospering in the Low Countries.)
There is a charming view from the terrace of the convent, which,
perhaps, repays the traveller for his trouble more than anything to be
seen within its walls. The Cathedral every one will naturally visit, on
account of the superb monuments of Ferdinand and Isabella. Mass was
going on when we entered, and we could not but notice the terribly
irreverent behaviour of the congregation, the choristers, and acolytes.
They had, some of them, vicious faces, and all stared about and
whispered to each other, and behaved as if they were at a bull-fight.
In the afternoon we drove on the Alameda, very gay at this hour, with a
band playing, and ladies promenading, as a Spanish author says, in all
their “atractivos;” officers darting past on pretty Andalusian horses,
and all the world of Granada out for a holiday.
Granada is very conservative,--_Españolisimo_ still to the backbone,
which is rather trying to a traveller’s patience. In spite of the annual
influx of foreigners, a foreigner is still stared at and commented on.
If you sit down to make a sketch, you are sure to have an obtrusive
crowd around you, and I don’t think English ladies could walk with
comfort in the town unless accompanied by a guide. At least, we were
advised not to try it. It is not that the common people are malicious,
but they are so childishly astonished at the sight of strangers, that
you feel as if you were a bear being led through a country-town on fair
day. Every one has something to say about the bear.
Some of the people were, nevertheless, delightful, the family at the
Ortiz, for example. The father acted as cook, the mother as
house-keeper, the daughters as chambermaids, and the son as waiter. All
were kindly, intelligent, and as gay as larks from morning till night.
There was always singing in the house and garden, the same monotonous
Arab singing we used to hear at Toledo and Cordova, but here, in
sprightly Andalusia, it was infinitely improved upon. The daughters of
the house were very pretty, with bright eyes, small regular features,
elegant little figures, and great vivacity of expression. One was
married, and had a dear little girl, about three, who used to greet us
with an English “good morning!” she had learned somewhere. When their
work was done, and it seemed done very early in the day, the sisters
used to sit on the doorsteps, a friend or two would join them, and what
with gossip, needle-work, and singing, they had a merry time of it.
The hotel was quite a little paradise of pleasantness and comfort. From
every window were long views of the Alhambra walls and garden; there
were very few visitors excepting ourselves, so that we had the _salle à
manger_ to ourselves, and the people were so kind and careful of our
comfort that we could willingly have stayed a month.
Though we were already in December the weather was perfect, soft,
golden, and balmy. We were glad of a little wood fire at night, but
could have roamed about all day without our bonnets on. Roses and
geraniums blossomed in the garden; and, whenever we walked out, little
Murillo-like boys offered us bunches of violets.
Before entering the charmed precincts of the Alhambra I must mention a
horrifying scene we witnessed just outside our windows. It was a
pauper’s funeral. We were warned of its approach by the sound of loud
talking and laughter, and, on looking out, saw a wretched coffin borne
by four men, smoking cigarettes, followed by a few lookers-on, all
appearing equally unconcerned, and preceded by two or three men, who
were, I suppose, the mourners, bearing lighted candles in their hands.
There was no priest, no pall, no semblance of decency, and by-and-by our
disgust was increased to the last pitch by the bearers setting the
coffin on the bank, and leaning on it to rest themselves!
There is no sort of respect for death in Spain. The body of the pauper
is carried to the cemetery in a coffin that belongs to the parish, and
is thrust sometimes almost naked into a hole. The priests do not perform
burial-service except for those who can afford to pay for it; they read
a short service over the body in the church; and when once that ceremony
is over, there is no more regard shown for the dead than for the
slaughtered horse at a bull-fight. It is horrible.
[Illustration: text decoration]
[Illustration: text decoration]