The public edifices of Lima, which are so closely connected with the
History of the Conquest, and the bloody revolutionary struggles of Peru,
have no other attributes, either in architectural beauty or position to
recommend them.
The Cathedral occupies nearly one side of the grand plaza; the exterior
is painfully decorated, without taste or system; within is a solid
silver altar, paintings of archbishops, and their earthly remains also,
mummified in leather, and reposing in open coffins.
The Viceroy's Palace fills the northern face of the square--a low,
irregular collection of buildings--the lower parts, fronting the plaza
and streets, occupied by small shopmen, similar to the hosts of tinkers,
fringemen, hatters, and cooks beneath the opposite ranges of the
_portales_. Opening into the inner courtyard are the public offices and
the private residence of the President, General Castilla. He was a
soldier of fortune, had risen from the ranks, and passed through many
vicissitudes of life before being chosen the supreme governor of Peru;
not more surprising probably even to himself, than the extraordinary
anomaly, that he has held his position the four years since the
election, without a revolution having arisen to disturb his
tranquillity. This security he owed, in a measure, to his individual
bravery and soldiership displayed in times past, and the belief
generally entertained by dissatisfied persons of his upright character,
and his indifference to execute summary vengeance on whomsoever should
incur his displeasure, by again involving the country in the turmoils of
civil discord.
The General and staff visited our frigate at Callao, and were received
with manned yards and the usual artillery. In person he was about the
middle stature, with a frank, bronzed face, and agreeable address.
Many curious objects are pointed out within, or in the vicinity of the
palace, rich in reminiscences of the Pizarros, and the tragic drama
connected with the life and death of the Conqueror--the room wherein he
was assassinated, and the balcony from whence he was afterwards hurled
by the Almagros.
The main Patio was thronged with troops of eager and expectant
cormorants, who, my informant stated, were gentlemen in waiting upon the
treasury--officers and _empleados_ with large salaries in
perspective--but, strange to say, the vaults were invariably empty; or,
in case there should be a surplus on hand, it is a description of money
composed of so base a metal that it will not pass for one-fifth the
nominal value out of Lima.
A national museum has lately been established--a small enterprise thus
far,--containing a few Cacique antiquities, Island weapons and
ornaments, a coat worn by Salaverry when he was murdered--bedabbled with
mud and blood--and the walls are hung with portraits of the forty-seven
Viceroys of Peru, but placed in so bad a light that, with few
exceptions, the features and expression of the different rulers were
indistinctly visible. They begin with Francisco Pizarro,[8] and are all
miserably executed specimens of painting, without grace or harmony, and
it would seem that the artists, in their anxiety to have them of a
uniform length, in the absence of correct notions of drawing, have
jammed heads and heels close up or down to the frames, leaving the
intermediate portions of the person harsh and ungainly.
The theatre is a mean edifice, and the immense rafters that uphold the
flat roof are apt to keep a nervous person in the pit somewhat anxious
and uneasy, anticipating a shock of the _tremblor_. It is sufficiently
commodious, but badly ventilated, dimly lighted, and without decorations
or scenic display. The first representation we attended was mediocrily
performed by an Italian troupe--there were three prima donnas--who,
apart from being ugly, which, of course, was no fault of theirs, were
regardless of taste or execution, and all strove to outshout the other.
Indeed, a fifth-rate artiste, coming so far abroad in these climes,
deems it imperative to take a tip-top part; besides, I have remarked
among opera people, that there is always a cruel Empressario, who
tyrannically will have something to say in the management of his
theatre--very much to the disgust of the performers, and who is,
moreover, expected to pay handsomely, even when the troupe cannot half
fill the house.
On the occasion referred to there were myriads of fleas, and what with
Beatrice di Tenda--a donna in red--we were fain to quit the opera.
Subsequently the performances were very creditable, and living in the
same house with the Contralto and handsome Barrytone, we became enlisted
in their clique, and did battle against the unreasonable manager. One
evening, whilst assisting at Linda di Charmouni, between the acts I was
sitting behind the scenes, in a temporarily-constructed saloon,
condoling with the interesting Contralto, sympathising with her griefs,
and admiring her open-worked clocked stockings--for she was costumed as
a Swiss peasant--and when nearly wound up to a pitch of desperate
frenzy, against the barbarous Empressario, the lady's tire woman tripped
in. _Signorina_, said she, _la scena_! The call-keeper's pipe chirped
musically. I flew to the front, and getting comfortably ensconced beside
a lovely Limenean, with a little mouth like a slit in a rose-leaf, up
flew the curtain. The scene was similar to one in Fra Diavolo, where
Antonio returns down the mountain-steep after an unsuccessful search for
the devil's brother; lots of peasants, flower-girls, and a horde of
attendants, had already ascended, together with the Contralto, and Linda
herself, who weighed fourteen stone. Tap! tap! led the orchestral baton.
Now began the _cavatina_. I was half entranced in melody, cigar-smoke,
and the smiles of her with the rose-leaf mouth, Dona Margarita, when, as
the sweet notes came trilling forth, in wreaths of exquisite
harmony--crash! scream! crash!--the platforms gave way! The prima donna
made a demi-volte, threw an involuntary summerset, and vanished
head-foremost through Mont Blanc, severely damaging the picturesque
village of Chamouni; our friend the Cantatrice, and the little slashed
trowsers and silk stockings, were seen plunging and struggling in an
Alpine torrent of pasteboard. All was tottering scenery, shrieking
supes, clouds of dust, terror, and confusion. Some villain had cut the
cords that upheld the mountain-pass. Our Contralto warbler escaped
without a blemish, but the unfortunate Prima was pulled out from beneath
the treacherous planks in hysterics, and borne off kicking violently in
the arms of stout peasants. Of course the play was ended: but there
nearly arose a revolution in Lima that night, for it was strongly urged
that the murderous Empressario had conspired against his troupe,
although, poor man, he swore until black in the visage, that he never
dreamed of so heinous a crime; and if he might be allowed a conjecture
he should say, that it had been a little ballet got up among the
_Cantatrici_ themselves, to get rid of performing for a week or two! but
no one believed him.
Our hotel was the _Fonda de los Banos_, the best in Lima--faint praise
this. It faces the cathedral in the plaza, and is a capital point of
view for strangers desirous of seeing the motley panorama of the city
from the balconies without mingling in the dust and fleas below. Our
host was an old, frowsy-wigged Frenchman, pleasant and conversible, who
made out the accounts with a crotchety style of caligraphy--fives and
nines hardly to be distinguished apart--although with never an error in
your favor in the arithmetical _calcule_ at bottom. The lady of the
mansion was a fine-looking, although _passee_ person, who presided at
table d'hote in _grand tenu_, and served coffee and _italia_ for
_chasse_, with a little dessert of _monte_, if called for in the
evening, at a side-table. Underneath the Fonda were billiard saloons and
cafes, with warm baths adjoining. This establishment was cared for by a
vivacious gentleman, extremely popular with navy men, named Senor
Zuderel. I would advise all homeless wanderers journeying towards Lima
to seek lodgings at this Caravanserai. I was pleased myself, and shall
ever bear Monsieur and Madame Morin in agreeable recollection, for a
correct knowledge of the world, tolerably well-served dinners, expensive
wines, and a just appreciation of the _sous entendu_.
It was my intention to have made a hasty visit to Churillos, a small
fishing village on the sea coast, where, at certain seasons, all the
world resort for bathing and gaming--both amusements carried on day and
night without cessation; but finding the time approaching for our
departure, after spending eight days at Lima, one afternoon I buried my
shoulders within a glaring red poncho--and was warned by Zuderel "not to
carry much money, for fear of the ladrones," which I considered purely a
supererogatory piece of advice, as any economical person may convince
himself after a few days visit only!--_El que bebe de las pilas se queda
en Lima_--He who drinks of the fountains will never leave Lima, is a
favorite proverb. Inasmuch as I had only sparingly indulged in the
delicious waters of the city, save when mingled with Bordeaux and pure
blocks of ice brought from the Andes, I cannot be said to have entirely
destroyed the truth of the adage; so, trotting leisurely through plaza
and streets--invoking a blessing from Our Lady--I pursued my ride beyond
the gates, steering for Callao. It was thus I departed from the
"Paradise of women, the purgatory of men, and hell of jackasses!"
We sailed for Valparaiso.
FOOTNOTE:
[8] This is the same portrait from which the engraving in Prescott's
Peru is taken, but the latter bears but a faint resemblance to the
original.