THE CITADEL.--BIARRITZ.--HOW THE VISITORS KILL TIME.--EN ROUTE FOR
SPAIN.--ST. JEAN DE LUZ.--HENDAYE.--THE BIDASSOA CROSSED.--WINTER
IN SPAIN.--IRUN.--CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICIALS.--ST. SEBASTIAN.--THE
ALAMEDA PROMENADE.--THE PLAIN OF VITTORIA.
When after breakfast we looked out of our window, we perceived on
the opposite side of the way a grim old castle, with little grated
windows sunk deep into its walls, like the eyes in a consumptive
face. And well, indeed, should that old building hide its eyes from
all creation, for did not its walls give shelter to the guilty trio
who planned within them the devilish scheme of the massacre of St.
Bartholomew,--the Duke of Alva, Catherine de' Medici, and her miserable
offspring, Charles IX.?
A walk about Bayonne brings to notice of course a great amount of
fortification, especially the citadel of Vauban, where Marshal Soult
and the Duke of Wellington fought very hard and sacrificed a great
number of the soldiers of their respective countries. Proceeding in
another direction outside the town, the tourist will come to a cemetery
where lie forgotten, mouldering in the dust of a foreign land, the
remains of the officers of the British guards who fell during the
fruitless siege of Bayonne. Down in a dim dell, amongst old trees
whispering a requiem in the breeze of falling night, we stood over
those solitary graves, near which there was no sign of life, and where
the brambles of the wilderness did their utmost to impede the tributary
footsteps of the two English pilgrims to this forgotten shrine of their
brave countrymen, on which the last beams of sunset threw what seemed
in imagination a bloody light.
On a fine southern morning, we climbed on to the top of a crazy
diligence, swinging in a very top-heavy and uncomfortable manner over
some very high wheels. The vehicle swayed to and fro in such a way
that the last carriage of an express train on the narrow gauge would
appear immovable compared with it. The _banquette_, with its hood,
in which we were travelling for pleasure, seemed quite overburdened
with politeness, and bowed in the most humble manner to everybody and
everything it met. We were now on our way to Biarritz, a place we
reached after an hour's drive in which there is nothing very remarkable
to attract the traveller's attention.
Biarritz is a town situated on the shores of the Bay of Biscay, and
consists chiefly of hotels and boarding-houses built on rocks. It is
peopled generally by emperors, waiters, hawkers of spurious Spanish
goods, and very idle ladies and gentlemen. Creatures like mermaids,
with their extremities encased in mackintosh, are seen nearly all day
long sporting about in the waters which break upon the yellow sand, and
dancing quadrilles in the sea with very odd-looking fish of the male
gender, also swathed in curious garments, which cause them at a little
distance to resemble very badly rolled-up umbrellas, or an imperfect
class of sausages. Barring the bathing, the amusements of Biarritz,
or Biarits, as some of the natives write it, are very dear and rather
silly. People revolve nightly on their own axes to the solemn strains
of a horn band in a large casino, with expressions of countenance
as serious and business-like as if they were undergoing a course of
rotatory exercise recommended by their medical advisers as a stimulant
after the chills of the bath; while the day is consumed, one hardly
knows how, except it be in flirting, aquatics, scandal, abuse of one's
neighbours, or in buying from gaudy coffee-coloured Spaniards trumpery
which, under no conceivable circumstances, could the most ingenious
mind ever turn to any account. There is certainly grand food for the
eye whichever way it may turn, "whene'er we take our walks abroad," for
the long jagged line of the Spanish mountains is seen, now clear, dark,
and sharp, now wild and storm-wrapped, rising loftily from the far blue
main; and there is always playing on one's cheek, or with the flowing
tress of many a pretty damsel, the pure strengthening air of the Bay of
Biscay, sweeping with untainted breath from across the dark, wild waves
of the rolling Atlantic. From the summits of the various sea-worn rocks
and pinnacles which jut out from the land may be seen beautiful views
of the white amphitheatre of Biarritz, formed by clusters of villas,
casinos, and bathing pavilions along the curving shore, or piled on
gentle hills, rising one above the other in picturesque confusion, with
their sunny walls shaded here and there by green shrubberies, or gay
with flaunting banners waving over shining terrace and grassy slope,
the stately Villa Eugénie of the Empress commanding the whole. In front
the restless waves are ever rolling in on the yellow sands, in their
ceaseless chase from the Bay of Biscay, spread out so broad, blue, and
beautiful; while to the south the distant skies seem walled up by that
grand dark chain of the Spanish mountains, towering through clouds and
tempests in wild and lofty grandeur, or melting away on the far horizon
into the heat of the golden day and the spume of the tossing sea.
The people at Biarritz seem to be in a chronic state of masquerade. In
some the disease takes a severe and malignant form, in others simply
that of a mild and harmless lunacy. Very fierce and dirty individuals
prowl about the streets, in what is popularly supposed to be the
Spanish costume, namely, shabby velveteen inexpressibles, jackets
covered with a perfect eruption of buttons and bobbins, and the
calves of their legs swathed in linen bandages, as if they were in a
general state of poultice. These individuals have dreadful long Spanish
knives to sell, knives which, when any Englishman is so infatuated
as to decline buying Birmingham cutlery at Biarritz, they grasp in
a very portentous manner, opening and shutting them with an air of
determination which is most alarming to the weak and nervous.
"Who comes in foreign trashery
Of tinkling chain and spur,
A walking haberdashery
Of feathers, lace, and fur?"
Who indeed? the poet might well ask on the afternoon parade at
Biarritz; and it is not at all certain that the people know themselves.
There are gentlemen in short white jackets made of blanket,
lemon-coloured tights, and Napoleon boots, or in knickerbockers and
top-boots, Scotch plaids, and very tall hats, with brims so narrow as
to be rather problematical. The British traveller is, of course, to be
seen there, as everywhere else, with a beard in that state which one
does not know whether to attribute to neglect or intention.
The ladies simply _dress at_ one another, and the extravagance of their
costumes can only be conceived by minds of the calibre of Gilray, or
by such as can picture to themselves Paris fashion gone mad. We saw
one lady in short skirts and Hessian boots, with little bells for
tassels. The dress itself was so stiff with embroidery and needlework
that it would have made a capital diving-bell; and the jacket was so
profusely embroidered with lace that it seemed made of solid gold.
Nearly every lady finds it necessary, for some at present inscrutable
reason,--which, however, like other mysteries will some day be made
known,--to walk about with a slender white wand with a nail at the end.
What are these sticks? Are they fetishes, or are they connected with
any form of superstition. Why are they adorned with nails? And for what
reason are they carried like toothpicks between the finger and thumb
of a tight kid-gloved hand? We should also like to ask why do young
English ladies at foreign _tables d'hôte_ always appear as if somebody
was perpetually on the point of whispering something improper to them?
Their frightened air, indeed, as one out of common politeness prepares
to address them with some commonplace remark, is so infectious that it
is a wonder one does not fall plump into a perfect mire of mistakes and
_gaucheries_, a miserable martyr to the cause of amiability.
It certainly is a marvel how people manage to thrive on the fare
provided at these entertainments,--ghostly entertainments, we may call
them,--for there, as surely as the clock tolls forth the hour, appears
the spectre "cock and salad," which, with the perversity of fate, ever
haunts the path of the European tourist, to scare and depress his
appetite. The old philosopher, in observing
"Ὁ ἁνθρωπος εὑεργετος πεφυκως,"[2]
must have had some prophetic revelation of the after-times of modern
civilization, and particularly of Biarritz _tables d'hôte_; for if
man was not naturally a benevolent creature how could he endure with
equanimity day after day the same plateful of luke-warm water--_potage
à l'eau chaude_, it ought to be called--apparently stirred up with a
tallow candle to give it a flavour; the same recurring square phids of
old dry rug (rosbif) of which the soup was made; the same _perdreaux
aux choux_, which sound so magnificent in theory, but when reduced
to sad reality consist mainly of _choux_ and the bones of some small
specimens of the feathered tribe? Then the _filets de bœuf_--can they
be made of old door-mats?--what labour must one undergo before he can
persuade the "too solid flesh to melt!"
At these gastronomic revels we are sure to meet an English
paterfamilias, with mamma and daughters. When we say English, we do not
mean moderately English, but downright and awfully British--British
in the dogged look of plethoric, stupid self-complacency and general
superiority over everybody and everything not British--British in that
moneyed bovine state of mind which distinguishes the inferior specimens
of the _nouveau riche_ fresh from Albion. The mamma and daughters, too,
are British to a degree, as they sit enveloped in a dull atmosphere of
Clapham gentility, striving to their utmost to appear easy and graceful
"at meals and in company." But in spite of these laudable endeavours,
it is a difficult point to decide which is preferable to witness--the
alarming efforts of people endeavouring to eat and drink elegantly,
holding their knives and forks like pens, and a wine-glass between a
finger and thumb, with the rest of the fingers outstretched to their
fullest tension, ending in the little finger pointing away in far
perspective; or honestly at once scratching themselves with a spoon,
lapping up gravy with a knife at the fearful risk of widening their
mouths to the extent of the aperture of a letter-box, and when thirsty
taking a hearty draught of water from the finger-basins. As for the
_juste milieu_ people talk about, that at most _tables d'hôte_ seems
quite Utopian and might form an innocent branch of study for the Reform
League.
Bathing goes on during the whole morning and afternoon, and the method
is in this wise. We walk down across the sands from the bathing
cabinets, a distance of a hundred and fifty yards, barefooted, like
some ancient friar going on a pilgrimage. We are wrapt in the white
flowing folds of a long garment resembling a Knight Templar's cloak,
and are attended in state by two men rolled up in oil-cloth. When we
have arrived at the brink of the sea, our attendants venture in with us
to a depth perhaps of twelve inches, and we are recommended by them to
put a little water into the hollow of the hand and pour it carefully
on to the top of the head. This ordeal being safely accomplished, we
commence a polite little dance hand-in-hand with one of the bathing
men in the presence of the crowd--it may be the whole town--on the
beach. After jumping up a few times as high as possible, in order to
avoid every wave as it approaches, the two bathing attendants inquire
after Monsieur's health, and how he carries himself--_comment se
porte-il?_--and finally they lead us back by the tips of our fingers,
and on the points of their toes, across the sandy plain, still in full
view of the assembled populace, to the row of sentry boxes or cabinets
on the grand parade, where we pass in a very depressed condition
through the centre of a large concourse of splendidly attired ladies
and gentlemen. If we are in luck, perhaps an old lady or two may smile
blandly at us as we pass, as if to congratulate us on our escape from
the perils we have encountered. If we wish to keep in the highest
_mode_, a slight walking-stick or cane is considered an elegant and
useful accompaniment to the bath.
Young ladies are conducted singly into the water in the same manner
by the men in mackintosh, and upon these occasions they seem to
disport themselves in the most playful manner. They of course do not
neglect this opportunity of adorning themselves with the most singular
costumes, and look in their tunics, trousers, and straw hats very
androgynous. They never wet their heads, and on their return deposit
their feet immediately in very hot water, to draw the blood from the
brain. We preferred, however, to bathe in our own native style, and
found it very pleasant to walk into the sea at the Port Vieux, and swim
out, far away from bathers and bathees, until we could disport in the
open sea. We swam past the two opposite capes which form the entrance
to the little bay, where the buoyant water supports us as a sofa;
and from the bosom of the deep, on which we reclined, we enjoyed the
splendid panorama of the distant Pyrenees which our own unaided efforts
had procured us. It is pleasant to stand on any of the island rocks of
Biarritz and hear the great waves below dash amidst the caverns they
have hewn out, sounding like far artillery. It is amusing, when one
is not in a critical mood, to meet a funny Briton now and then at
the _table d'hôte_, who tells you little innocent lies to the effect
that his uncle, being evangelical, had four sons named Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John, and when a fifth was born, called him "The Acts of the
Apostles." But the most pleasant thing of all is to find one's back
turned, after a sojourn of four days, upon this stupid little town,
where there is so much frivolity and, curious as it may seem, no less
dulness.
_Eh bien, nous voici enfin_ well started for Spain! We reflected we
should arrive at Burgos at twelve at night. However (as a Spanish
railway accident is an awful affair), better late than never. The
hotels would, no doubt, all be closed, and we should find ourselves in
rather an awkward position. We neither speak nor understand a word of
Spanish, but the people at Burgos are much in the same predicament, as
they have a patois or dialect of their own. Most of the silver money
of the country is bad, and the keepers of hotels or _fondas_ in Spain,
are as _fond as_ (the author of this bright idea was our funny friend)
innkeepers in England of practising a little harmless extortion upon
travellers,--in fact, _fonder_.
We passed St. Jean de Luz, a queer tumble-down old town on the borders
of the sea, in whose cathedral the Grand Monarque was married to Maria
Theresa, daughter of Philip IV. of Spain, and in the great red house
in the square the happy couple lived for a fortnight or so in nuptial
beatitude. Some way off rises the mountain of Bayonnetta, down whose
slopes a spirited band of peasants once charged their enemies with
poles, to the ends of which they had lashed their long-bladed knives.
Some find in this fact the origin of the bayonet. The town is inhabited
by whale-fishers, a few soldiers, and some centipedes.
When we arrived, the loungers at the station were still talking over
the recent accident which had well nigh upset all the calculations that
Napoleon III. has made as to his dynasty. The sea is generally very
rough at the entrance to the little harbour; and on the occasion in
question, as the Empress was landing in a small boat from her steamer,
the boat was upset close to land. The Empress and Prince both struck
out, the one shouting as much as was consistent with a mouthful of
water, "Save my son!" the other, "Save my mother!" This was as it
should be. Eugénie and the heir to the imperial throne were saved, but
the poor pilot was drowned.
We shortly reached Hendaye, the last French town, and the Bidassoa,
which here divides the two countries, was crossed. There are some
low swampy lands visible at low water between the sea and the bridge
over the river, and no one but amphibious creatures would, one would
imagine, venture upon them. In 1813, the Duke of Wellington, however,
persuaded his army to wade through them; thereby succeeding in both
astonishing Marshal Soult and taking his position.
We next arrived at Irun, the first Spanish town, in a storm of sleet
and rain, and in a hurricane of wind. In fact, it had rained, and blown
great guns and small arms, almost incessantly for the last four days
at Bayonne and Biarritz, and the farther south we got the worse got
the weather. People for some inscrutable reason go to Spain for the
winter. They had surely better remain in the mild and even climate
of Ventnor or Torquay; for if the sample of autumn we were favoured
with was supposed to be genial, the Fates and common sense defend us
against experimentalising with our miserable bodies upon the Spanish
winter! To winter amidst the damps, or rather wets (for damp is a mild
expression indeed), the violent winds and the shelterless plains of the
north of Spain would, we fancy, be sufficient to send a Laplander into
a consumption. What effect it would produce upon a delicate English
female, we cannot attempt to decide upon our own authority. We doubt
not, however, that Seville, Valencia, Granada, or even Barcelona, with
their sunny skies and favourable position, may be more favourable to
the invalid, and melt the icy fingers of winter ere they can reach him;
though, alas! the frost of death will strike down its victims even
under warm and radiant skies. True, it seems at times as if death might
be touched with a temporary remorse, and be persuaded to defer the
fatal blow; but what matter a few moments longer in a dreary world? Of
what value is another year amidst a sea of troubles--an ocean of toils
and cares? Whether our life be a dream of sorrow or of bliss, it must
shortly end. If the former, why should we care to prolong it? If the
latter, it is like the one joyous life-hour of the butterfly,--'tis
gone at our sunset, when the poor heart has beaten itself out. The
blushing flowers of summer, even as we bend over them, fade, wither,
and die; and the music of a woman's whisper faints away even as it is
uttered. All that is mortal, all that is lovely, must pass away into
darkness, and the objects of our fondest affections must disappear in
the shifting sands of Time!
At Irun the _aduaneros_, who are all mustachios and impertinence, are
supposed to be very exacting, and one is warned not to look cross or
anxious as one's portmanteaux are plumbed, and rummaged, and mauled
by the fingers of gentlemen who seem to think that smoking and eating
garlic are nearer to godliness than cleanliness. So, taking advantage
of this advice, we immediately on our arrival called up a ready-made
and vacant smile, and assumed such an air of nonchalance, that the
_aduaneros_ must have thought we were stupidly regardless of our
personal property. One sharp-eyed little official, however, not quite
understanding how any sane man could travel about Europe with a washing
apparatus, seized greedily upon our friend's india-rubber bath with
a little growl of ferocity. This convenient article, as all know,
is fluted round the edges; and the little man consequently came to
the conclusion that the fluted divisions must constitute some kind
of infernal machine, provided with a certain number of barrels, the
explosion of which would blow up the Queen of Spain and her Ministry;
and that we, of course, were a couple of daring revolutionists. It was
with some difficulty that we succeeded in convincing the important
official that he was in error, and then we were allowed to proceed.
The rain still descended in cataracts, the wind blew with unrestrained
violence, and everything looked damp, dirty, and dull, as we once more
entered the railway carriage. Here we rashly fired off a sentence
of Spanish in the reckless manner of one who fires off his gun when
"Woodcock" is suddenly shouted in a plantation, viz., shutting the
eyes, firing in the air, and trusting to Providence.
"_No se cambia coches Burgos?_" gasped we.
"No, señor," answered the guard.
We restrained all further desire for conversation with that
functionary, as vain, weak, and unprofitable, for it is said, "Set a
beggar on horseback, and he will ride to"--a gentleman not usually
mentioned in polite society. But for our part, we make it a golden
rule, when we wish to air our French or Italian, never to address
persons of a stern aspect, never to make linguistic experiments upon
hard-looking men. It is better to single out an individual with a mild
and rather fatuous countenance for the purpose in question. We avoid
individuals of imposing presence, and seek out humble little men who
slink into corners, and, if possible, people of delicate constitution.
A quiet young man in spectacles, for instance, who is going to Mentone
for health, and who has a box by his side labelled, "_Fragile--Huile de
foie de morue_," is a good subject; in fact, any one who is too feeble
to be astonished at anything.
As we continued our journey into Spain, the lower spurs of the Pyrenees
rose darkly over the sea, and waved away in lofty undulations of vale
and mountain, with their slopes up to their summits clothed in green
woods, or dotted here and there with pretty Swiss-looking cottages,
while through the drifting scud a stray sunbeam occasionally found
its way, and ever and anon fell in a flash of glory athwart the golden
tints of the autumnal woods.
At length a high citadel and some turret-crested hills came into
view, looking down upon a clustering group of grotesque old houses,
fishermen's huts and vessels, the masts and sails of merchant craft,
while whitewashed Basque cottages were seen in all directions peeping
out from thick foliage, and appearing very bright and clean. This was
San Sebastian. Here the upper ten thousand of Madrid resort for bathing
in the summer season, when the shores of the little bay are turned into
a perfect camp of tents, pavilions, and bathing-machines.
The Alameda promenade is crowded on afternoons with hundreds of people
in quaint Basque costumes. The bull-ring and the theatre are also
favourite resorts of the inhabitants and visitors.
The fair amount of beauty met with amongst the females of this fine
semi-barbarous Celtic race occasionally tempts the passing traveller to
remain a day or two in this curious and pleasant old town.
All seems so peaceful now in and around San Sebastian, the sleepy
quiet of which is broken only by the roar of distant waves, that it is
difficult to conjure up the scenes of carnage which, after the defeat
of the French garrison by the English, took place here--the rush of
hissing shot, the crash of falling houses, and the shrieks of women and
children dying midst flames and smoke! Who can imagine the condition of
a town given up to drunken soldiers, maddened with lust, success, and
wine? England has glorious annals in her history, and well may her sons
rejoice in their English birth; but there have been times when devils
might have rejoiced and angels wept at the deeds done by Englishmen,
and the day of the sack of San Sebastian was one of them.
After a short stoppage we proceeded onwards again through sombre
gorges, rocky defiles, and verdant valleys. We swept across dry and
arid plains, with the long line of the retiring Pyrenees bounding their
horizon, and past wonderful old villages, mostly in ruins, built in the
chinks and crannies of rocky mountains, and inhabited by wild-looking
men and women. The plashing rain descended and the wind whistled as we
dashed through the spume and mist, with great rocks, old castles, and
majestic trees looming in the midst thereof like uncouth ghosts. Then--
"One long last peal of thunder,
The clouds are cleared away;
And the glorious sun once more looks down
Upon the dazzling day."
When light once more shone on our path, we looked up and beheld high
overhead beetling crags and detached boulders of rock, suspended
apparently so insecurely that a breath might dislodge them from their
lofty shelves, and dash them down in ruin upon the passing pigmies
beneath. On that spiring pinnacle sits a mouldering castle, where
Roderick, last of the Goths, transported the lovely La Cava, who cost
him his sceptre and his life.
The plains of Vittoria at last appeared spread before us, indistinctly
seen in the darkening twilight, with a lunar rainbow hanging over them.
Oh! the oppressive heat of Spain! Oh! the suffocating and sultry air!
But the Spanish climate is often subject to great changes, and we can
only say right glad were we that we took a fool's counsel, viz.,
our own, and had brought no end of wrappers. Like Job, we had our
comforters, and fortunately had carried with us a stout great-coat to
this broiling land!
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Man is naturally a benevolent creature.--ANTONIN.
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]