AGAIN ON THE RAIL.--VALLADOLID.--THE FONDA DEL SIGLO DE ORO.--THE
COLEGIO MAYOR DE SANTA CRUZ.--CONVENT INTERIOR.--CHAMBER OF
HORRORS.--COLEGIO DE SAN GREGORIO.--THE CATHEDRAL.--SPANISH
CHARACTERISTICS.--THE THEATRE.--USE OF TOBACCO.
As the train moved away from Burgos, the city and the great cathedral
melted away from our sight, and we glided over the wide African-like
plains and dried-up watercourses, past the stony hills which, extending
to the far horizon, reflected the dazzling rays of the sun. Not a blade
of grass or sprig of green was there to refresh the eye of man, or for
cattle to ruminate on. No wonder the butter of the country is made of
lard, or the milk we drink taken from the mare!
At a little station where the train stopped, an old lady, closely
hooded in black serge, and looking like the popular representation of
Old Bogey, entered our carriage, together with a monk. Where they came
from it was impossible to conjecture, as there was no sign of village
or habitation within sight of this very purposeless station in the
desert. They were attended, however, by the usual escort in vogue in
this country, a portion of which immediately leapt upon us and bit us.
The poor insects had made but a scanty meal of their innutritious monk,
and came to us for their _chasse café_, or rather _chasse moine_.
We arrived in the evening at Valladolid, once the capital town of
Spain. Indeed, in spite of its position in the centre of a wide,
wind-swept, sandy plain, which causes the city to be the sport of
a chronic simoom, it seems to be a capital town still. For trade
and agriculture the situation appears convenient, for, wonderful
to say, they have got some water amidst the _tierras de campos_,
which consequently yield abundant produce; added to which, the river
Duero connects the city with the Atlantic--in a rather difficult and
spasmodic manner, however--and the railroad maintains its commercial
relations with the south and north. The name of Valladolid is supposed
to be derived from the Moorish Belad Walid, or land of the Walid. This
may be, however, as "our bore" said at the _table d'hôte_, "inwalid,"
and not to be relied upon.
In the Plaza Mayor of this city, the great Alvarez de Luna, "Spain's
haughty constable," was beheaded. "Uneasy lies the head that wears
a crown," and how uneasy must sit the head that trusts in princes,
especially old princes who marry young queens, for all sense of honour,
justice, and gratitude seems to walk out of the door when uxoriousness
comes in at the window.
Here, in 1506, Columbus departed this life, and Philip II., the
fortunate possessor of our sweet queen, Mary of England, came into it
on May 21st, 1527. Here, in the sixteenth century, _auto-da-fés_ and
periodical bonfires of heretics were kept up with great spirit,--one
being under the especial patronage of the above-mentioned blessed
monarch, upon a scale of unprecedented magnificence. Here, Cervantes
lived and wrote, and here, we regret to be obliged to add, the Duke
of Wellington made his public entry, and took up his residence in the
bishop's palace.
The _Fonda del Siglo de Oro_, although rather ambitious in its choice
of a name, is a tolerable house enough, and the provision for the
necessaries of life is not quite so primitive here as at Burgos. As
regards that essential element of civilisation, the bath, the Spaniard
seems still proudly wrapped in primeval darkness. On the morning after
our arrival at the Hotel of the Golden Age,--where one would think
all would be surrounded by pure delights,--the egregious desire for
a bath took possession of us as usual; but, as in other places, we
had some difficulty in obtaining that refreshing article. We pull the
bell, the waiter appears; we utter the word "baños," in a low and
rather humble tone, as if knowing it was vain to expect a favourable
reply. The waiter inquires, "Caliente?" We answer, "No, frio." "Frio!"
screams the waiter, with blanched visage, and instantly disappears
like a harlequin through a trap. Presently, however, he reappears with
another waiter, both looking as scared and uncomfortable as if they
expected to be cross-examined at a coroner's inquest as two suspicious
witnesses connected with our decease. Again we venture to ask timidly
for "baños." Both waiters exclaim, in a tone of helpless amazement,
"Frio?" to which query we reply in the affirmative by a nod, and they
withdraw, muttering and gesticulating all down the stairs. The Spanish
pathologist observes that the fit of hydromania generally attacks the
Englishman between the hours of eight and ten.
In a few minutes, after a deal of scuffling outside the door, the
two waiters appeared again, followed by the landlord, his wife, and
a strange gentleman, carrying between them an object which had some
resemblance to the state-chair of St. Peter in the basilica of that
name at Rome. When this ponderous piece of furniture was settled in the
middle of our room, we discovered that the seat had been removed, and
a square tin pan fixed beneath, containing about two pints of brown
water. Into this we madly plunged, and although perfectly sober at the
time, imagined we were enjoying a refreshing sponge bath. However, this
sort of thing is one of the _cosas de España_, so we suppose it was all
right.
_À propos_ of the general wonder expressed at any one wishing for cold
water to wash in, there seems in Spain to be an equal terror of fresh
air. Upon one occasion we had been in bed but a short time when a
waiter entered the room to inquire if Señor had all he required. His
eyes had no sooner rested upon the open window, which admitted the
clear night air, than his whole countenance became locked and rigid,
as if some dreadful personage--the travelling prophet of Khorassan, it
might be--had suddenly presented himself at the window. The functionary
in question, however, soon recovered his presence of mind, and having
cast one anxious glance at our bed, to satisfy himself that all was
right with us, he flew across the room with a bound and an oath,
slammed the casements together, and the shutters after them, flinging
the cross bar into its socket with such force as to show that he
intended it to remain there.
The hotels in Spain, in the larger towns, are generally clean and well
kept; though some persons, perhaps, might be able to dispense with a
little of that universal odour of onions and ammonia which constantly
prevails throughout the house; and the goods and chattels of travellers
in the various rooms would not be absolutely endangered if common
beggars from the streets were prevailed upon not to spend quite so
much of their time on the stairs between the bed-chambers and the
ground-floor.
Valladolid being a town of considerable importance in the history
of Spain, we were eager to see it, and were soon threading our way
through the sunny streets, underneath the broad band of blue overhead,
until we found ourselves face to face with the Colegio Mayor de Santa
Cruz, a grand old palace founded by Cardinal Mendoza in 1479, and now
standing with all its beautiful fretwork clogged with wild weeds, and
its light arcades, Saracenic columns, and Gothic porches mouldering
away in sun and silence. On we wandered, through the long galleries,
till we reached the library, apparently so called on account of the
total absence of books, but which is filled with a mine of wealth in
the shape of a profusion of specimens of the most exquisite carvings
in walnut wood and dark oak. There are _salas_ after _salas_ filled
with old musty pictures, carvings, and wooden sculptures, collected
from the various convents at the period of their suppression. The
pictures are mostly bad, though many of them are curious. Of course
there are numbers of hoary old saints in rags, with gold quoits fixed
on to the backs of their heads, glorifying in the lying label placed
beneath them. A long room is filled with fearful painted figures
carved in wood, representing troops of gigantic ruffians in the act
of persecuting Christ, more grotesquely hideous than anything we
could imagine in our worst dreams. Is it in order to inspire a due
reverence and affection for Our Saviour that the figure of the Redeemer
is represented in these productions as a meagre, wan, and emaciated
skeleton of a man, covered all over with blood, dirt, the marks of
stripes, and tangled masses of real red hair? or is it to render
more intense the dislike with which we regard his persecutors? These
individuals are represented belabouring their unfortunate victim with
cudgels considerably larger than their own bodies, which have the most
revolting appearance from deformity and disease, enormous tumours being
generally appended to their throats.
In the midst of these delectable horrors, and placed on a large
plate, is a painted wood-carving of the decapitated head of St. Paul,
with which any amateur executioner may regale himself to his heart's
content. So faithfully rendered is the last look of horror in the
half-closed glass eyes, that one cannot help doubting, when he first
glances at it, whether it is only a model. We were glad to escape from
this religious Madame Tussaud's into the bright sun and open air, where
we could dismiss the fancies inspired by such horrible sights.
We felt quite relieved when we found ourselves again in the great
square, alive with dark-skinned men and women, with their gay dresses
and sonorous voices. The jingling mules even were a pleasant sight
to us, and we gazed with delight on the white walls, reflecting with
such dazzling brilliance the rays of the sun, and on the universal
dust, which almost half choked us, not to speak of the blue sky and
the green acacia trees. In fact, the very odour of garlic was not so
detestable to us as it used to be. Certainly those vast, prison-like
convents standing on the outskirts of the town, are most fitting
places in which to immure for life young men and women--fitting for
their purpose, that is, inasmuch as there is nought to be seen from
the grated windows to tempt them back to the world they have left.
They may strain their dimming eyes as much as they please through the
bars, they will see no stirring crowds in pursuit of business or
pleasure, no happy pairs, no manly form or sweet face, to make the
still warm heart thrill with joyful memories; they will see nought but
wild tracts of desert, and yellow plains fading into the hot horizon,
and spreading away like a burning ocean. We have by chance upon rare
occasions caught sight of faces at convent gratings, and their glance
fell like an icicle on the heart--faces which, though young in years,
were aged in sadness, and perchance with the remorse--most probably
with the regret--that comes too late. I saw, on one occasion, two young
girls, pale from confinement within the yellow walls of a religious
prison at Valladolid, and the bloodless cheek rendered the dark blaze
of the gazelle-like eyes almost unnaturally bright with a false
lustre, the lustre caught from the soul loosened by the partial decay
of its prison-house, and struggling to be free. How strange that so
much young, ardent life, so much beauty, so many loving hearts, and
so much generous energy should choose to rot uselessly away in such
prison-houses, like pale and lonely lamps flickering in a tomb! Strange
that their mission as tender women, who might have soothed the griefs
and tempered the hardness of many an honest man, who in return might
have loved them as his life, his pride, his all, should be--as citizens
of the world--tied to a destiny so awfully aimless, hopeless, and
loveless: so dead in their life, and in only too many cases so utterly
heart-weary and forlorn!
Well, to proceed with our stroll through the picturesque old Spanish
streets. We say Spanish,--for it is not every town even in Spain that
is Spanish in the character of its architecture. Madrid, for instance,
with the exception of a few of the old quarters, has nothing nationally
characteristic about it. The sun was now beginning to make itself felt
with more than usual vigour; but that was to be expected here, for it
is one of the _cosas de España_. From the yellow walls of churches
and palaces, its rays were reflected, while overhead there hung one
spotless lake of blue. Down a melancholy silent street, where lean
dogs were quarrelling for offal, and fierce-eyed, ragged fowl were
pecking savagely amongst the dust, was a plain square house, with a few
small windows closed by shutters. In this house Columbus died, as the
stranger is informed by the following inscription over the door: "Acqui
murio Colon."
A little further on we came upon an avenue of dry poplars, bordering a
small sluggish stream, through which was seen a telescopic view of hot,
yellow hills beyond, dotted here and there with rare patches of green,
as if the genius of fecundity, in flying over them, had by accident
occasionally dropped from his cornucopia a huge bunch of cress. By the
side of a ditch, we observed hundreds of washerwomen on their knees,
washing shirts in mud, with a large stone. The chattering they made
induced "our bore," whom we suddenly met on the bridge, to observe
that "there seemed to be a great deal more talking about one thing
and another than about anything else." What he meant, goodness knows!
A little beyond, was a boy on his stomach, drinking from the stream,
not, like the wolf in the fable, above the lamb, here typified by the
washerwomen, but below. No wonder cholera is more than usually fatal in
Spain, for, certainly, many of their practices invite the approach of
pestilence!
It seems an innocent practice enough, the taking notes occasionally
in a pocket-book; but here, in the Peninsula, it is rather nervous
work. For example, we had scarcely finished a few lines in pencil
on one occasion, when we became aware of the close proximity of two
_gendarmes_, who were both looking aslant over our shoulder, into the
book. For half an hour or so, they followed us persistently wherever we
went, occasionally stopping and conferring earnestly together, until we
feared we were going to be apprehended and thrown into a dungeon for
plotting against Queen Isabel, now dethroned, and taking notes of the
weak points in the character of her government and people, of which, by
the way, the mode of washing linen is one.
In all the walks outside Valladolid, everything reminds us forcibly of
the East, and affords evidence of the Oriental descent of the Spaniard.
There is, in fact, much truth in the assertion that Spain is but
_l'Afrique qui continue_. There are the same hot, white, dusty roads,
bordered by feathery acacias, and giving birth to the aloe; the same
brazen, dry, and wide sandy plains and stunted trees. There are many
of the same flat-roofed houses, against whose dazzling walls the fig
and oleander cast their shadows. There are the same brown, semi-nude
urchins, shouting Arabic-sounding words and whacking mules harnessed
with coloured drapery.
When we look towards the town, we see vast convent walls standing
defiantly, as those of fortresses, and pile after pile of great square
buildings, domes, and towers, rising against the blue, sleepy sky in
all their solemn beauty. When we enter the city, and walk along the
cool high streets, leaving the sultry plains behind us baking in dust
and glare, the eye turns upon old palaces converted into barracks and
alms-houses, and upon Moorish courts and Gothic halls, apparently
tenantless of any one save flea-bitten beggars, mumbling Babel only
knows what language, who crawl about, scratching themselves, half
asleep, amidst princely porticoes and noble columns. Everywhere we
observe groups of graceful, hooded women, men swathed in red sash,
striped cloak, and yellow shirt, looking out keenly from beneath
the sombrero's shade. The Spaniard seems to delight in gaudy hues.
Mules are clad in gay trappings, and the houses are painted in bright
colours; yet everywhere, too, we see dirt, decay, and sloth, and are
repelled by abominable smells.
In our rambles we went past the _façade_ of the church of San Pablo,
the stone ornaments of which are like lace-work executed three
hundred years ago. This, one of the finest _façades_ in Castile, was
begun in the fifteenth century by the Abbot of Valladolid, Fr. Juan
de Torquemada, and finished by the Duke of Lerma at the beginning
of the seventeenth century. We passed into the beautiful patio and
court of the Colegio de San Gregorio, and walked amidst the tall
spiral pillarets, supporting Gothic arches, light and lovely. We then
sauntered up the rich staircase, with its carved stone balustrades,
diminishing away in needle-like delicacy, and looked out upon the
open court with all its chiselled galleries. Even in these beautiful
structures neglect was visible. Weeds in many places covered the
marble, and the smell of death seemed somehow to linger around.
To a dreamy mind, or to one which easily vibrates to a touch of
poetry, it is a grand luxury to turn into those fine old churches,
where the light is subdued and the air is cool, from the scorching
sun and glare without. We thus, occasionally, lifted the curtain, and
passed under the porch of the cathedral of Valladolid. Its enormous
square Corinthian columns stand in all their granite strength, as
if to outwatch the world. The colour prevailing in this church is
grey and sober. There is something grand and harmonious in its huge
proportions; but in its simplicity it appears more like some massive
sepulchre of the past than the temple of an ostentatious religion.
Scattered groups of women are kneeling before the altars, and the
still forms of devotees are bending on the cold pavement. Brazen
gates and lofty railings surround the choir, through which coloured
figures move indistinctly, as in a dream. There is some magnificent
dark oak carving. Clusters of tapers pierce through the gloom, and
the melancholy chaunt of distant choristers echoes softly through the
aisles. Out again into a sunny market-place, with gipsy-like women
squatting on the ground, amongst the melons and tomatoes, the pots and
pans. Dirty though graceful men, smoking cigarettes, and entangled in
rusty cloaks, with their heads tied up in gaudy kerchiefs, are lounging
about in picturesque squalor; while others in black sombrero, velveteen
breeches, and jacket adorned with metal buttons, are lading great
mules, decked in vivid housings. Farther on are more Moorish-looking
women, with pitcher on head, resting by a fountain side; and above are
little boys, perched in the belfries, clanging the church bells with
hearty good-will.
The Spaniard is certainly very courteous by nature, and although
generally shy of foreigners, most anxious to please them when he finds
them _chez lui_, and to send them away with good impressions both of
his country and of himself. We were looking, on one occasion, at some
monument in the town, when two young gentlemen of finished manners
suddenly addressed us by raising their hats, and after politely
offering us cigarettes, requested us to oblige them by an inspection
of their club. Of course we were glad to do so. This establishment,
which we found to be cool and comfortable enough, consisted of a
suite of lofty rooms, decorated _à la Watteau_, filled with little
knots of polite young men of easy manners, all dressed very soberly
in black cloth, and with remarkably tall hats of the latest Parisian
fashion. Most of them were chatting, playing cards, or smoking the
cigarette, around a small billiard table, with very large balls and a
set of skittles in the centre. A small fireplace, recently put up, was
introduced to our notice, and we were favoured with a description of
its functions, which could not have been given with greater pride if
it had been some grand scientific discovery intended to enlighten and
benefit the world. After we had been entertained for a short time, we
took leave of this society of very pleasant young gentlemen, who again
took off their tall hats as we bowed to them, exchanged expressions of
undying respect, and favoured us with a few more cigarillos.
Spaniards seem to be generally very accommodating persons; but they
must never be hurried, and never asked twice for a light for the same
cigarette. They are ordinarily reserved, and have a keen sense of
private dignity; but when treated with perfect consideration, are most
gracious in return. Their politeness may proceed, perhaps, from a sense
of patriotic obligation more than from any serious love for your person.
The ladies possess the same characteristics, and although exacting as
to formalities, are generally agreeable and good-natured. It must be
admitted, however, that they are very idle, entirely lacking the quick
vivacity and wit of their lively neighbours, the French. The languid
blood of their Moorish ancestors, and their sultry, oppressive climate,
may account greatly for the indolence which is common to both sexes.
The Gran Teatro Calderon has a very pretty interior, and is quite
Parisian in appearance. When filled almost exclusively with
sparkling dresses and gorgeous uniforms, it has a brilliant effect.
Notwithstanding recent events, the Spanish people, when we were at
Valladolid, seemed to be enthusiastically loyal. Just before the
performance began, a large picture of Queen Isabel, placed in the
centre of the house, immediately over the royal box, was suddenly
unveiled. All in the theatre with one accord stood up, turning
reverentially towards it. The gendarmes posted in various parts of the
_salle_ presented arms, and the orchestra played the national hymn. The
performance of some never-before-heard-of opera, with a title that, to
us foreigners, was incomprehensible, did not, in a musical sense, do
much credit to Spanish talent. However, if the prompter perhaps had
not shouted so loud all through the piece, we should have heard the
singers to better advantage. As it was, there was one singular duet, at
all events, between a very fat, square little tenor and a long, lean
baritone, of which no adequate idea can be presented, unless it be that
of a two-part song performed by some person in the agonies of death
and an old hound shut up in a kennel when the rest of the pack are out
hunting.
What we liked very much, at all events while on our travels, was to
be able to light cigarettes at the lamps in the grand saloon. Here in
Spain one smokes well nigh everywhere. Oftentimes in the middle of the
_table d'hôte_, if the _entr'acte_ between the courses be at all a long
one, cigarettes are lighted, and thrown away after a dozen puffs or
so. Now women cannot naturally dislike tobacco, for in Spain tobacco
is smoked everywhere, and the ladies don't faint or turn up the whites
of their eyes in pretended horror of the filthy weed. On the contrary,
smoking with themselves is a favourite pastime in private, if not in
public, and the ladies' apartments are often fragrant with more than
a _soupçon_ of that herb the odour of which was so abominable to the
British Solomon. And, indeed, why should it not be so? There are many
worse smells that are endured without a murmur than the fresh aroma of
pure Havanna tobacco, King James's Counterblast notwithstanding.
After the before-mentioned exhilarating duet, we thought that for the
first dose we had better not exceed or try the human system too much;
for, like the people who can in the course of time and practice take as
much laudanum as would kill an ox, there was no knowing what we might
be brought to endure. We strolled, therefore, into the Teatro Lope,
where a farce "was on," as they say in dramatic phrase. The sources of
amusement--the characters, plots, and style of playing--appeared to be
pretty nearly the same as they are in England. There were, as on our
stage, heavy fathers, walking ladies, housemaids, lovers concealed in
cupboards, rejected suitors favoured by stern parents, but suffering
much from the practical jokes of the faithful groom of the family,
all shaken up together into a confused plot, and holding hands in a
row when the piece was brought to the usual happy termination. When
the curtain falls, cigars are lighted, and the tobacco smoke rises in
clouds, until the entire house, as well as the brains of the audience,
is entirely befogged. All the private boxes at this house were thickly
padded with stuffed and quilted leather, with what object it was
difficult to conjecture. The orchestral arrangements were conducted
upon rather a _laissez aller_ principle; and the boy who played the
cymbals seemed scarcely to be what we should call a regular musician,
but one engaged for the nonce. Being a quick-witted, sharp-eyed lad,
however, he managed, by keeping his gaze steadily fixed on the leader,
to play his noisy instrument with some discretion, guided by an
occasional wink from that functionary. He was probably paid so much
a smash, like the man with the great drum at Jullien's concerts, who
received twopence per whack.
Valladolid is an exceedingly pleasant place, and we enjoyed very much
this _existence de flâneur_, going about during the day from sight to
sight, and passing the evening in the theatre. Indeed, when one is
associated with a kindred spirit, what more charming holiday can there
be than to be carried past a panorama of ever-changing scenes, and,
with all care left behind with the London fogs and lawyers, to witness
views of life, nature, and character dissolving one into the other by
easy gradations, now light, now grave, now humorous, now gently sad?
It was with equal delight that we wandered through the busy city and
in the mountain breeze, under balmy skies, and over the azure sea. So,
then, Valladolid, _addios_!
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]