BEFORE setting out from Seville we had had our Foreign Office passports
duly _viséd_. Our profession was given as that of travelling artists,
and the _visé_ included the permission to carry arms. More than once the
sight of our pistols caused us to be stopped by the _carabineros_. On
one occasion these road-guards disputed the wording of the _visé_. They
protested that ‘armas’ meant ‘escopetas,’ not pistols, which were
forbidden. Cayley indignantly retorted, ‘Nothing is forbidden to
Englishmen. Besides, it is specified in our passports that we are
‘personas de toda confianza,’ which checkmated them.
We both sketched, and passed ourselves off as ‘retratistas’ (portrait
painters), and did a small business in this way—rather in the shape of
caricatures, I fear, but which gave much satisfaction. We charged one
peseta (seven-pence), or two, a head, according to the means of the
sitter. The fiction that we were earning our bread wholesomely tended to
moderate the charge for it.
Passing through the land of Don Quixote’s exploits, we reverentially
visited any known spot which these had rendered famous. Amongst such was
the _venta_ of Quesada, from which, or from Quixada, as some conjecture,
the knight derived his surname. It was here, attracted by its
castellated style, and by two ‘ladies of pleasure’ at its door—whose
virginity he at once offered to defend, that he spent the night of his
first sally. It was here that, in his shirt, he kept guard till morning
over the armour he had laid by the well. It was here that, with his
spear, he broke the head of the carrier whom he took for another knight
bent on the rape of the virgin princesses committed to his charge. Here,
too, it was that the host of the _venta_ dubbed him with the coveted
knighthood which qualified him for his noble deeds.
To Quesada we wended our way. We asked the Señor Huesped whether he knew
anything of the history of his _venta_. Was it not very ancient?
‘Oh no, it was quite modern. But on the site of it had stood a fine
_venta_ which was burnt down at the time of the war.’
‘An old building?’
‘Yes, indeed! _a cosa de siempre_—thing of always. Nothing, was left of
it now but that well, and the stone trough.’
These bore marks of antiquity, and were doubtless as the gallant knight
had left them. Curiously, too, there were remains of an outhouse with a
crenellated parapet, suggestive enough of a castle.
From Quesada we rode to Argamasilla del Alba, where Cervantes was
imprisoned, and where the First Part of Don Quixote was written.
In his Life of Cervantes, Don Gregorio Mayano throws some doubt upon
this. Speaking of the attacks of his contemporary, the ‘Aragonian,’ Don
Gregorio writes (I give Ozell’s translation): ‘As for this scandalous
fellow’s saying that Cervantes wrote his First Part of “Don Quixote” in a
prison, and that that might make it so dull and incorrect, Cervantes did
not think fit to give any answer concerning his being imprisoned, perhaps
to avoid giving offence to the ministers of justice; for certainly his
imprisonment must not have been ignominious, since Cervantes himself
voluntarily mentions it in his Preface to the First Part of “Don
Quixote.”’
This reasoning, however, does not seem conclusive; for the only reference
to the subject in the preface is as follows: ‘What could my sterile and
uncultivated genius produce but the history of a child, meagre, adust,
and whimsical, full of various wild imaginations never thought of before;
like one you may suppose born in a prison, where every inconvenience
keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation?’
We took up our quarters in the little town at the ‘Posada de la Mina.’
While our _olla_ was being prepared; we asked the hostess whether she had
ever heard of the celebrated Don Miguel de Cervantes, who had been
imprisoned there? (I will quote Cayley).
‘No, Señores; I think I have heard of one Cervantes, but he does not live
here at present.’
‘Do you know anything of Don Quixote?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a great _caballero_, who lived here some years ago.
His house is over the way, on the other side of the _plaza_, with the
arms over the door. The father of the Alcalde is the oldest man in the
_pueblo_; perhaps he may remember him.’
We were amused at his hero’s fame outliving that of the author. But is
it not so with others—the writers of the Book of Job, of the Pentateuch,
and perhaps, too, of the ‘Iliad,’ if not of the ‘Odyssey’?
But, to let Cayley speak:
‘While we were undressing to go to bed, three gentlemen were announced
and shown in. We begged them to be seated. . . . We sat opposite on the
ends of our respective beds to hear what they might have to communicate.
A venerable old man opened the conference.
‘“We have understood, gentlemen, that you have come hither seeking for
information respecting the famous Don Quixote, and we have come to give
you such information as we may; but, perhaps you will understand me
better if I speak in Latin.”
‘“We have learnt the Latin at our schools, but are more accustomed to
converse in Castilian; pray proceed.”
‘“I am the Medico of the place, an old man, as you see; and what little I
know has reached me by tradition. It is reported that Cervantes was
paying his addresses to a young lady, whose name was Quijana or Quijada.
The Alcalde, disapproving of the suit, put him into a dungeon under his
house, and kept him there a year. Once he escaped and fled, but he was
taken in Toboso, and brought back. Cervantes wrote ‘Don Quixote’ as a
satire on the Alcalde, who was a very proud man, full of chivalresque
ideas. You can see the dungeon to-morrow; but you should see the
_batanes_ (water-mills) of the Guadiana, whose ‘golpear’ so terrified
Sancho Panza. They are at about three leagues distance.”’
The old gentleman added that he was proud to receive strangers who came
to do honour to the memory of his illustrious townsman; and hoped we
would visit him next day, on our return from the fulling-mills, when he
would have the pleasure of conducting us to the house of the Quijanas, in
the cellars of which Cervantes was confined.
To the _batanes_ we went next morning. Their historical importance
entitles them to an accurate description. None could be more lucid than
that of my companion. ‘These clumsy, ancient machines are composed of a
couple of huge wooden mallets, slung in a timber framework, which, being
pushed out of the perpendicular by knobs on a water-wheel, clash back
again alternately in two troughs, pounding severely whatever may be put
in between the face of the mallet and the end of the trough into which
the water runs.’
It will be remembered that, after a copious meal, Sancho having neglected
to replenish the gourd, both he and his master suffered greatly from
thirst. It was now ‘so dark,’ says the history, ‘that they could see
nothing; but they had not gone two hundred paces when a great noise of
water reached their ears. . . . The sound rejoiced them exceedingly;
and, stopping to listen from whence it came, they heard on a sudden
another dreadful noise, which abated their pleasure occasioned by that of
the water, especially Sancho’s. . . . They heard a dreadful din of irons
and chains rattling across one another, and giving mighty strokes in time
and measure which, together with the furious noise of the water, would
have struck terror into any other heart than that of Don Quixote.’ For
him it was but an opportunity for some valorous achievement. So, having
braced on his buckler and mounted Rosinante, he brandished his spear, and
explained to his trembling squire that by the will of Heaven he was
reserved for deeds which would obliterate the memory of the Platirs,
Tablantes, the Olivantes, and Belianesas, with the whole tribe of the
famous knights-errant of times past.
‘Wherefore, straighten Rosinante’s girths a little,’ said he, ‘and God be
with you. Stay for me here three days, and no more; if I do not return
in that time you may go to Toboso, where you shall say to my incomparable
Lady Dulcinea that her enthralled knight died in attempting things that
might have made him worthy to be styled “hers.”’
Sancho, more terrified than ever at the thoughts of being left alone,
reminded his master that it was unwise to tempt God by undertaking
exploits from which there was no escaping but by a miracle; and, in order
to emphasize this very sensible remark, secretly tied Rosinante’s hind
legs together with his halter. Seeing the success of his contrivance, he
said: ‘Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has
ordained that Rosinante cannot go,’ and then warned him not to set
Providence at defiance. Still Sancho was much too frightened by the
infernal clatter to relax his hold of the knight’s saddle. For some time
he strove to beguile his own fears with a very long story about the
goatherd Lope Ruiz, who was in love with the shepherdess Torralva—‘a
jolly, strapping wench, a little scornful, and somewhat masculine.’ Now,
whether owing to the cold of the morning, which was at hand, or whether
to some lenitive diet on which he had supped, it so befell that Sancho
. . . what nobody could do for him. The truth is, the honest fellow was
overcome by panic, and under no circumstances would, or did, he for one
instant leave his master’s side. Nay, when the knight spurred his steed
and found it could not move, Sancho reminded him that the attempt was
useless, since Rosinante was restrained by enchantment. This the knight
readily admitted, but stoutly protested that he himself was anything but
enchanted by the close proximity of his squire.
We all remember the grave admonitions of Don Quixote, and the ingenious
endeavours of Sancho to lay the blame upon the knight. But the final
words of the Don contain a moral apposite to so many other important
situations, that they must not be omitted here. ‘Apostare, replicó
Sancho, que pensa vuestra merced que yo he hecho de mi persona alguna
cosa que no deba.’ ‘I will lay a wager,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your
worship thinks that I have &c.’ The brief, but memorable, answer was:
‘Peor es meneallo, amigo Sancho,’ which, as no translation could do
justice to it, must be left as it stands. _Quieta non movere_.
We were nearly meeting with an adventure here. While I was busy making a
careful drawing of the _batanes_, Cayley’s pony was as much alarmed by
the rushing waters as had been Sancho Panza. In his endeavours to picket
the animal, my friend dropped a pistol which I had lent him to practise
with, although he carried a revolver of his own. Not till he had tied up
the pony at some little distance did he discover the loss. In vain he
searched the spot where he knew the pistol must have escaped from his
_faja_. Near it, three rough-looking knaves in shaggy goatskin garments,
with guns over their shoulders, were watching the progress of my sketch.
On his return Cayley asked two of these (the third moved away as he came
up) whether they had seen the pistol. They declared they had not; upon
which he said he must search them. He was not a man to be trifled with,
and although they refused at first, they presently submitted. He then
overtook the third, and at once accused him of the theft. The man swore
he knew nothing of the lost weapon, and brought his gun to the charge.
As he did so, Cayley caught sight of the pistol under the fellow’s
sheepskin jacket, and with characteristic promptitude seized it, while he
presented a revolver at the thief’s head. All this he told me with great
glee a minute or two later.
When we got back to Argamasilla the Medico was already awaiting us. He
conducted us to the house of the Quijanas, where an old woman-servant,
lamp in hand, showed the way down a flight of steps into the dungeon. It
was a low vaulted chamber, eight feet high, ten broad, and twenty-four
long, dimly lighted by a lancet window six feet from the ground. She
confidently informed us that Cervantes was in the habit of writing at the
farthest end, and that he was allowed a lamp for the purpose. We
accepted the information with implicit faith; silently picturing on our
mental retinas the image of him whose genius had brightened the dark
hours of millions for over three hundred years. One could see the spare
form of the man of action pacing up and down his cell, unconscious of
prison walls, roaming in spirit through the boundless realms of Fancy,
his piercing eyes intent upon the conjured visions of his brain. One
noted his vast expanse of brow, his short, crisp, curly hair, his high
cheek-bones and singularly high-bridged nose, his refined mouth, small
projecting chin and pointed beard. One noticed, too, as he turned, the
stump of the left wrist clasped by the remaining hand. Who could stand
in such a presence and fail to bow with veneration before this insulted
greatness! Potentates pass like Ozymandias, but not the men who, through
the ages, help to save us from this tread-mill world, and from ourselves.
We visited Cuenca, Segovia, and many an out-of-the-way spot. If it be
true, as Don Quixote declares, that ‘No hay libro tan malo que no tenga
alguna cosa buena’ (‘there is no book so worthless that has not some good
in it’), still more true is this of a country like Spain. And the
pleasantest places are just those which only by-roads lead to. In and
near the towns every other man, if not by profession still by practice,
is a beggar. From the seedy-looking rascal in the street, of whom you
incautiously ask the way, and who piteously whines ‘para zapatos’—for the
wear and tear of shoe leather, to the highest official, one and all hold
out their hands for the copper _cuarto_ or the eleemosynary sinecure. As
it was then, so is it now; the Government wants support, and it is always
to be had, at a price; deputies always want ‘places.’ For every duty the
functionary performs, or ought to perform, he receives his bribe. The
Government is too poor to keep him honest, but his _pour-boires_ are not
measured by his scruples. All is winked at, if the Ministry secures a
vote.
Away in the pretty rural districts, in the little villages amid the woods
and the mountains, with their score or so of houses and their little
chapel with its tinkling old bell and its poverty-stricken curate, the
hard-working, simple-minded men are too proud and too honest to ask for
more than a pinch of tobacco for the _cigarillo_. The maidens are
comely, and as chaste as—can reasonably be expected.
Madrid is worth visiting—not for its bull-fights, which are disgusting
proofs of man’s natural brutality, but for its picture gallery. No one
knows what Velasquez could do, or has done, till he has seen Madrid; and
Charles V. was practically master of Europe when the collection was in
his hands. The Escurial’s chief interests are in its associations with
Charles V. and Philip II. In the dark and gloomy little bedroom of the
latter is a small window opening into the church, so that the King could
attend the services in bed if necessary.
It cannot be said of Philip that he was nothing if not religious, for
Nero even was not a more indefatigable murderer, nor a more diabolical
specimen of cruelty and superstition. The very thought of the wretch
tempts one to revolt at human piety, at any rate where priestcraft and
its fabrications are at the bottom of it.
When at Madrid we met Mr. Arthur Birch. He had been with Cayley at Eton,
as captain of the school. While we were together, he received and
accepted the offer of an Eton mastership. We were going by diligence to
Toledo, and Birch agreed to go with us. I mention the fact because the
place reminds me of a clever play upon its name by the Eton scholar.
Cayley bought a Toledo sword-blade, and asked Birch for a motto to
engrave upon it. In a minute or two he hit off this: TIMETOLETUM, which
reads Time Toletum=Honour Toledo, or Timeto Letum=Fear death. Cayley’s
attempts, though not so neat, were not bad. Here are a couple of them:—
Though slight I am, no slight I stand,
Saying my master’s sleight of hand.
or:—
Come to the point; unless you do,
The point will shortly come to you.
Birch got the Latin poem medal at Cambridge the same year that Cayley got
the English one.
Before we set forth again upon our gipsy tramp, I received a letter from
Mr. Ellice bidding me hasten home to contest the Borough of Cricklade in
the General Election of 1852. Under these circumstances we loitered but
little on the Northern roads. At the end of May we reached Yrun. Here
we sold our ponies—now quite worn out—for twenty-three dollars—about five
guineas. So that a thousand miles of locomotion had cost us a little
over five guineas apiece. Not counting hotels at Madrid and such smart
places, our daily cost for selves and ponies rarely exceeded six pesetas,
or three shillings each all told. The best of it was, the trip restored
the health of my friend.