Читать книгу Wanderings in Spain - Theophile Gautier - Страница 5

Table of Contents

The Landes—Arrival at Bayonne—Information for Travellers—Urrugne—Saint Jean de Luz—Human Smuggling—Bridge over the Bidassoa—Irun—Travelling with Mules—Primitive Carts—Beggar Children—Spanish Bridges—Oyarzun—Astigarraga—A Spanish Supper—Puchero—Arrival at Vergara.

On leaving Bordeaux, the Landes recommence, if possible more sad, more desolate, and more gloomy than before. Heather, broom, and pinadas (pine forests), with here and there a shepherd squatted down, tending his flocks of black sheep, or a miserable hut in the style of the Indian wigwams, offer a very lugubrious and by no means diverting spectacle. No tree is seen but the pine, with the gash in it from which the resin trickles down. This large salmon-coloured wound forming a strong contrast with the grey tones of the bark, gives the most miserable look in the world to these sickly trees, deprived of the greatest portion of their sap. They have the appearance of a forest unjustly assassinated, raising its arms to Heaven for justice.

We passed through Dax at midnight, and traversed the Adour during the most wretched weather, with a beating rain and a wind strong enough to blow the horns off an ox. The nearer we approached a warmer climate, the sharper and more penetrating became the cold; and had not our cloaks been at hand, we should have had our noses and feet frost-bitten, like the soldiers of the Grande Armée in the Russian campaign.

When day broke we were still in the Landes, but the pines were mingled with cork-trees, which I had hitherto pictured to my mind only under the form of corks, but which are really enormous trees, partaking simultaneously of the nature of the oak and of the carob-tree in the eccentricity of their shape and the deformity and ruggedness of their branches. A number of blackish pools of a leaden colour, stretched on each side of the road; gusts of saltish air greeted our nostrils, and a sort of vague rumbling noise resounded on the horizon. A bluish outline next stood out upon the pale background of the heavens. It was the chain of the Pyrenees. A few instants afterwards an almost invisible line of azure, the sign of the ocean, told us that we had arrived. It was not long ere Bayonne rose up before us, in the form of a mass of tiles crushed by an awkward and squat-looking spire; but I will not abuse Bayonne, since any town viewed under the disadvantage of rainy weather is always wretched. The port was not very full. A few decked boats floated in a negligent and admirably idle manner alongside the quays. The trees which form the public promenade are very fine, and somewhat soften the austerity of the numerous right lines produced by the fortifications and parapets. As to the church, it is plastered over with yellow, varied with a dirty fawn; it possesses nothing remarkable save a kind of baldaquin of red damask, and a few paintings of Lépicié and others, in the style of Vanloo.

The town of Bayonne is almost Spanish in its language and customs; the hotel where we put up was called the Fonda San Estaban. As it was known that we were about making a long trip in the Peninsula, we were pursued with all sorts of recommendations. "Buy some red belts to sustain your body; arm yourselves with blunderbusses, combs, and bottles of water to kill the insects; take some biscuits and other provisions; the Spaniards breakfast on a spoonful of chocolate, dine on a piece of garlic washed down with a little water, and sup on a paper cigar; you ought also to take a mattress and a saucepan to serve as your bed and make your soup." The French and Spanish Dialogues, too, for the use of travellers, were not very encouraging. Under the head of "A Traveller at an Inn," we read the following frightful conversation—"I should like to take something." "Take a chair," replies the landlord. "With pleasure; but I should prefer something more nutritious." "What have you brought?" replies the master of the posada. "Nothing," says the traveller, sadly. "Then how can you suppose I can give you anything to eat? The butcher lives yonder, the baker a little further on. Go and get some meat and bread, and my wife, who is something of a cook, will prepare your provisions." The traveller, in a fury, begins creating a most frightful disturbance, and the host calmly puts into his bill—"Disturbance, 6 reals."

The Madrid coach sets out from Bayonne. The conductor is a mayoral, with a peaked hat adorned with velvet and silk tufts, a brown waistcoat embroidered with coloured ornaments, leather gaiters, and a red sash; these impart a nice little amount of local colouring. Beyond Bayonne, the country is exceedingly picturesque; the chain of the Pyrenees becomes more distinct, and beautifully undulating lines of mountains vary the aspect of the horizon, while the sea appears frequently to the right of the road. At each turn, between two mountains, its sombre mild and deep blue suddenly starts into sight, traversed, here and there, by volutes of foam whiter than snow, which no painter has, as yet, succeeded in re-producing. I here beg to apologise to the sea, never having seen it before but at Ostend, where it is nothing more than the Scheldt, transformed into a canal, as my dear friend Fritz used so wittily to express it.

We passed through the church of Urrugne, the dial of which has the following mournful inscription, in black letters, on it—"Vulnerant omnes, ultima necat." Yes, melancholy dial, you are right. Each hour wounds us with the sharp point of your hands, and each turn of your wheel hurries us towards the Unknown!

The houses of Urrugne, and of Saint Jean de Luz, which is not far distant, possess a sanguinary and barbarous physiognomy, owing to the strange custom of painting red or blood-colour the doors and the beams which sustain the compartments of the masonry. Beyond Saint Jean de Luz is Behobie, the last French village. On the frontier, the inhabitants practise two kinds of trade to which the war has given rise—first, that of the balls found in the fields, and, secondly, that of human smuggling. A Carlist is passed just like a bale of goods. There is a certain tariff, so much for a colonel, so much for an inferior officer. As soon as the bargain is struck, the contrabandist makes his appearance, carries off his man, passes him over the frontier, and smuggles him to his destination, as he would a dozen handkerchiefs or a hundred cigars. On the other side of the Bidassoa, Irun, the first Spanish village, is visible: one-half of the bridge belongs to France, the other to Spain. Close to this bridge is the famous Isle of Pheasants, where the marriage of Louis XIV. was celebrated by deputy. It would be difficult to celebrate anything there at present, for it is not larger than a moderately-sized fried sole.

A few more revolutions of the wheel, and I shall perhaps lose one of my illusions, and behold the Spain of my dreams, the Spain of the Romancero, of the ballads of Victor Hugo, of the tales of Merimée, and the stories of Alfred de Musset, fade before me. On passing the line of demarcation, I remembered what the good and witty Henri Heine once said to me at Liszt's concert, with his German accent, full of humour and sarcasm, "How will you manage to speak of Spain when you have been there?"

One half of the bridge over the Bidassoa belongs to France, and the other half to Spain, so that you may have, at the same time, a foot in each kingdom, which is a great achievement. On one side you perceive the gendarme, grave, respectable, and serious; the gendarme red as a peony at having been restored to his social position by Edward Ourliac, in Curmer's "Français Peints par Eux-Memes;"[1] while, on the other, is beheld the Spanish soldier, clad in green, and enjoying on the sward the voluptuous pleasure of repose with happy nonchalance. At the extremity of the bridge, you enter at once into Spanish life, with all its local colouring. Irun does not possess a single feature in common with a French town. The roofs of the houses jut out beyond the walls, while the tiles, alternately round and hollow, give the houses a most strange and Moorish battlemented appearance. The ironwork of the balconies, which project over the street, is of the most elaborate description, very surprising in an out-of-the-way village like Irun, and indicating a great degree of opulence now passed away. The women spend their lives upon these balconies, which are shaded with an awning with coloured stripes, and which are like so many aërian chambers attached to the body of the edifice. The two sides remain open, and allow a passage to fresh breezes and burning glances; but you must not look, however, for those dull and culotté[2] tints (I beg pardon for the expression), those shades of bistre and old pipes that a painter might hope to see; everything is whitewashed, according to the Arabian fashion, but the contrast of this chalky tone against the deep brown of the beams, roofs, and balconies, is not without a fine effect.

The horses left us at Irun; and ten mules, shaved as far as the middle of their body—half skin, half hair—like those costumes of the middle-ages, which look as if they were two-halves of different suits sown together by chance, were then harnessed to the vehicle. These animals thus shaved present a strange sight, and appear most horribly thin; for this denudation enables you to see their whole anatomy, bones, muscles, and even the smallest veins. With their peeled tails and their pointed ears, they resemble so many enormous mice. Besides the ten mules, our band was increased by a zagal and two escopeteros, furnished with their trabuco (blunderbuss). The zagal is a kind of under-mayoral, who puts the drag on whenever there is a dangerous descent, looks after the harness and the springs, hurries the relays, and plays about the coach the part of the fly in the fable, only with a great deal more effect. The costume of the zagal is charming, being most elegant and light. He wears a peaked hat, ornamented with silk tufts; a chestnut-coloured or brown jacket, surmounted by a collar composed of different coloured pieces, generally blue, white, and red; a large arabesque, which blossoms out upon the middle of his back, knee-breeches studded with filigree buttons, and for shoes, alpargatas, or sandals tied with thin cord. Add to all this a red sash and a variegated neck-tie, and you will have a most characteristic costume. The escopeteros are guards, or miquelets, whose office it is to escort the coach and frighten the rateros, as the petty robbers are termed, who would not resist the temptation of plundering a solitary traveller, but whom the edifying sight of the trabuco is sufficient to awe, and who pass on their way with the sacramental salutation of—Vaya Usted con Dios: "Pursue your road with God." The dress of the escopeteros is nearly the same as that of the zagal, but less coquettish and ornamented. They take up their position on the seat at the back of the coach, and thus command the country around. In this description of our caravan, I have forgotten to mention a little postilion, mounted on horseback at the head of the convoy, who leads off the whole line.

Before leaving, we had to get our passports, already pretty well covered with signatures, viséd. While this important operation was in course of performance, we had leisure to cast a glance at the population of Irun, which offers nothing very particular, unless it be that the women wear their hair, which is remarkably long, united in one plait hanging down to the middle of their back; shoes are a rarity, and stockings a still greater one.

A strange, inexplicable, hoarse, frightful, and laughable noise had astonished my ears for some time; it sounded like that of a number of jays being plucked alive, of children being whipped, of cats making love, of saws scraping their teeth against a hard stone, of tin-kettles scraped by some harsh instrument, or of the rusty hinges of a prison door turning round and obliged to release its prisoner; I imagined that it was, at the least, some princess being assassinated by a savage necromancer. It was nothing but a cart, drawn by oxen, ascending the street of Irun, and the wheels creaking and groaning piteously for want of being greased, the driver preferring, doubtless, to put the grease in his soup. This cart was, certainly, exceedingly primitive. The wheels were of one piece, and turned with the axle, as is the case with those wagons which children manufacture out of the rind of a pumpkin. The noise can be heard at the distance of half a league, and is not displeasing to the aborigines of these parts. In this fashion they hear a musical instrument which costs nothing, and plays of its own accord as long as the wheel lasts. The noise is to them as harmonious as the feats of a violinist upon the fourth string are to us. A peasant would not give a "thank you" for a cart which did not play. This kind of vehicle must date from the deluge.

On an old palace, now transformed into an official residence, we beheld for the first time the placard of white plaster which disgraces many other old buildings, with the inscription—Plaza de la Constitucion. It must certainly be a fact, that whatever is concealed in anything comes out somehow or other; a better symbol of the actual state of the country could not have been selected. A constitution forced upon Spain is a handful of plaster upon granite.

As the ascent was toilsome, I walked as far as the gates of the town, and, turning round, cast a last look of farewell upon France. It was truly a magnificent sight. The chain of the Pyrenees sloped away in harmonious undulations towards the blue surface of the sea, crossed here and there by bars of silver; while, thanks to the excessive clearness of the air, in the far, far distance was seen a faint line of pale salmon-colour, which advanced in the immeasurable azure, and formed an immense indentation in the side of the coast. Bayonne and its advanced guard, Biarritz, occupied the extremity of this point, and the Bay of Biscay was mapped out as sharply as on a geographical chart. After this, we shall see the sea no more until we are in Andalusia. Good night, honest Ocean!

The coach ascended and descended at full gallop the most rapid declivities: a kind of exercise, without a balancing-pole, upon the tight rope, which can only owe its success to the prodigious dexterity of the drivers, and the extraordinary sure-footedness of the mules. Despite this velocity, however, there would, from time to time, fall in our laps a branch of laurel, a little nosegay of wild flowers, or a wreath of mountain strawberries—ruddy pearls strung upon a blade of grass. These nosegays were flung in by little beggars, boys and girls, who kept running after the coach with their bare feet upon the sharp stones. This manner of asking alms, by first making a present themselves, has something noble and poetic about it.

The landscape, though rather Swiss perhaps, was charming, and exceedingly varied. Mountain ridges, the interstices of which permitted the eye to dwell upon others more elevated still, rose up on each side of the road; their sides goffered with different crops and wooded with green oaks, stood out vigorously against the distant and vapoury peaks. Villages, with their roofs of red tiles, bloomed amid thickets at the mountains' feet, and every moment I expected to see Ketly or Getly walk out of these new châlets. Fortunately, Spain does not push its Opéra Comique so far.

Torrents, as capricious as a woman, come and go, form little cascades, divide, meet each other again, after traversing rocks and flint stones, in the most amusing fashion, and serve as an excuse for a number of the most picturesque bridges in the world. These bridges, thus indefinitely multiplied, have a singular characteristic: the arches are hollowed out almost up to the very railing, so that the road over which the coach passes does not appear to be more than six inches thick. A kind of triangular pile, shaped like a bastion, generally occupies the middle. The business of a Spanish bridge is not a very fatiguing one; there was never a more perfect sinecure; three quarters of the year you can walk under it. There it stands, with an imperturbable calmness and patience worthy of a better lot, waiting for a river, a rill of water, or even a little moisture, for it feels that its arches are merely arcades, and that their title of "bridge" is pure flattery. The torrents I have just mentioned have at most but four or five inches of water in them, but they are sufficient to make a great deal of noise, and serve to give life to the solitudes which they traverse. At long intervals they turn some mill or other machinery, by means of sluices, built in a manner that would enchant a landscape-painter. The houses, which are scattered over the country in little groups, are of a strange colour. They are neither black, nor white, nor yellow, but of the colour of a roasted turkey. This definition is of the most striking truth, although it is trivial and culinary. Tufts of trees, and patches of green oaks, impart a happy effect to the large outlines and the misty and severe tints of the mountains. I dwell particularly upon these trees, because nothing is more rare in all Spain, and henceforth I shall hardly have occasion to describe any.

We changed mules at Oyarzun, and at nightfall reached Astigarraga, where we were to sleep. We had not yet had a taste of a Spanish inn. The picaresque and "lively" descriptions of Don Quixote and Lazarille de Tormes occurred to our memory, and our whole bodies shuddered at the very thought. We made up our minds to omelettes adorned with Merovingian hairs and mixed up with feathers and birds' feet, to gammons of rancid bacon with all the bristles, equally adapted for making soup or brushing boots, to wine in goat-skins, like those which the good knight de la Mancha cut so furiously into, and we even made up our minds to nothing at all, which is much worse, and trembled lest all we should get would be the fresh evening breeze, supposing we were not obliged to sup, like the valorous Don Sancho, off the dry air of a mandoline.

Taking advantage of the little daylight that remained, we went to look at the church, which, to speak truth, was more like a fortress than a temple; the smallness of the windows, formed like loopholes, together with the solidity of the buttresses, gave it a robust and massive appearance, more warlike than pensive. This form occurs in every church in Spain. All around stretched a sort of open cloister, in which was hung a bell of immense size, which is rung by moving the clapper with a rope, instead of putting in motion the vast metal capsule itself.

On being shown to our rooms, we were dazzled with the whiteness of the beds and windows, the Dutch cleanliness of the floors, and the scrupulous care shown in every particular. Fine handsome, strapping girls, exceedingly well dressed, and with their magnificent tresses falling upon their shoulders, not bearing the slightest resemblance to the Maritornes we had been led to expect, bustled about with an activity that augured well for the supper, which did not keep us long waiting: it was excellent, and very well dished up. I will run the risk of appearing too minute, and describe it; for the difference between one people and another consists in the thousand little details which travellers neglect for those profound poetical and political considerations which anyone may very well write without ever having been in the country itself. First of all comes a meat soup, which differs from ours from the fact of its having a reddish tinge, due to the saffron with which it is flavoured. Red soup! I hope this is a pretty good commencement of local colouring. The bread is very white, of exceedingly close texture, with a smooth crust, slightly glazed over with yolk of egg; it is salted in a manner very apparent to Parisian palates. The handles of the forks are turned the wrong way, and the points are flat and shaped like the teeth of a comb. The spoons, too, have a spatula-kind of appearance not possessed by our plate. The table linen is a sort of coarse damask. As for the wine, I must confess that it was of the most beautiful violet, and thick enough to be cut with a knife, and the decanters which held it did not tend to increase its transparency.

After the soup, we had the puchero, an eminently Spanish dish, or rather the only Spanish dish—for they eat it every day from Irun to Cadiz, and reciprocally. A comfortable puchero is compounded of a quarter of veal, a piece of mutton, a fowl, some pieces of a sausage stuffed full of pepper, and called chorizo, with allspice and other spices, slices of bacon and ham, and, to crown all, a violent tomato and saffron sauce. So much for the animal portion. The vegetable part, called verdura, varies with the season; but cabbages and garbanzos always play a principal part. The garbanzo is not much known at Paris, and I cannot define it better than "as a pea which aspires to be considered as a haricot-bean, and succeeds but too well." All this is served up in different dishes, and the ingredients then mixed up on your plate, so as to produce a Mayonnaise of a complicated description and excellent flavour. This mixture will appear rather barbarous to those connoisseurs who read Carême, Brillat-Savarin, Grimat de la Reynière, and Mons. de Cussy; it has, however, its charm, and cannot fail to please the Eclectics and Pantheists. Next come fowls cooked in oil, for butter is an article unknown in Spain; trout or salt cod, roasted lamb, asparagus, and salad; and, for dessert, little macaroons, almonds browned in a frying-pan, and of a most delicious taste, with goats'-milk cheese, queso de Burgos, which enjoys a high reputation, that it sometimes deserves. As a finish, they bring you a set of bottles with Malaga, sherry, brandy, aguardiente, resembling French aniseed, and a little cup (fuego) filled with live cinders to light the cigarettes. Such, with a few trifling variations, is the invariable meal in all Spain.

We left Astigarraga in the middle of the night. As there was no moon, there is naturally a gap in our account. We passed through the small town of Ernani, the name of which conjures up the most romantic recollections; but we did not perceive aught save a heap of huts and rubbish vaguely sketched on the obscurity. We traversed Tolosa without stopping. We saw some houses decorated with frescoes, and gigantic blazons sculptured in stone. It was market-day, and the market-place was covered with asses, mules, picturesquely harnessed, and peasants of singular and wild appearance.

By dint of ascending and descending, of passing over torrents on bridges of uncemented stone, we at last reached Vergara, where we were to dine. We experienced a decided degree of satisfaction on our arrival, for we had almost forgotten the jicara de chocolate, which we had gulped down, half asleep, in the inn at Astigarraga.