Читать книгу The Sunny South: An Autumn in Spain and Majorca - John William Clayton - Страница 7

Table of Contents

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!