The Sunny South: An Autumn in Spain and Majorca. John William Clayton
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