Wanderings in Spain. Theophile Gautier
of spartum. To this precious machine was added a team of mules of a reasonable length, with an assortment of postilions, and a mayoral clad in an Astracan lambs-wool waistcoat, and a pair of sheepskin trousers which looked tremendously Muscovitish. When all our preparations were completed, we set off in the midst of a whirlwind of cries and oaths, accompanied by a due proportion of whipping. We went at a most terrific pace, and literally flew over the ground, the vague outlines of the objects to our right and left flitting past us with phantasmagorical rapidity. I never saw mules more fiery, more restive, and more wild; every time we stopped, a whole army of muchachos was requisite to harness one to the coach. The diabolical animals came out of their stables on their hind legs; and it was only by the instrumentality of a bunch of postilions hanging on the halter of each one, that we succeeded in again reducing them to the state of quadrupeds. I think that it was the idea of the food that awaited them at the next venta—for they were frightfully thin—which filled them with this fiendlike impetuosity. On leaving one small village, they commenced kicking and capering about in such a fashion that their legs got entangled in the traces; whereupon they were belaboured with a shower of blows and kicks which must be seen to be believed. The whole team fell down, and an unfortunate postilion, who was mounted on a horse which in all probability had never before been in harness, was dragged from beneath this heap of animals, almost as flat as a pancake and bleeding from the nose. His sweetheart, who had come to see him off, began shrieking enough to break any person's heart; I should never have thought that such shrieks could proceed from a human breast. The ropes were at last disentangled, and the mules set upon their feet again. Another postilion took the place of the wounded man, and we set off with a velocity which I should say could not be surpassed. The country through which we passed had a strange, savage look; it consisted of immense arid plains without a single tree to break their uniformity, and terminated by mountains and hills of a yellow-ochreish hue, which with difficulty assumed an azure tint even at a distance. From time to time we passed a dusty mud-built village, mostly in ruins. As it was Sunday, we saw, all along the yellowish walls illuminated by a sickly sun, whole ranks of haughty Castilians as motionless as mummies, and enveloped in their tinder-like rags, who had placed themselves there to tomar el sol, a species of amusement which would cause the most phlegmatic German to die of ennui at the expiration of an hour. This peculiarly Spanish amusement was, however, on the day in question, very excusable, for the weather was atrociously cold, while a furious wind swept the plain with the noise of thunder and of an infinity of war-chariots filled with armour rattling over a succession of brazen vaults. I do not believe that anything more barbarous and more primitive can be met with in the kraals of the Hottentots and the encampments of the Calmucks. I took advantage of a halt to enter one of these huts. It was a wretched hovel, without any windows. It had a fireplace of unhewn stones in the centre, and a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. The walls were of a dark brown colour, worthy of Rembrandt.
We dined at Torrequemada, a village situated on a small river which is choked up by the ruins of some old fortifications. Torrequemada is remarkable for the total absence of glass; the only window-panes to be seen there are in the parador, which, in spite of this unheard-of luxury, is nothing more nor less than a kitchen with a hole in the ceiling. After having swallowed a few garbanzos, which rattled in our stomachs like shots in a tambourine, we re-entered our box, and the steeple-chase recommenced. The coach at the back of the mules was like a saucepan tied to the tail of a tiger, and the noise it made only served to render them still more excited than they were before. A straw fire that was lighted in the middle of the road nearly caused them to set off with the bit between their teeth. They were so shy, that it was necessary for the postilions to catch hold of them by the bridle, and cover their eyes with their hands whenever another carriage was approaching them from the opposite direction. It may be taken as a general rule, that when two carriages drawn by mules meet, one of them is destined to capsize. At last, what was to happen, did happen. I was engaged in turning over in my brain the end of some hemi-stich or other, as I am accustomed to do on my travels, when I saw my companion, who was seated opposite to me, describe a rapid parabola in my direction. This strange action was followed by a severe shock and a general cracking. "Are you killed?" said my friend, finishing his curve. "Quite the contrary," I replied; "and you?" "Very slightly," was his answer. We made our way out as speedily as possible through the shattered roof of the unfortunate coach, which was shivered into a thousand pieces. It was with an infinite degree of satisfaction that, at about fifteen paces off, we beheld in a field the box of our daguerreotype, as perfect and unharmed as if it had still been in Susse's shop, engaged in producing views of the Colonnade of the Bourse. As for the mules, they had disappeared, carrying off with them, Heaven knows whither, the front part of the carriage, and the two small wheels. Our own loss was limited to a button, which flew off with the violence of the concussion, and which we were unable to find. In sober truth, it would be impossible for any one to capsize more admirably.
I never in my life saw anything so ridiculous as the mayoral lamenting over the ruins of his coach. He put the pieces together just like a child who has broken a tumbler; finding, however, that the damage was irreparable, he began swearing most awfully; he beat himself, he rolled upon the ground, and imitated all the excess of grief as represented by the ancients; the next moment he softened down, and gave free course to the most touching elegies. What grieved him most was the rose-coloured cushions, scattered in all directions, torn and covered with dirt; these cushions were evidently the most magnificent things that he, as a mayoral, could conceive, and his heart bled to see that so much splendour had for ever vanished.
After all, our situation was not over pleasant, although we were seized with a most violent fit of laughter, which was certainly rather ill-timed. Our mules had disappeared like smoke, and all that we had left was a dismantled carriage without wheels. Luckily, the venta was not far off. Some one went and procured two galeras, which came for us and our luggage. The galera (galley) most undoubtedly justifies those who gave it the name it bears. It is a cart on two or four wheels, with neither top nor bottom. A number of cords made of reeds form, in the lower portion of it, a sort of net, in which the packages and trunks are stowed. Over these is spread a mattress—a real Spanish mattress—which in no way prevents you from feeling the sharp angles of the baggage, thrown in any how beneath. The victims arrange themselves, as well as they can, on this novel instrument of torture, compared to which the gridirons of Saint Lawrence and Guatimozin are beds of roses; for on them, at least, it was possible to turn round. What would the philanthropists, who give galley-slaves post-chaises to ride in, say, if they saw the galeras to which the most innocent people in the world are condemned, when they visit Spain?
In this agreeable vehicle, completely innocent of anything like springs, we went along at the rate of four Spanish leagues, which are equal to five French leagues, an hour; just one mile an hour more than the rate attained by our best horsed mails on our best roads. Had we desired to have gone faster we must have procured English racers or hunters. Our route was diversified by a succession of steep ascents and rapid descents, down which we always rattled at a most furious gallop. All the assurance and skill for which Spanish postilions and conductors are famous was requisite to prevent our being shivered into a thousand pieces at the bottom of the various precipices; instead of capsizing merely once, we ought to have been capsizing without intermission. We were thrown from one side to the other like mice, when a person shakes them about for the purpose of stunning and killing them against the sides of the trap. Nothing but the severe beauty of the landscape could have prevented us from becoming melancholy and crooked in the back; but the lovely hills, with their austere outline, and their sober, calm tints, imparted such a distinctive character to the horizon, which was changing every moment, that they more than compensated for the jolting we got in the galera. A village, or some old convent, built like a fortress, varied the oriental simplicity of the view, which reminded us strongly of the background of Decamps's picture of "Joseph sold by his Brethren."
Dueñas, which is situated upon a hill, looks like a Turkish cemetery. The caverns, scooped out of the living rock, are supplied with air by little bell-shaped towers, which at first sight bear a singular resemblance to minarets. A Moorish-looking church completes the illusion. To our left, in the plain, we caught occasional glimpses of the canal of Castile; it is not yet completed.
At Venta de Trigueros, a most singularly beautiful rose-coloured horse